Poems of Scott Thomas Outlar

Ace in the hole 

Enlightenment
is the grass stain
on your white pants
when you fall hard
but come to find
that you landed
in a fresh patch
of lucky clovers.
 
Paint me every angle
of evolution
in a spectrum of green
more electric
than what these weary eyes have seen.

Awareness
is the kick
in your throat

when you learn how to choke
and cough up
black cancer
in waves.
 
Sing to me
across the seven seas
in triple threes
as blue aces
rise with a roaring tide.
 
Consciousness
is the final sip
of clean water
when the desert mirage
vanishes
beneath the sand
but forces your hand
toward a fast
that leads to light
saving your soul
in the end.
 
Walk with me in spirit
beyond this arid wasteland
until all the colors
of creation
have been burnt into my psyche.

Epiphany
is the sound
of dreams
shattering
from stones
thrown
straight through
stained glass
to collapse
the last
wink of sleep
and awaken
the feast
of a new reality
being manifested
into form.

Teach me the prayer
of well-weathered truth
that I can whisper.
with peace
when the winds begin to blow.

Double duty 

The light that shines
from a bright soul
acts as both
an attracting force
and a repellent.
 
Thank God.

The word love
scares some people
to death,
but it is, in the end,
the only path
that can be taken
to truly experience life.

 When freewill
is coupled with fate,
faith becomes focused
as the final saving grace. 

Scorched Halo 

My wounds are red and righteous;
that’s why I wear them as a crown.

Too heavy to bear this now.
Too holy are the words

that forked my tongue in thirds.
Duality was not enough;
I lost my soul in the end
when all I ever wanted
was to share it with my friend. 

Too thin to hold the halo high.
Too lazy are the eyes
that watch this tower topple.
A throne was set on fire;
I couldn’t stand the heat of heaven
and as you began to fan the flames
the smoke was more than I could breathe in.
 
My apple ripened rotten and black with poison;
that’s why I’m burning in the garden where we fell. 

Too late to cast your spell.
Too weary are the sighs
that judgment discerns to all be lies.
Silence ate away the worms;
I scraped my palms across the soil
to feel the remnants of dust and ash
upon a firmament scorched and spoiled.
 
My voice wept as a fading whisper;
that’s why I saved it for when the bells let loose their song.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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