Tag Archives: soulless

Means to an end

means to an end

With old patterns faltering in the wake of time, serving him less and less; desperation creeps, then slowly sets in.

Searching for something real to cling to; in a world of illusion and cheap parlor tricks; of which he created and has always dwelled.

Better to be an imaginary somebody, than a real no body; his platform, his soapbox, his mission, his salvation.

Spewing his gospel as weightless as smoke rings, growing bored with his half dozen converts; unable to stroke his monstrous ego; he sees only one place left to go.

One soul he touched. Upon a time was touched by. He refuses to release and let go. Disguised as forgiveness, he sets about his mission; back to the only arms left, that wait wide open.

Naïve and weak, yet privy to his ways; a masochist for certain, to take him back in. She is not the reason, but merely a convenience. Providing him shelter, buying him time; bringing him closer to where he believes salvation resides.

The beautiful butterfly, with delicate wings; once so fragile, easily ravaged; consumes his thoughts, still rules his darkness; and so true to predator form, of which he will always be, he sets about stalking, making connections; broadcasting his relation, as if guaranteeing him a position. Wasting time, sniffing and searching; for the butterfly has morphed, long ago taken flight.

And so time ticks on, for this wasted life; over educated and under achieved. When he could have soared to the greatest of heights; been a true inspiration, perhaps a revered master. But the only expertise, he can lay claim in the end; is leaving a trail of pain, in the wake of his disaster.

© jillterry

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Shallow Sal

Just as it began
To materialize
For the first time in
His life

Wrapping his head
His heart around it
Embracing with wild
Abandon

Shifting perception
To a clearer view
Uninhibited
Filled with wonder

Unveiling calm
In the storm of
His life
To his true self
Introductions made

Freedom offered
At too high a cost
He weighed the options
Too much to be lost

He fabricated a story
That fit the bill
Sold his soul
For that house on
The hill

Building his arsenal
Of material possessions
At the end of day
Believing he’s
Made it

© jillterry


Empty vessel

He stole away
Under the cloak
Of darkness

Backpack thrown
Carelessly
Over weary hunched
Shoulders

Filled with
Unsuspecting
souls
Carelessly collected
Over nowhere
Miles

Casting shadows
Of doubt
Calling it love
Leaving a trail
Of broken bits
Wherever he goes

© jillterry

 


The Hyena

It wasn’t his
Voice
Finally found
After fifty years
Of living
Dead

It was his
Imitation skills
Finely tuned
Honed
Down pat

Poetry, prose
Letters and
Madness
No original
Thought
Merely mimicking
Bukowski’s style

The scruples
Morals
By which he
Lives his
Life
Memorized passages
Dog-eared
Pages

Following
A script
Assuming a
Personal role
Worse than
Any
Fictional whore

Tinkering with
Lives
Pissing on
Souls
Watching emotionless
Counting the
Score

Take it off
The shelf
Read it once
More
Soulless bastard
Thinks he’s
Hank Chinaski

Ⓒjillterry


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