I think sometimes that I want to live in a world that is full of fantastic wonders, where beauty hits you over the head with the full force of its pure extravagance and needless perfection.
And then I remember that that is the world I live in. Fantasy isn't something fundamentally alien, but reminds us of what is fundamentally wonderful about our world.
I do not see it because my eyes are half-closed. But sometimes it screams in bold letters, and reminds me that if I were to look I would see the same wonders everywhere.
May 15, 2020
May 15, 2020 at 9:46 PM UTC
all the ordinary people,
with their ordinary tears,
ordinary sorrows, and ordinary
fears
all the ordinary children,
mothers, fathers, sweethearts,
dears,
all the ordinary friends of all our
ordinary peers
every ordinary moment of our
ordinary lives
is a well-encrypted shadow
hanging over truth with
lies
ordinary
is the devil's myth,
that sweet, unpolished lie;
it makes an ordinary person only seek
a little prize.
But a cumulative series of ordinary days,
adds up to a lifetime of
extraordinary praise -
but only if we see the wonder
peeking through the walls,
shining like a lantern
that is covered up and dulled,
but visible, if eyes we use
as they were meant to be.
Ordinary, true.
But with them we can see beyond
the facts of me and you.
May 15, 2020
May 15, 2020 at 9:41 PM UTC
I was told that love is painful,
that there is terror of a certain kind
in being known.
But I've left that voice behind me,
now that love has soothed my fears;
that voice?
it was my own
May 15, 2020
May 15, 2020 at 9:28 PM UTC
wordstorm pouring from my bleeding lips -
an infant's scream for sustenance rising soft
above the sound of battle, the shrieks of devils and war.
ravens mock, their harshest rasping calculated
to pierce the heart of all the wounded,
bleeding out into the pits of shattered planet earth;
mud and rats and infestations of the most severe order,
without respite...
this is my battlefield within;
laughing is a sorry antidote to crime and sorrow;
joy is bared to bones before the shadow of a thousand failing suns, it laughs despite the pain;
you say that love, the most supreme of all affections, cannot be touched by misery.
devil.
go back to the
shadow of god
where you lurk, a curse to be unleashed; raving at your chains
This is no monologue. It is an address. It is not the raving of a madman - just the scribbles of a fool who seeks to grab the heart and soul of men with words:
complicated patterns sparking complicated thoughts sparking every **** achievement of our broken, bleeding
history,
our downfall and our towering symphony of
glory...
words attest the fabric of the world we create,
undead they speak with voices heard in silence and propel
the mind to visionary things;
or to the pits of hell.
Either way they give our mortal bodies wings.
We cannot fly too far, too high, with these;
life and death and all the shades of
heaven and hell between - that's where words can take us
if we let them
don't you see?
So listen. Write one more time. I speak the struggle of living flesh, and you hear the mournful infant's cry.
It is your soul raising living sorrow above the sound of busy anguish. It seeps through every waking moment of this dream.
So feed the baby, misbegotten mortal. Feed the ******* lips of your own soul.
One Word can stop its cry forever.
Mar 24, 2020
Mar 24, 2020 at 4:08 AM UTC
infant son of lust and power,
union of a king uncrowned
and wife of Gentile warrior -
I shall bear the burden of my
grieving father's sin
the prophet spoke, my fate is sealed
the sickness set upon me
- this terrible privilege of atonement -
will consume my
tiny life
and I will die
but my father?
he shall live
and from his ***** my brother
shall come forth
that other Son in whose shadow
I shall stake my
checkered hidden place
Solomon first,
and later, when the sun
bursts forth,
our mutual fulfilment:
Christ the Lord
Nov 3, 2019
Nov 3, 2019 at 12:04 PM UTC
nothing quite so terrible
as a man
who thinks himself free
when he is not
no terror quite so piercing
as a whisper
when he thinks himself
alone
so different, these two
moments
yet they both are filled with lies
there is a fatal weakness
in our mortal failing
eyes
we do not see the truth
of things - not one thing
breaks the dark
Nov 3, 2019
Nov 3, 2019 at 11:55 AM UTC
No need unmet
I rest in peace and plenty;
for I am shepherded by God Himself.
