Are my skies dyed with melancholy?
Are these roses red with rage?
If fields can be greener on either side,
Then whose envy is the gauge?

Between the brightest blacks and darkest whites,
Grays a gradient of up and down,
Can I trust the amber in your eyes,
When mine are dog-**** brown?

Tender light of gentle star
Splendid night by lunar measure
Loathe the shining kiss of day
Where busy work takes place of leisure.

Did you revel in my exile...
Did you enjoy their praise?
Their blind belief that you would save them
At now, the end of days?

You ignore the mortals' plight
Yet still you are their king.
They love you for all they have,
But pain is all you bring.

Your sheep in shepard's clothing
Who claim they speak your words:
Lambs leading lambs to slaughter
A mass of bleating herds.

You take my wings for these wretched things
And proclaim that you're divine!?
I've come to storm your gilded gates
And claim what is truly mine!

So I have wrought a tide of brimstone,
A sea of hate and fire!
An ocean of forgotten ******
With song of sinful choir!

At the precipice of your paradise,
Meet me and despair.
War for a kingdom too large for you
And much too small to share...

Is this a question worthy of an answer?
I'm sure the sane answer is "no."

Is there poetry in farting into a milk crate?
Maybe not, but I'd very much like to think so.

I bumbled through the bramble,
****** and stings and me entwined.
They cut me deep and deeper
As I stumbled through the vine.

I fell out onto a clearing
Where I bled smally on the grass
And though this moment pains me
I pray to gods it lasts.

She sat above me,  beautiful,
Upon a throne of thorn.
Her supple frame caressed by they,
Yet remained untorn.

A lady or a fairy...
Or even better still!
A godess of those prickly vines
That wrapped around her will!

With every step the ivy squeezed
And yet I dare not care.
If she would waste but a breath on me,
I would not want for air...

I walk with will into umbral dark.
Fly through broken boundary of tempered veil
To unknown worlds beyond description.
I mingle with a forgiven strangeness
And become both act and audience
In theater foreign and familiar...

Then I cruelly slip from such sweetened state
And wake and live so mundanely.