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