Sometim—
No. Many times,
I stand a thumb’s-width behind my eyes
and watch the rest of me
continue out of habit,
routine.
Not broken.
Not guilty.
Nothing so theatrical.
Only the quiet fact
of being present for a leaving.
A hand finds the latch.
A mouth replies to my name.
The chest keeps time.
The body, dutiful,
honors appointments I do not remember making.
I’m reminded of a word,
“Autopsy.”
To see oneself,
with one’s own eye.
Not for blood—
for method.
The lamp.
The steel.
The patience
of a thing laid open
because surface-level guessing
failed.
I do not mean death.
I mean her colder cousin:
to witness form without function,
and function without meaning,
without ownership;
to watch the eyes go on seeing
and feel no claim;
to hear my own voice—
arrive half-strange—
at my own ear.
Then comes the old command:
“Suffer on.”
As if hurt were proof.
As if endurance
could turn scattered bones
into soldered-skeleton, stitched-together-soul.
But pain is only pain
unless it gathers
what has come apart.
May 2
May 2, 2026 at 2:47 AM UTC
A Saintess-stained—upon a layered pane
set before priory and austere eyes:
the shallow-sighted hallow marks the smile
in painted calm, but not tempest-inside.
Somber-sister, holy in her ache—
Eternal sings hymn-internal psalm,
“Onerous, is the caring heart.
Expects excuse, does the perspicacious mind”.
My dear,
you are unfair to self.
They see the pane on-surface;
You, the pane behind.
-
Is a picture, perfect—
Worthy, worth thee worship?
Lines, shapes: proportional, aligned?
No.
Divinity is found
In
Handmade brush,
in trembled hand;
As weeping,
Grinning—thoughts
Seep to create
And nurture life
Like rain to grass-strewn-soil;
It lives where worlds-apart entwine and meet;
Converge, collide, crash
And, in their meeting, change:
where sea meets shore and salt remakes the land—
No, my dear—
Divinity is found
In perfect-imperfections,
to discerning crowd.
In challenges, overcome.
Not in lacking/forestalled steps,
Not in angled-shapes,
nor paint
Beyond the bounds.
There is no truth
In easy proofs; “Is a replaced street-sign, ‘art’?”
Only the crazy-stupid; Brave,
Fumble charge—against the dark.
Would they, so soon,
Return to feet,
If divide between “life and meaning”,
Necessarily ended in state of despaired-stark?
Probably not…
So,
Let the inorganic window-
keep its lines.
Through chapped-chapeled, colored-fracture,
let your trying-genius shine.
And when despair
Brings forth, ‘demure’,
Keep an origin-unique, in mind
For it is
Within the “blur”;
Wherein meaning is refined,
Where one finds comforted faith,
In the courageous steps
Of heartfelt-thought, divine.
Apr 3
Apr 3, 2026 at 4:53 AM UTC
The trap is dangerous; I nearly fell.
When grit forgets the labor of its start,
Bastardized-faith slips easier than truth
Because it wears the cadence of belief.
A voice may keep its meter, tone, pose (and prose),
Speak what is factual, yet still deceive,
And call that honesty. This is the drift—
The self: moves first; the principle— comes next.
So, I address the half I still call mine,
Not as a judge untempted by this ease,
But as one schooled in how a glance becomes
'A creed', 'a banner', then a borrowed face.
What faith survives? The kind that must be earned
In neighbored talk, where integrity lives.
Mar 8
Mar 8, 2026 at 4:13 AM UTC
I speak to you,
You human-husk.
You sycophantic whelp.
Finding meaning
as anonymous-agent—
Iniquitous in action
And sleeve-worn faction;
dutiful ****
you are.
Small, masked, sanctioned—
playing fool for force.
You sow the hate
And reap the hearse.
A neighbor murdered
in close-knit streets.
******* *****
your words—
But just
before
the time to breathe,
digest the inhumane—
Another’s
cuffed,
then killed.
Shot just down the block,
A picture, poisoned
Within a single frame.
How bereft of good
must one become,
by choice,
to voice
the evil
that you shill?
Wicked, wan, wasted:
a cannibal ant
against the hill.
Scurry across a corpse-strewn canvas,
as you must eat your fill.
A self-sufficient farm: harvesting
social ills,
threshing pain,
‘Community’:
beneath the mill.
You hide your timid face,
shed your sinful name.
Not man enough
to own your deeds,
so in victims
you place blame.
But if,
for once,
you summon the gall
enough, at least,
to meet
my eyes—
An icy chill
will fill the room
from disgust beyond disguise.
The message: clear.
Unblinking, calm:
Incise.
It is you,
Coward,
that I despise.
(I own my words.
You duck behind
bullet-backed lies).
Indentured body to the badge,
finger puppet to the trigger
of tyrant’s gun;
you fire—
yet of consequence,
you fear none.
Your mouth spins the script,
a woven verbiage of lies—
inducing confidence in craven.
A recitation, loud and cowed
chants, “Credence to contempt!”—
An incantation, mean and wile,
sung with every rising sun,
Not reveille this,
but morning’s calling to the vile.