He beckons along a path
that leads me to the river,
where I am strengthened and
restored -
and the spark before me is the name
of my Lord,
and the path (straight and narrow),
paved with
love and mercy;
So I follow, stumbling
in the footsteps of a greater far than I,
yet I follow still
for His name and seal upon me
will admit no last defeat.
Even the whispered shadow of death
cannot shake me,
for fear hath no place
where my Lord is -
that Riverside peace, the rest in plenty
He has given, remain
unshaken,
brought back to memory by
the correcting rod and supporting staff
to stay my path in comfort
straight and true.
The battle spreads before me,
enemies snarl, and the
fiery darts whine.
I stand in armor, but a feast is
laid out there,
a repast fit for heroes,
to remind me that the battle
is
already won.
The victor is anointed,
the warrior too - a paradox,
already and not yet, I live
on both sides of the battle,
and His cup of joy and strengthening
wells over,
like a stricken rock in desert wastes,
it flows out in a river
by my side.
I may wade into the gore
of battle,
I may stand at death's
own door,
but this everlasting goodness
and the mercy of His face
will not depart -
will not depart from me.
For on the far side of this
valley,
on the flip side of this fight,
the house of my God is,
and in it's halls is my
eternal home.
There in that place are the pastures,
the rivers,
the feasts of the soul...
...the fullness of foretastes He's
given before.
Nov 3, 2019
Nov 3, 2019 at 11:50 AM UTC
They spoke to me, splintering words
In the broken-breath hiss of desire,
Holding my gaze with the glow of their swords
As they circled and circled my fire.
"We are they who devour the dawn.
No god can hold us, no chain and no bond.
We are the breaking and we are the end,
All those who see us will tremble and bend.
So careful now, careful now, watch where you tread,
Your life is our substance, our butter and bread.
Living or dying, our reach is not stayed,
Darkness will come, it will not be delayed."
Oct 22, 2019
Oct 22, 2019 at 8:54 AM UTC
Can’t see beyond ten paces...
mist lit up by noonday sun
Light refracted by a million microscopic
points,
a dulling blanket of peacefully sleeping
anxiety.
Desert clouds, like wisps of an ancient
man’s uncut hair, hanging over the
edge of far-off mountains to whisper
that not everything dies under the
noonday sun - for some things
are taken by time.
Stone doesn’t wrinkle, but sand driven
by wind will burst its fellow free,
and bit by grit the splendor
of yesterday is smoothed away.
Soft lines, vague shapes -
time and sand perform a dance upon
memory that reminds me
of the mist I see.
Oct 22, 2019
Oct 22, 2019 at 8:19 AM UTC
When my pen hangs over the paper, just before
I set about to write, but haven’t quite
decided yet, there’s a flash in my mind of a
thousand possibilities - all the things that
I’ve so long dreamed of writing, and more;
while empty, wordless day
follows empty, wordless day,
all the things I fear will always be an
echo in my mind
resound.
Of maidens pure, opening the door to find their
****** ‘trothed come home
to kneel at her feet
and die.
For he fought well, and nobly held the foe at
bay, and came to tell the
tale in his own blood.
Of men wandering from themselves, broken
and restless souls unhinged from any tie of
hearth and sudden infants’ squall,
or love that lasts past morning.
Of hidden forest rivers fit to burst from
aelven-home, and carry all the sweetness
of that place to mortal ears, and eyes, and nose.
Of mysteries so deep they span the starry sky
at night, looking down upon the speck of one
night-eyed man, and knowing him alone
of all his fellows.
Of birds that whisper from a golden god above,
of dragons dark and slumbering, with scales of
ore and gold.
Of a crystal statue chiseled, by a blind and
tender hand, in the shape of hidden beauty,
then revealed through all the land.
Of a toddler and a giant, of a flower
barely bloomed, of a man, and of a woman,
of the beauty of a tune.
Dreams, all dreams. Things that haven’t
yet come true. Not until I write them,
or I die before they’re through.
Just before ink meets page, this cacophony of
images resounds, and almost as if frightened,
I pull back.
All of it. I want to write all of it. I want to
lay it all down on paper. But it takes so
blasted long, just to make sure each word
comes out right, and to do it all -
all at once - is too much for any pen.
I fly too high; sometimes I forget how to
spell; how does one write the entire
dictionary of the human soul in just
a story?
Oct 22, 2019
Oct 22, 2019 at 8:16 AM UTC