Ivic-Wulfe

In heavy consternation, I move across the hall wondering if this is just a dream or pride before the fall A kaleidoscope of feelings unknowing This I suppose was going to be showing The fears of all my past offense And possible no...passible trespass. I should’ve known this day will come It was inside my dreams, when I was very young I without my common sense Full of naïvety, roiling en masse Black and white, like the cat Clearly old, and darn well fat Fed with fear and fed with hate, Hoping it could dissipate T’was long ago my dear man But now I have a plan A concernèd wail, where, I did not know, As monsters pale

Crazy and distorted Well that’s what everyone reported Old and grey What could he possibly say? “I am man.” he cried, a placated face in terror, “But only man” he sighed, “Assumed that I could weather…” He seems interesting though Glass in his hand...I think that he had borrowed Old, torn clothes These guys really hurt him all for the show “You have gone too far” he grumbles to himself, “You’ve taken life and then my star” “As though you knew yourself” I must admit, he seems crazy A simple gesture, a single poppy, was given to him today, As lo, I kn

The world is tearing itself apart they say, No thanks to us and the “Human” way. We struggle like all manner of “people” before. Our animal instinct, our predator pray-ed. Dogged by a new instinctual need, Driven by those that feed, The lies of the off-shoring, on-shore drug store. A pleading, bleeding-hearted greed. The same old song, the same old writer, Their burning heart, their floated soul, no brighter For the words that tie the noose for our carnivores, To find the body of the beaten fighter… To be stopped, by a thought. As sure as the ocean’s wa(i)ve, As solid as the broken roads we pave, As cer

Introspection, a process of thinking, the center of our ideas. To find our own minds so cluttered with the process of things. To be drowned, in the very ocean we’d jumped into, never seeing the next wave beyond the one we’re currently facing. Like vomit in a washing machine, Clogging the mechanisms of our well thought out plans to see that purpose peter out as we desperately hold our own candles above the maelstrom. This, our day to day, that would constantly remind us that we’re missing something, That somehow we’ve lost it. We know what it is… We choose not to acknowledge it. Purpose. Infinitely more diffic

Reason, cannot, will not, be our most used art here. One wishes that our parents had taught us that. Maybe somehow they did, when they thumbed away that tear, on the cheeks of our every disappointment and fear, patted us on the back and told us to rise our scraped knees, our backs, bowed but unbroken as adulthood drew near, and told us it would and could only get better from here. “Fight this system,” we cried, while growing older, we’d realized our movements were bolder than the similar movement our father had tried and inevitably gave in and ran to hide, from, and, unknowingly, with that hulking great Moloch under swe

Our constantly beating hearts, Coursing a lifeblood that yearns for freedom, choice, decisions. Our want of the arts, Yet we pass it by for fear of our next "recession" Running against this "social damnation" This seeming hatred of freedom for all. Yet, we push through, our minds, ever molded for creation. To find our kindling, ever relighting our passions. We came here to interact, to enjoy, to embrace, Against the odds of our terrors, so self-made By those who are thought to be superior. To begin, to endeavor, to chase. Those who so selfishly hold to their career, Like limpets with no other choice but to grip ever tighter. We shall fight

A thought rift, in this, our minds-eye. An irrevocable wedge between our destinies. A sign of times so long gone by As we quietly stare at the missed opportunities. These scars, we’d healed together, Bring only bitter memories, And surrender To the day we’d withheld our remedies. This...resentment, born of decisions made, This...disquiet in forbearance, Makes us wish that we could trade A quiet abhorrence, For that which we’ve never said. The mountains we’d painted That we’d never have thought to traverse Leading only to a divergence, tainted, By this, our unspoken curse. This...resentment, born of decisions

I have felt in consolable need, Distance offers only problematic conundrum. To consider the stars would be to forget the moon. To consider the moon would be to forget the journey ahead. To ensure the now, would mean to remember the past but in turn to mis-align the future. One can (not) apologize in advance. One can (not, only) be caught in the maelstrom of future mistakes. Life spent amongst people, in closer proximity, makes one, at times, forget people further adrift. An in-considerable doubt and offence. Lays one’s own intrusiveness to bare it’s naked body in itself. One sequesters oneself away, in part to hide f