Relic of

Just outside the vestibule the blues guitar plays, made from recycled bone.
The souls of the lost and those already gone, the notes howl and moan.

A pulse called rhythm; an atone for such a sadness that leaves empty.
That tale of hollowed tree's and owls that make storied words a plenty.

Reworking the past and lovers that have given so much of  their souls.
Taking and talking into the moonlight, in an attempt to fill emptied holes.

Those that once held together the innards of what was an entire being.
Now played out note by note upon the vibrations of midnight string.

 © Jeph Rants

I see you.

You stack upon layers of material to cover who you are, coats and commitments.
They seem to bring you power to your lacking of a real version of influence.
A barricade to keep out that which may expose you to your own reality of thought.
It gives you shelter from the downpour of that existence that you hide from.
The rampart of reason filling coffers of convenience to satisfy that you do not want.
In jubilance you boast of bold moves, despite the creature of comfort upon your back.
No guardian could save you, no love can find you behind that garrison you have built.

 © Jeph Rants