A day, a month, a life—
it matters not, as certain comes,
In time—the Reaper
cloaked with scythe.
And, at the final judgement,
in face of last assize,
you’ll find the verdict rendered—
the sentence set—
a case already tried,
all pleas to be denied;
As it was, through Earthly-oath, your conscious actions
through which you’ve
long since died.
Whatever waits beyond this life
will not reward, will not redeem, restore.
Instead it will consume you whole,
put you back to work, wherefore—
You’ll serve (again)
as cutthroat cog
or despot’s *****
Spent,
used-up,
disposed.
Feb 17
Feb 17, 2026 at 9:10 PM UTC
Across the desert plains, the arid steppe,
Through mudden marchen-marsh he drags his tread;
Labored the breath that will not yet accept
The ease of rest, nor hunger’s voice well-fed.
No hound at heel; no banished word is said,
He pays no coin of spite to buy the night;
He bows to hearth, unpushed, and claims no right—
The young lion closes one preying eye.
The coronet still sits—untouched—yet kept;
His kin still whole; no bond is snapped or bled;
He parts as one whose fate is self-inept
To wait on grace by accident instead.
Ambition’s yoke sits light upon his head;
He walks alone, yet walks by chosen rite,
Prideful-prideless in his inward true sight—
The young lion closes one preying eye.
For now, these dreams are sand, not harvest swept:
No rumor of his deeds has yet been spread;
No scribe has inked his name; no record kept,
Only the long intention borne ahead.
Neurotic cub distrusts the softened bed,
By patience sharpened finer than his bite;
He spies the lamb, yet stills the older fight—
The young lion closes one preying eye.
Licentious youth licks frost from beard and jaw,
His singed mane thin from weather, want, and wait;
The gut growls loud, the ancient impulse claws,
But mind and heart refuse the simpler gate.
Against his lesser self he calibrates,
Choosing the long ascent, not stolen bite—
He’d rather lose than win by borrowed light—
The young lion closes one preying eye.
Prince without land, yet rich in chosen law,
He keeps one hard-eyed witness; it asks, “Why?”
A will that pays in sleep, yet asks no awe—
The young lion closes one praying eye.
Jan 3
Jan 3, 2026 at 4:00 AM UTC
Was Brutus wrong to strike his friend and lord?
Did Caesar’s smile conceal a tyrant’s sword,
Or was it Fate, who doomed the old Republic,
To die beneath the weight of men and time?
Our fingers trace the pattern on this cloth,
Each thread a tale of virtue turned to vice,
Each accent gilded, bright yet purposeless.
In days when Antonines held Rome in peace,
The golden age depended on one man.
The laws still spoke of senates and of votes,
But truth lay in the will of one whose heart
Might favor stoic justice or his whims.
The empire stopped its outward march and set
Its boundaries on the ocean and the Rhine;
A long calm seeped a poison through her veins,
Reducing minds and quenching martial flame.
Augustus hid a monarch in the garb
Of consul, tribune, citizen and friend.
So long as virtue passed from hand to hand
The masquerade endured; but when that chain
Was severed by a son unfit to rule,
The guard that once protected Rome for pay
Would auction off the diadem for gold.
Armed bands and haughty captains shaped the law,
Their swords the ballots of a restless mob.
Marcus, trained to bind his flesh to mind,
Embraced the stoic’s patience and restraint.
Yet love for blood betrayed him when he named
Commodus his heir; a child of vice
Who dressed in lion’s skin and boasted strength.
The Praetors laughed and sold imperial grace,
And Severus fed his soldiers with the spoils,
A prophecy fulfilled by fratricide:
Caracalla’s dagger found his brother’s heart,
And civil war grew common as the plague.
The century turned and emperors rose and fell
Like sparks above a dying funeral pyre.
Aurelian bound the eastern queen Zenobia,
Restored the frontiers, sacked Palmyra’s walls
But ruled by sword and knew no civil check.
Diocletian split the world in fourfold might,
Multiplied councils, taxes and new names,
And from Nicomedia kept Rome at bay.
His abdication taught that thrones could pass
Without a coup; yet jostling for the crown
Awoke ambitions Constantine would wield.
The cross appeared upon the banners now.
Why did a humble sect inflame the earth?
Inflexible zeal, hope of a life to come
And structured ranks that mirrored civic forms
Spread faith from slave to senator and king.
Persecutions tried to quench the flame,
But martyrdom and patience fanned it higher.
On Galerius’s deathbed tolerance was born,
And Constantine embraced the church to bind
His subjects’ hearts; he tempered harsher codes,
Refounding ancient Byzant on the sea.
Yet virtue waned; suspicion tainted love,
And he would **** his son and faithless wife.
Julian in Gaul revived a fairer age,
Demanding proof before a man was ******
But the world had turned; barbarians pressed on
From Rhine and Danube, Goths and Huns and Vandals.
Alaric laughed as senators begged bread,
Promised their lives and took the city’s gold.
Africa, rich and fertile granary,
Was left exposed to Vandal sails and spears.
Attila’s horsemen swept like summer storms,
Pitting Rome and Goth against each other
Until on plains of Gaul his course was checked.
