xTheRedx

   If they had stood inside one of their commodious lodgings and seen their faces reflected by an equally extravagant mirror, the Sinclair brothers would've been quite astonished. One must first though, know why such an idea would be able to cause astonishment before moving onto the story. The Sinclair family goes back to rather squalid times where buildings of the Victorian style littered the landscape and the politically compact way of thinking was in existence. The family was one of shrewd kinsmen, pure bloodlines, and perfectly placed teeth and so many a man would come to abhor them. The Sinclairs were a self-reliant monopoly with an enig

The breeze is despite good intentions An unneeded role With the most negligible pace Where it stands high and saccharine Just for itself; sometimes someone else The breeze Is a precarious wallflower Sullen, yet fresh, but mostly dour Never noticed when caressing The implications of martyrdom Where it will tumble soft waves like Ruby leaves on healthy trees Of Novembers, Octobers At times bitter Septembers The vaporous breeze is imperceptible Only noticed when the warmth of seasons Are left without a catalyst When time seems to stand still Not unlike the breeze who is Somewhere else alone Propelling someone else's hair To

He is a tactician Human no more And less than a pauper His begging bowl is copper Filled with the labor of Chilly winters Dewy springs And he treks to Timbuktu With a shawl a girl once made For him Because he once was beautiful He once had a name And he once had a bed He used to love three people His brother, his mother, and- And his father is dead. He is at times no one The world would like to know Once he possessed broad shoulders Built by the hands of wizened time Knowing, discerning well, that Burdens are meaning to be carried By hollow, tall, tree-like men With muted voices He swims in the Ganges To clean the d

Dear Narrator, Despite your stance as a law-abiding man Constitutionally protected citizen of this country I myself realize that you have neglected The tumultuous beats of my average heart That lacks the abundant GPA of scholar-hood All I have is a degree to my sentencing All I have is a title for my blood It really was never my own But has been staining my hands for so long That I cannot tell the difference anymore I have forgotten the distinction between The color red and the rest Perhaps you’d be willing To support my need for sight It would be an interesting turn in your story Oh Dear Narrator, The children lov

The shores of truth With prices and their reflections And trysts Amount to nothing in Playful hands Charred with power (raging) And bonds (broken) Painted in deceitful Lies (burning) Lies Transitional frequencies Of his Doppler radar Lodge in every heart (blue but unbeaten) Caged in the eyes of The unfermented (unfermented) Dreamcoat Dreamcoat with pockets Of golden sand (Useless burdens) And silk from China Which we dug to in hopes To find pale faces Of our dead ones (Who never said goodbye) Who never said goodbye to us But did to the other people Who could hope a little But could not scream In other men

Lady Luck bought me a bridge That connected my dreams with my goals Like a safety pin Woven in steel by the hands Of wise bearded blacksmiths from Fate Who wished for that same bridge once But became men much too soon To appreciate the thoughtfulness of time Or to connect the dots to their crime Yet the bridge was an arched mirage Of impending struggle In every mind That could be crossed but not taken Back the same route But I found once I crossed The need to look back was nonexistent And I didn't even have to wish on a shooting star Lady Luck bought me a window That promised to show the world In its most nuetral perspect