The Triolet Trail

Voices raised in song,
Over the rage and wreckage.
Ringing through the wrong.
Voices raised in song.

Hands in knots across a throng,
Enduring every second.
Voices raised in song,
Over the rage and wreckage.

Over the rage and wreckage
her soul descends to demon hands.
She's deaf to your healing message
over the rage and wreckage.

Devastation kills her courage;
drowned by the final tear that lands
over the rage and wreckage.
Her soul descends to demon hands.

Her soul descends. To demon hands
she gives the light; submits to dark.
She lived a life to serve demands.
Her soul descends to demon hands.

With one last breath she understands
this ship with holes she must embark.
Her soul descends. To demon hands
she gives. The light submits to dark.

She gives the light, submits to dark
though love she has lost forever.
To strangers met in needle park,
she gives the light—submits. To dark,
the light flows (now barely a spark);
raw numbers, she says, "whatever"—
she gives. The light submits to dark
though love she has lost forever.

Though love she has, lost forever
is the pure path. Crossed from her list:
the budding rose. She is clever,
though. Love she has lost. Forever
doesn't exist. She can sever
the past, run through the morrow's mist
(though love she has). Lost forever
is the pure path; crossed from her list.

Is the pure path crossed from her list?
She says so much for conversion
I wonder if how she persists
is the pure path. Crossed from her list
are things she could never resist.
Now she asks if truth's new version
is the pure path crossed. From her list
she says, "So much for conversion."

no truth is shallow, or false;
with twisted thoughts, you stagger.
deep thinking lies hidden in vaults;
no truth is shallow, or false.

without belief, knowing halts
our simple steps no longer a swagger.
no truth is shallow, or false;
with twisted thoughts, you stagger.

kdnxdr said:

no truth is shallow, or false;
with twisted thoughts, you stagger.
deep thinking lies hidden in vaults;
no truth is shallow, or false.

without belief, knowing halts
our simple steps no longer a swagger.
no truth is shallow, or false;
with twisted thoughts, you stagger.

Click to expand...

with twisted thoughts, you stagger,
enchanted in this haze;
just like the old blind censor,
with twisted thoughts you stagger
and muzzle your own nature,
ignoring passing days.
with twisted thoughts you stagger,
enchanted in this haze.

Enchanted in this haze,
smoked by the chords of the hookah,
I'm in a one room maze,
enchanted. In this haze
I will spend all my days.
I'm watching reruns of Ella
Enchanted in this haze—
smoked. By the chords of the hookah!

One brief comment on my own work, "What the..."

"Smoked by the chords of the hookah,"
the ragged detective mumbled.
BANG! A flash... the pressure cooker
smoked. "By the chords of the hooker
vested in me, the stiff took a
bribe. That was no push: he tumbled."
Smoked by the chords of the hookah,
the ragged detective mumbled.

The ragged detective mumbled,
sorrowful. Mysteries to muse
over bullet holes have crumbled
the ragged detective. Mumbled
details of a murder jumbled
in a head that missed the good news.
The ragged detective mumbled
Sorrowful Mysteries to muse.

sorrowful mysteries to muse:
lovers, dark shawdows and death;
sordid details, the clues,
sorrowful mysteries to muse.
in reality they're often infused
with the horrors of crystal meth,
living becomes hard and confused;
lovers, dark shawdows and death.

Lovers, dark shadows, and death
curves the path through the broad dunes.
Cursing and mocking Macbeth
lovers, dark shadows and death
creep from a hollow recess.
A boiling pot wafts the moon's
lovers. Dark shadows, and death
curves—the path through the broad dunes.

Curves- the path through the broad dunes
a slithery, slippery asp
with the sands of time as the tunes
curves- the path through the broad dunes
into the shapes of ancient runes,
but no one but the snake can grasp.
Curves-the path through the broad dunes
a slithery, slippery asp.

I would hate to see this thread be killed off by a slithery, slippery asp.

A slithery, slippery asp
(it’s really quite something to dread,)
with a poison that lasts and lasts.
A slithery, slippery asp
is really a pain in the ass,
and threatens to kill this fine thread.
A slithery, slippery asp—
it’s really quite something to dread.

It’s really quite something to dread:
boots kick down the door in the night.
Subversives and lovers in bed?
It’s really quite something. To dread
the network reporters instead,
lover boy runs back toward the light—
it’s really quite something too. Dread
boots kick down the door in the night.

Boots kick down the door. In the night,
suits open eyes, see them tear in:
meatball, slow-mo, bullets in flight.
Boots kick down the door in the night.

Gushing red (before lovely light?!),
badges flash their barrels (...no sin?!).
Boots kick down. The door in the night
suits open eyes. See them tear in.

Suits, open. Eyes - see them tear. In
a fit of blessed impotence,
dry mouths sputter oaths past hearing.
Suits open, eyes see them. Tearing
clouds spill tin rain. Reappearing
sunlight chases them like dogs in men's
suits, open eyes. See them! Tear, in
a fit of blessed impotence!

A fit of blessed impotence,
the music stopped. The reverend's crime—
the (k)nave echoed his innocence—
a fit! Of blessed impotence,
the organist held evidence,
which shrank in ordinary time—
a fit of blessed impotence.
The music stopped the reverend's crime.

Music stopped the reverends. Crime
falls. For your mellifluous voice
- lilting interlacing heart rhymes -
music stopped. The reverends, crime-
weeding the crowd, could hear this time.
Pure grace was the proper tool choice.
Music stopped the reverends. Crime
falls for your mellifluous voice.

(I don't suppose it makes much sense; I kind of jumped into the middle of the story, and flailed around. Tried to leave something for the next poster to grab onto.)

falls for your mellifluous voice
stronger for its bitten anger -
strains your eyelids. Each of the boys
falls for your mellifluous voice,

trembling, but glad. When fear is a choice
of apostles, each bat on the hanger
falls. For your mellifluous voice:
stronger for its bitten anger.

Stronger for its bitten anger,
performance in spades digs a row.
Front and center makes a dancer
stronger, for it's bitten anger
pirouetting to the Wagner.
Ballet? Aria? - which wind blows
stronger for? It's bitten anger
performance (in spades) digs a row.

performance in spades digs a row
where you find your name half-written
by your own hand, older and slow:
performance in spades digs a row

in leaves of language you don't know.
small worms twist, and their unwitting
performance, in spades, digs a row
where you find your name half-written.

Where you find your name half-written,
chiseled deep in a cold hard stone.
You'll take the time to look within,
where you find your name. Half-written
‘til that moment when it's filled in
and at its feet your ashes thrown.
There they’ll find your name all written—
chiseled deep in a cold hard stone.