Sam Silva

Dream Land

Like few other things
this synthetic morphine
makes that dead pleasure
which feels so much
like love
to the broken orphans
lost in alleyways and caves heartless places. Oh mama!
the mind learns to nod and sleep.

Words As A Strange Religion

We live!
for the eloquence which adorns
these endless days
on Earth

...shiver among the paintings and stars!
...the nudes and their twilights

though nakedness and despair
cling to such lips like alcohol
and drip
like morphine, like laudanum
from a flask.

We die!
without ever knowing
that dark act
though the tears for our dead lovers
baptize and suffuse us
and mortal imminence
bathes us with meaning.

And the end of this thing
is only as brief as a weeping sigh

...and then the bawdy laughter!
...the toast
to the king
and queen
in our midst!

Sam Silva © 2017

Like a Tired Child at the Circus

I'm sorry but I cannot help my sleep!
dreary fatigue
piled on for years
by the manure of lesser lies

slowly erased
a passion for all truth
in the midst of this evil comedy.

Late at night, the talk shows
help the worn out head unwind
and sweeten enough such hearts
already bruised by lower forms

of insanity

Two Things That Never Change

I hobble on my lame left leg
and sit a suck my furtive smoke will is weak senses, dull.
I read too little...sleep too long
and everything is just a joke.

And yet, I long
for human justice, not
just for the likes of me

and spend my passion
all on you.

A world that crucifies my mind
and a woman
like eternity...

these cause my furtive poetry
when nothing else

is true!

Sam Silva © 2017