But rot within wore deeper than the sword;
Finances bled, taxpayers fled to woods
And Rome relied on barbarian arms.
When Romulus Augustus laid down the crown,
A foreign captain ruled the sons of Rome.
Theodoric then forged a gentler rule,
Combining Gothic vigor, Roman law.
Yet pious fear soon turned his justice harsh
And Boethius died for whispered plots.
Justinian dreamed of reunited lands,
But plague and endless war consumed his realm.
Gregory, monk and prefect of a ruined town,
Fed hungry mouths and bargained with the Lombards,
Planting seeds of papal sovereignty.
While bishops quarreled over nature’s modes
And emperors forbade the icons’ kiss,
The faithful turned from Caesar’s fading light
To saints and relics, monks and shepherd kings.
Muhammad rose from noble Koreish stock
And from the Caaba’s shade received a law
That bound both creed and contract to one word.
The Romans of the East, now Greek in tongue,
Held out behind great walls but lost their lands.
In Italy wild Normans, bold and shrewd,
Arrived as mercenaries and built a realm.
Seljuk horsemen seized Anatolian fields
And pilgrim blood cried out for holy war.
The schism deepened; Latin spurned the Greek,
And Venice turned crusaders toward their kin,
Sacking the queen of cities under cross.
Thus is the tapestry we choose to read:
A woven fall of courage, faith and greed.
No single blade can sever all these strands;
The loom itself was warped by hands of men.
What shall we say of Brutus, Caesar, gods?
Perhaps the fault lies not in stars or swords,
But in the weaver’s heart that seeks to twist
The fragile threads of freedom into chains.
Dec 26, 2025
Dec 26, 2025 at 1:41 AM UTC
Sisyphus,
I ask of you:
“How might one imagine you content?”
A life full spent
in ceaseless fight
against foe who,
in simple rest
and abject state,
will soon attrite to core
and,
in pieces,
nigh on thee erode.
When edge wears edge to nothing,
and thy palm hath learned its grit,
‘doth burden bleed to bearer,
or is labour
all that lives?’
If alleged-immortal
boulder breaks,
does defiance yet abide?
I ask you this again,
not in ornamental heed
nor in mocking, performed jest;
for singular is the beat
of an inorganic, apathetic heart,
and of a soul bereft
Deathless stone of enemy
against which your life,
for all its sorrow-morrows,
is spent in abstract, unfeeling contest.
Thus I thrice repeat
lucky interrogation,
for I struggle to comprehend:
“Imagine Sisyphus content; imagine him in glee;
imagine him ungrounded,
but never him naive.”
If, in heart, in line, he lives,
in death may his soul be free?
How can one
fight natural law
that withers,
but never bleeds?
Yet, upon scarred knee,
no song of wounded man —
hard fought, cavalier-bellowed —
vow low-groaned
but in constitution,
lacking despaired plea…
Will future grace
idolatrous shapes
of unworthy ears,
or will it recall
the esprit earned in wound;
A wisdom borne and tried in scars,
a wisdom won
but never bought?
Dec 6, 2025
Dec 6, 2025 at 3:19 AM UTC
“Bend
but never break”
An adolescent branch falls;
Fatal curiosity.
A hum?
Or cry?
I can’t tell.
-
A monk before him.
-
Brave that branch;
Though,
the sight was left
to me
alone.
Would’ve loved
to hear him sing.
Whispered winds carry.
And the choir has been lacking….
Oct 26, 2025
Oct 26, 2025 at 4:56 AM UTC
Tongue-polished boots stand firm
on broken, shattered crystalled-glass.
As servile Schmiessers
move en masse.
With swallowed humanity,
a heavy arm
lifts anticipatory,
fear-borne—mask.
The Marshal of Bigotry cries his command,
“Persecutors! To the task!”
In maliced march,
and in chilling rhythm,
They goose-step,
arched,
o’er blood split
from civil schism.
Blinds are closed
and windows are shut.
As eyes turn away,
from that rabid, ferine strut.
A camp for him,
A camp for her.
And to them sent,
without law conferred.
With gun to temple,
We are offered a choice,
“Fall fast in line,
and in hate rejoice.”
“Or bear stitched lips,
and suffer silenced voice.”
If truth is stone,
then sharpen sword.
Don helm to crown,
And place faith
in just accord.
Oct 1, 2025
Oct 1, 2025 at 5:15 PM UTC
Round the wagons,
and call on the dogs!
For there is fury in that mist,
there is malice in that fog!
Arm yourselves wisely.
Shoulder steady, breath slow,
give in to eye’s end.
Shower sky with shot,
And do so
with fatal intent.
Line, volley and rising smoke
Un-surreptitious spending of saltpeter,
leaves quiet rise
to billowing choke.
Loosen formation
Send scouts up ahead
“How many the count?”
“Report:
none dead.”
“How can this be
we took distance,
aimed well, aimed true
And still count you no heads?”
“Sir,
machinations of the mind
…maybe it was instead?”
Pleated-dress-pants
barks back his threat,
"Court martial, you!"
"March,
forward,
ahead!".
Sep 28, 2025
Sep 28, 2025 at 3:12 AM UTC