Waiting for one’s deliverance

from the forces of fate is

a game of destiny beheld

by the kings of antiquity.

Seen in dreams through

night’s elaborate tapestry,

the war for those who rise

and fall is won by the bold

warriors who dare to sleep.

Those who stay awake and

face the visions of patience

forever dread the days of

following the unknown path

that leads to their nightmares.





“No More Breath Mints”

Don’t speak or breathe when cotton is the taste,

your tongue and lips will form a crude paste.

The stench is so bad you’ll be defaced

and your teeth will run as if they’re chased.

It makes no sense when you’ve eaten little,

no bite of burger or one sweet skittle.

No more breath mints for air so brittle,

the sole defense for the social acquittal.




“Call Me Hun One More Time…”

Destroyer of worlds and nations kneel

at my feet as I melt through steel.

Armies commanded know the deal,

none shall survive the warrior’s zeal.

Call me Atilla the mighty Hun’s ideal,

lord of the East whom the West conceal.

Feasts and spoils all brought to heel,

all that we need we kill or steal.

Belief in a god myself is surreal,

imagine my surprise from such an ordeal.

Much anger I have when they reveal,

the cashier’s words, “Enjoy your meal.”