the Sunday mail parts 1 – 4

The Sunday Mail originated on day 313 of my poetry blog these poems also inspired the name of this blog. I hope you enjoy.

“The Sunday Mail” Day 313

I write of things unseen,
I twist the lies of the known.
I use the things that do exist
To tempt the things that do not.
I weave a web of haunted images
That coast a long in phantom skirmishes.
I float along in idle currents
As thought arrives in the Sunday mail
It just don’t happen like this.
What you see is not what you hear
And what you hear is not what you see.
And what you know, and what you are
Are indeed two different things.
As opposite as North and South
Yet just the same.
When the shadow opens up and swallows you
The light inside will still guide you.
And what you see will astound you.

“The Sunday Mail Part. 2” 215
What you see will astound you,
I’m sorry that I have a habit of
Repeating old used lines.
It just seems like sometimes
I’ve got to try and recycle
The ideas that are inside my skull.
Destruction a form of creation,
Creation is a form of destruction.
With each creation we destroy
And each destruction leads to creation.
I am a letter flowing through the wind
Being passed along, hand to hand,
See me, see this, and continue.
Wash, rinse, dry repeat.
The concoction of function grows more convoluted.
It’s in and out, on and off
And all year long, and fills one day.
We learn, we live,
And we just wait
For the Sunday Mail.

“The Sunday Mail Pt. 3” 329
When windows close and doors open,
Time stops and goes in circles.
Time wields fate while time stops;
While it stops for no one but itself.
We fall into routines
For the routines to fall out from under us.
Our safety nets then become nooses
And our noose becomes our safety net.
What once would kill us to do
Is all that’s left to keep us alive.
It’s contradictions convolute the offerings of life.
It’s what causes us to loose track of time,
And waste our days waiting for the Sunday Mail.

“The Sunday Mail Pt. 4” 345
Thought is a process of elimination.
All men are created to think,
But not all men do.
We are a process of growth
We are also a process of decay.
We rise from the ashes of oppression
And then build up new walls of restraint.
Humanity’s greatest strength is humanity.
Humanity’s greatest weakness is humanity
We are what we live
We live what we are
We do and we don’t
While we live and we die.
In the living nightmares of modern days
Growing and decaying and falling in step
To the beat of a drummer who is making mistakes.
He’s leading the choir, and the choir leads him.
You still waiting for the Sunday mail?
Or are you getting up on your feet
And hitting the dance floor?


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