Storms

Little do voids matter,
For what was in us is given.
Of the men we were,
Not even pebbles remain.
Dreams of boys are done,
Open eyes scare now,
For those stares are glass,
Meaningless somehow.
A terrible storm is moving in,
Hell what do I care
I will be dead by then.

Tales unsold

Some stories should never be told.,
For in their telling passes life.
In the telling all lies,
For none can be live after.
The end of all stories be the same,
Small joys along the way,
But so do some stand behind,
There is always a shadow grey.
Bury deep, deep within,
Within closed walls and sleep,
In unseen dreams and eyes sore,
In staccato words and a quiet deep.
Some stories will lay untold,
For never did they unfold,
Of what would have been,
Can never be a story sold.
And so will they lie,
For ages forgotten in dust,
On a blank paper in bold,
Some stories should never be told.