He Who Walks A Desolate Path

He appeared, clothed in

billowing black robes,

robes as dark as night

to inspire fright

in those who dared

to shine their light.

He glided lifelessly

but snarled violently

at those who failed

to cower frightfully.

His face had the pallor

of alabaster,

or perhaps

a faded tomb stone,

for this is a man with countless foes,

for this is a man with infinite woes.


Pull all the right strings,

and everything falls into place.

Pull all the wrong ones,

and history falls out of place.

That’s why the puppeteer


tread these troubled times


for one cannot let the puppet take hold

of its own strings.

No, the puppeteer will move it

this way,

that way,

and that way again…

until its strings snap

of their own accord.

Tolerably Well

I am tolerably well,

that is to say, neither

good nor bad,

happy nor sad.

I put one foot forward

knowing the other

will soon follow.

I feel neither animated nor hollow,

and though life is a

hard pill to swallow,

I cannot wallow

in matters so shallow.