Author: lbstowe

Piece by piece pick up the shards.
Keep an eye for any guards.

Move with shadows hold your breath.
Not tonight & not this death.

Hiding, move to safer dawn.
Be not terror’s willing pawn.

Night makes solid fogs of fright.
Light of day cleans darkness bright.

Know that morning soon will come.
Sun, burn fear to where it’s from. 

Now, I’m not drawing lines in sand…don’t want to tempt fates.
Yet, they’re not real;  so, I’m dropping shame & all its weights.

I know there is a deadline & no rehearsal time.
I best my best each day & I wrap it up in rhyme. 

Excepting my bitten tongue, I speak my heart & mind.
Lies are not my forte…I am earnestly inclined.

Though, I’m not above rare mischief…or a chance to flirt;
I’m just enough of a snob to coast clear of the dirt.

For better or worse, more or less, this is who I am.
I’ve lived thru the worst of it; so, consequence be damned.

We have no need of your prestidigitation.
Your gold leaf trough slopped for a desperate nation.

So much rot flows freely past your absent filter.
It corrupts the mind & throws balance off kilter.

Absurdly, you rob lying of all its deceit.
For, it’s all you can do & that is no mean feat.

You’ve openly bragged of your toxic prurience.
You dodge all tax for entitled experience.

Still, people will vote to lap up  your spewed sickness.
I guess snake oil is key in greasing foul slickness.

How does a creative queer navigate war?
Does a life lived in gray help one moderate more?

It’s a gift to be seen & invisible too…
Dotting lines of divide that two enemies drew.

To resist or collaborate is a coin flipped?
Both have hidden sheathed blades that are oft double dipped.

The big picture goal of conflict is survival…
For nobodies neither incumbent nor rival.

History tells lies that evaporate with time.
It’s distance & perspective that strips it of grime.

I don’t mind owing a kindness or favor.
They’re the only debts that I can savor.

Money’s too salty for this palate of mine.
It dehydrates the heart in its murky brine.

Coin withers the soul when it’s obligated.
Living in the red has an edge serrated.

Yet, giving has the feel of magical flare.
You have more when you do it…but less is there.

A heart pumps floods when in generous effort.
The soul is enriched & things lose their import.

Read or don’t read; it doesn’t matter.
Maybe this will endear & flatter.

I try too hard…I am what I am.
I care too much & I give a damn.

Don’t need praise or a book report…
Just encouraged & engaged support.

Both are givens; but it’s nice to hear.
Valued opinions are never mere.

If you have now read up to this dot.
Say what I gave…or what you did not.

Is there any blame left to go around?
Have you condemned the sky & cursed the ground?

Are we grown-ups yet or still little kids?
Do we have real say if we’re on the skids?

Do the years add up; but not the powers?
Are we meant to live in boxy towers?

Why are love & coin dispensed in minutes?
Why are needs & wants expressed in limits?

Are sacrifice & kindness passé?
Or, did those before us shape life this way?

I have aged, save my heart, because I dared not overuse it.
It’s made it thru life’s gauntlets safe from bruising or its blood spilt.

It’s only early on that it knew injury or insult.
It healed itself & hid itself before it became adult.

Within its cage of bones it has worked steady without flutters.
Only once or twice has it been tempted to peek thru shutters.

Though, it’s always darted back to task at sight of ruddy flags.
Weighted knowledge of the world outside routinely haunts & nags.

It’s said that good things come to those of diligence & patience.
Its unused vigor spent on function; not on love’s obeisance.

As eve gives way to shadows gathered;
Douse lights so eyes can see dark‘s hazzard.

Stare thru the black until shapes appear.
Then populate that with what you hear.

Avoid the bright to preserve dark sight.
Stay away from light; exist in night.

Slowly the dark reveals secret scenes;
Invisible under glowing screens.

See for yourself what’s done in the black.
Experience all that pixels lack. 

So, opposable thumbs are what sets us apart?
Not knowing how to laugh at a piss & a fart?

Then, here’s a taskmaster that kicks our thumbs asses…
Lifetimes spent punching at these digital glasses.

Three’s the magic number to build humankind’s core.
Three generations of this & thumbs are no more.

No more fifth digit; but a full phalange finger.
Memory’s mist of conquered tools, left to linger.

So, read a book or learn a craft…while you still can.
Or…
Data feed AI’s brain & speed man’s end by hand.