I speak in tongues of men and angels, I speak as a man that knows the angles. I rhyme truth melodically, with my methodology, my words convicting you this is no mythology. And as tides of tithes flood our church like Jordan, the lives of lies, my tongue has shortened. So let's ask the Ghost of the Most-High, high above I, to bless this mission, this mission of mine.

(Are you sold? Are you inspired? By this sorcerer peddling his strange fire? Are you scared? Are you mired? By the weight of this second-rate evil-inspired rant that can't won't couldn't shouldn't be found profound by us when by Christ it wouldn't? The "broken bonds" of this sounding gong are just more chains, just empty song)

I've loved, lived, lost!
(But burned the cross.)
I've spoke and swayed!
(At disastrous cost.)

I've sung the hymns!
(So did the Devil)
Filled our church with gold!
(The softest metal.)

I fought back the dark!
(But it left it's mark)
Laid all at the altar!
(That's still awaiting a spark)

I witnessed to the street!
(On a weak foundation.)
Was given the the finest things!
(And moth and rust will take them.)

(It was never about what he could do, what glory can God take when who is seen is you? His “my’s” and “I’s” can’t save the lost, his “my’s” and “I’s” put Him on the Cross! Man can only save what gold can buy, and in the end owns nothing but gilded lies. You've seen his path, and where it leads. Do you see now that it's from you you're freed? Not debt, not pain, not loss or strife, but the crushing weight of your debauched life?

The Son will not impart what this man asks, for to leave you the world is not His task. For we are born, but do not live, until we surrender that which was not ours to give.)

Without reason, in peacetime state
There stands the enemy at the gate
And the gates are holding, iron-wrought
But arrows slip through the bars and rock

And with his army held but immortal still
The Lord of Babylon waits until
A weakened moment, the changing guard
To bring fire and doubt and idol gods

But in castle courtyard, stands a Shepard
Who in faithful watch serves duties two
On his blooded right: the arrows
And in the other hand is you.

It's unthinkable to a castle's king
That victory be in surrender
But never had the Shepard led astray
And was let through unhindered

And the army lacking death and reason
Drew back their ranks in fear
For here stood the Shepard, proven dead
By Longinus's spear.

And the clanging sound of sword and shield
Of armor, whip and chain
Fell for the first time ever, silent.
At king's crying of His Name.

My group therapy ended today
Termination is such a violent word
For such a soft thing
Termination is harsh
Reminiscent of layoffs
And Austrian-born California governors
No. This wasn’t a firing.

It was a funeral.

Round robin reflection at a somber dinner table
An exchange of platitudes and promises
To stay in contact, to be available
And we all meant it. Every word.

But no.

We were demented sorcerers,
Holding tightly to fading magics

Ex-lovers
Trying to be friends

Though it was, ironically, a machine that once said.
“A thing is not beautiful because it lasts.”
And every part of me I found in them
Now is a part of them found in me
Carried in my self-revelations
In strides straight and confident as an honest Keyser Soze.
And though I am a penny none the richer

Today I am indigo.

Oh woe were I a painter, impressionist in craft
Painting pictures in emotion, instead of photograph
Because there is no color, no brush-stroke I could sweep
That could capture her, or the wonder that she keeps.

I could never explain
Not ever explain
To any detail
Or degree

What it is like
To realize the fear
That my depression is smarter
Than me.

There is a haze over him
He could fight it, muster all strength to overcome it
But to what end? There is nothing to see here
Just pastel yellows and men of ill-intent.

Other prisoners crowd around the trough.
Like cattle.
But not him.
He’s special.
They can’t see the poison in the sky.
They don’t know they’re watching.
This is a prison for special people.
People whose eyes are too sharp.
People who know too much.

But they succumbed.
They ate the meat of the temple.
They became domesticated.
They gave up their sight for creature comforts

He is not like them.
He is stronger. He is smarter.
The abattoir will not be silent when it is his turn.
He will not go gently.

Writing poetry about you?
It's simplest thing I know
I just sit and describe you
And take the credit for my own

For there are no words that I could use
That were both true and fair
That would not make a wondrous line
Or a reader not ensnared.

I never met a storm I didn't like
I wish I could say the same for people
Though sometimes I think
They have as little control
Of what they destroy
As storms

I think I could love anyone,
that shared a mountain coast with me.
Those rocks and rivers and beachfront caves?
I feel like a pirate.

And I believe not caring what others think,
Is a coward's way to self-esteem.
You can't make everyone happy
That doesn't mean you shouldn't try.

I can seem cold
But what you're hearing
Is precision
It makes sense when you love words
And hate being misunderstood.

I hate when people argue to be right
Instead of understand
It's self-indulgent
And dehumanizing
And so very me.

I'm such a nerd I'd need another poem
to convey how much
But I think it will suffice to say
If you like
Will McAvoy
The Dragonborn
Charles Spurgeon
Vault Dwellers
or the Crystal Gems
We'll probably get along.

And lastly
I only wrote this poem
Because I hate not having an answer
To "tell me about yourself."

Why go to church and sing our lies? What good is the praise of a song obliged? Obliged to worship, to speak not cry, of the Son of God for whom death died?

And we go to church and sing these songs, but all we are, are sounding gongs. We pretend that we know right from wrong, wearing masks to hide our devil prongs.

And we think just our community gives us immunity, to be spiritual lepers but judge with impunity. We speak of witness but we shun opportunity, and we fail brothers and God in our mission for unity.

See, that's a church that has no Christ: just makeup on the face of vice, a place where we curse in silver tongues and then play nice, acting lions when we should be mice.

Because it’s the glory of God for which Christ died, a glorious God that we denied, yet from our throats were our own hands pried, just so in God we could confide. Just so in Christ we could abide.

In this town, of park and stone
The rain comes every day
Scrubbing clean the grime accrued
Of city's sin and labor's clay.

And perched in a window is The Girl
Who cannot forget
The blackest times of this dismal street
And the fractures forming, yet.

Because this present darkness
Will in surest memory fade
For the blessed many
Who at night let go the day

But She will sit in her lonely sill
Knowing there are none who will relate
As they, unburdened, meander on
As she drags behind a weight.

It's a heavy story, drenched and clothed,
In the mud, the rain and black
That speaks unfondly of us all
Of our unkind lack.

And though an inch of glass is all there is
To keep her from below
Always on that edge She sits
Come storm, come fire, or snow.

The truth is she would leap
But for that lonely inch of glass
And The Bottom longs for the day they meet
As it stares back up and laughs

But as if a laugh in lover's quarrel
It drives her to spite
To serve as the homily's vanguard
And bring a candle to the night

Because though that little inch is all she has
She knows that inch is hers
And it will not be given, freely
Nor will it pass unheard.