Poem...

A road to hell paved in lost ontology,
Circus rings bursting with man’s mythology,
Ringleaders of conciseness last breath,
Dance upon the house that was Macbeth’s,
We crucified the idiot and nothing came,
Grasped the standard of freedom in shame,
Novelty in mankind’s relativity,
Ghosts hover above the nativity,
Facts or Reality,
Glass full of mortality,
Empiricist or Saint,
Death in paint,
A word to share,
A world in prayer.

Death

Where to turn,
Where to turn…
Going home with a twisted soul,
With a heart dipped in coal,
Along with the pissed out train cars,
Destitute philosophize a cause,
Under the slow drip of sand,
A mile from hell, a mile from the fruit stand,
A seven eleven along life’s promenade,
She forgot her place and prayed,
Found Adam hold’in a spade,

Nowhere to turn,
Nowhere to turn…
A lamp post and a twisted rope,
Bastard goin’ ta hang,
Priests goin, ta pray,
Corrupted pipes and black berets,
Bombs and ballots lose their merit,
To the tune of their transgression,
All is given up in confession,
An alter to golden possessions,

A trick to turn,
A trick to turn…
Man in all his proportions,
All that’s left is her distortions,
A Grain of rice to fill a glass,
The trickle of blood to fill the mass,
Madness in quite sanctuaries thrive,
Nothing left to do…

…but live.

Unnamed

The fear and heart ache,
Shake back the tears and lie wide awake,
Coming is the scorn of a thousand lost nights,
Light so heavenly must fall from such great heights,
The fear of slings and stones,
Moans echo filling the night like the cracking of bones,
The night air’s stinging recoil,
Foil all that was born of our blood, sweat, and toil;
But all is lost upon the suns first light,
Trite it is to think only now of our Father’s last blood rite,
The Knight of Faith no longer everlasting,
Lasting through time only till the atoms blasting,
With borrowed dagger and the broken jar,
Scar our final night bellow that long lost star,
What is left of the Grammar school?
Cruel are the compass and the rule,
Games of language scrawled in chalk,
Walk one last time past the silent clock,
Upon the blackboard they are left to cry,
Fly from here or stay but to die,
For Copenhagen and Kierkegaard,
Scared they come to lie in the church yard,
As shall I upon the first light,
Fright has taken me long from such rite,
Consumed in fear no longer alive,
Thrive I shall for into the void I will dive.

God = Spirit

Spirits rise from the watery depths upon the dawn,
A mother’s love gone from this worlds view,
Sins of man, a biter tale so foregone,
Ranks of the unwashed left to construe.

Across the star washed bays and rustic glens,
Ringing with the crash of pikes and wounded men,
Long before through watch men’s star filled lens,
Monks in joy, bent in prayer to say ‘amen.’

For id a man is born of spirit, of water.
Entrance into the kingdom of God a waits,
And all of this lands sons and daughters,
With revolution’s passion they raise.

Through the clover, little did they know, over the sea,
Christ their savior bled to make men free.

God = Freedom

They cut cold steal from the richest summer clay,
Breast plates which light shine most brilliantly,
Across the seas, above waves of gray,
To a land of souls, to time so resilient.

To see a light shinneth in darkest void,
Across endless seas of ice and bone,
For the darkness comprehended not but destroyed,
With iron and fire, swallowing up his throne.

But across the sea, shores of golden sand,
Sweet and blood of rebellion so bittersweet,
Barefoot children of God, marching hand and hand,
A land of liberty, fields of meadowsweet.

For the weakness of man is the strength of God,
The uniqueness of sin, liberties façade.

Night...

My mind twitches in anguish, reaching back into eternity as it claws beyond the deepest reaches of my conciseness. Each memory from that night feels like a knife. The razor sharp edge of each memory plunges into my soul with each passing thought. Every attempt I make to recall, to remember, even simply to put to rest that night yields only the greater terror of regret. I toss and turn each night still. I fight the sheets curling my fists into the pillows as if I can still feel the warmth… the glow…

…having spoken so softly upon the night air, having drifted so light heartedly, only to find that so much passion could have ended in so much pain, that she must have been carried from that place, that time, that infinitesimal moment of our lives humiliated, betrayed, defiled; so many emotions I can not begin to imagine! And I to would be betrayed, I to would become conceded and lost in my own selfish pride.

Ye think sin in the beginning sweet,

Which in the end causeth the soul to weep,

When the body lieth in clay.

My body is yet to rest in clay for it has yet only to come to rest in a pool of crimson red. And if the concerns of the Everyman may be tossed aside I found my self asking, as Hamlet had:

Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him

As if increase of appetite had grown

By what it fed on; and yet, within a month –

Let me not think on’t!

But what, thy name is woman? Frailty she did not show but instead the very cunning of a prince. A devil she was and pleasant shape she did take. As Hamlet I to was robbed of reason’s sovereignty, and drawn only into the madness of my youth. To brotherhood and friendship nothing was conceded, and so much more lost. The bitter sweet dichotomy of wilted roses and crossed swords never more would be seen again.