Home SickHome Sick
In a garden, I awaken.
My bed is withered and dried.
I have lain here far too long.
Hypnotized and transfixed by these flowers,
I was lulled into a false sense of security.
Following the bloom with the passing seasons,
I wandered from my tree.
Sleeping with beauty,
I expected to awaken in it.
However, the petals are very fragile.
Not at all like the cultured branches
of the towering arbor.
Temporarily forgotten, the beauty
in the leaves, the intricately tangled limbs,
and the sturdy strength of the central pillar.
I had adapted to its boughs.
Yet, the blooming flowers on the horizon tempted.
But, now reversed, I can see the canopy.
Through these years, weeds have consumed the path.
I will work this path indefinitely,
accept these consequences.
But, in the end, I shall be on high,
high among the fire of fall.
By: Justin Sunday
Awakening from the board
as though through magic,
an alien tongue drifts through
the hollowed walls.
Through closed eyes, I listen,
pretending to understand their meaning.
My eyes open, brighter.
Silence, now echoed nothing.
Shelves, along tiled, shining walls
hold items of unknown use
with unreadable characters.
I observe their images,
imagining they could serve my needs.
My reflection holds the truth.
My hair is not straight or dark,
it is blond and wavy.
My eyes do not have their fold or depth,
they are straight and hazel.
Why, I have hair on my face.
But, around my neck, close to my heart,
swings the jade dragon.
I try to focus my understanding
on the flashing images presented to me.
Yet, their clothes tell another history.
Their blunt words and reserved expressions
speak of another world.
I long to, if nothing else,
share, with them, their world.
Donning their neon shirt,
where the koi fish is crested,
I now resemble the six.
Here, I shared some part of their life
in these s
The FieldThe Field
Soft white hills roll on and on
Under a moonlit, star-filled sky.
Snow? No, for this field is not frozen.
It teems with mellow, flowing movements.
Wave upon downy, gentle, and caressing wave
of rippling, undulating currents.
The glowing white, wrinkling and smoothing like cloth.
Like silk in a riverbed.
A silk blanket thrown over the threshold of the gods.
As clouds pass over the moon
amorphous shadows swim through the white sea.
They slide over the hills, oblivious to each other.
Perhaps they are sleeping,
dreaming cotton dreams created by their natural cradle.
Their mattress is not one entity.
Its substance is that of many feather-like flowers.
Each individual tendril moving to the same force,
moving in a synchronized, unifying dance.
A harmonious dance led by no one.
Ah, the longing to belong with their kind.
To feel as one with something so magnificent.
The loneliness felt in comparison.
Only wishing to forever float with the shadows
in a field of endless white.
The Cat BurglarThe Cat Burglar
Fingers slip from the gold handle.
The door quietly swings wide
to an interior blacker than night.
Two gold glints on the non-existent floor.
Reflections off the door handle?
Fumbling for the light switch.
A movement is sensed; the gold is gone.
The switch rocks, yet there's no illumination.
Stumbling for the window curtains,
shadows melt from the moonlight.
Another glint of gold down the hall.
Attraction, magnetic, driven forward,
a moth towards a candle across a lake.
Passing an open door, a breeze is felt
from a shadow that misses the skull.
A dull thud, continued by soft thumping.
Following with the faintest of footfalls.
A crash and tinkling glass.
A light switch flips.
The furry black shadow ninja
stares back with inquisitive gold coins
as he is scooped into a ball of ebony fluff.
By: Justin Sunday
Staring at your wrinkled reflection,
wondering where the music stopped.
In the search for fortune
you found only hardship.
Would you fix the past
or eat your popcorn and relax?
Watch the choices of long past
become waves that wash your life away.
Become hypnotized of the pendulum.
Chase the bird with your time on its wing.
Cry your tears and continue forward.
The dove is not your friend, you follow a crow.
A rain washes down,
never again will it cleanse your crown.
Each drop like a window
to memories thought lost.
See how they open your soul's flaws.
Keep your friends close and enemies closer.
You took these words to the extreme.
Your friends are posers
and vice is your right hand.
Sculpt that rock, crawl into the crack.
Your family, for a supplier?
Instead of life, you chose the reaper.
The violence takes shape of a knife.
Your soul is ripped, torn, and tattered.
Just as the mirror you shattered.
By: Justin Sunday
The GameThe Game
Love, its sung about in second nature,
though, few know of it true stature.
The game is hated, as are the players.
Love is crumpled and treated as trash.
Watch it burn and scatter the ash.
They flash each other false personalities.
Relationships are destroyed on technicalities.
People lie, cheat, and distrust.
A shame that cards are more honest.
Kings and queens have more hearts
than those who tear others apart.
Pockets too tight to give a quarter back.
Small disputes create large stacks.
Never able to make the other see,
psychiatrists are called in to referee.
Parents wrestle for the child's hold.
Each person's thoughts turned cold.
Even masks can't compare
to the way some hide behind makeup and hair.
Reasons are given not to trust,
looking to others to fill an insatiable lust.
Like one of the Pac family,
they partake of the cherry
and tally up high scores.
Yet, they are driven to even more.
In this new language, there is a goal and base.
Everyone has a hidden ace.