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Holy, Holy, Holy are you EL SHADDAI.
To be blessed is to seek a deeper,
interwoven understanding of your sovereignty,
of your abundant love, and your magnificent
GRACE.
Your words, the word of ELOHIM,
brings purpose into the full view
of your unyielding power.
To walk amongst the descriptions
of your word is a comprehension
of just how lost we are in your sight,
through ours.
To know in my soul the perpetual fire
of your altar; to hear the cries
of sacrificial animals, to have my nostrils
fill with the aroma pleasing to you.
To rationalize what now seems
barbaric, done only through the
infinite wisdom of your PROVIDENCE.
Your thoughts can only be evaluated,
imprinted on our hearts if the
intention is yours.
As I visually articulate the painstaking
sacrifice of man,
I am humbled falling at your feet
sobbing;
for what your beautiful perfect SON
endured through your eyes.
What i am is nothing,
you are the great I AM,
pleased only by our hunger for
every word that comes forth from your mouth,
our thirst for YASHUA'S immaculate
wisdom, his perfect TRUTHS.
I close my eyes, and present
myself at the entrance to your Temple of meeting,
as a sacrifice meant only for your
dealings.
Use me my ABBA, my ELOHIM for your
infinite GLORY,
to bring the perpetual fire of
YASHUA'S sacrifice, the unquenchable
observance, for any who know
repentance.
As every piece of acacia wood was placed
so too my bones,
every artifact, my muscles.
Crafted to make your new covenant
a dwelling place, a new Temple.
Good in your sight, so I know now
who has laid my foundations,
who has constructed me.
To be a doer of your calling,
yearning to be good in your sight,
the sight of EL SHADDAI, my ELOHIM.
In the power filled name of
YASHUA Ha'MASHIACH I praise you
YAHWEH, amen!
Disclosed just enough,
that I recognize I will never
have closure.

Stillness under blanket;
while frantic thought sparks fire,
marching toward the center
of sensation, like taste and
memory.
Even as the firestorm subsides,
there seems one ember
found purpose.
A wick the end of candlewax
transformed to life,
past ear canals and sight lines.


One light in an exponentially
growing darkness;
no shadows to speak of, or through.
No!
This light is for voyeurs
perverse enough in theory
to hypothetically pose quandaries
as to why, "...that light still
flickers and glows."

Head motionless on pillow;
a congregating group of bodies
assemble themselves upon rolling
bluffs, conjured by trips
yet materialized.
They murmur to each other,
their own perfect language.

You'd think the noise would ruin
this delicate silence, but it's
quite the opposite.
Their soft utterances act as
a breezes finger tip, touching
new resolve into the leaves
decorating the tree of life;
rustling ever so gently,
each one individually so the
branch doesn't move. That
would be far too much commotion,
and the wise owl needs not
a feather ruffled.

Just the leaves;
whisking a few away,
they never fall, they never stay.
Just fly along the currents
of your breath;
all this movement in rhythm
with a vehicle still recuperating.
The corners of the mouth pull
upwards, towards the tops of
ears, nostrils flare as if the
body is there,
but isn't it?
An emancipated feather moves
vociferously across glass tops,
making not an imprint,
but instead playing the tune of love,
joy, and prosperity.

In a library full of picture books,
and worn tennis shoes that lay beneath
monikers which are announcing timelines,
and referencing emotions;
the feather feverishly scribbles,
but not a word is written.
The doors swing open,
the light punctures the tranquility,
the ****** is being ripped away
watching as everything drops,
now simply motionless.
This is what it was like when
we used to sleep.
It's amazing how much a catalyst anyone of us can play,
and how simple it is to be fodder,
fuel for the flame.
Echoing off the corneas of an
older generation, the imprint
upon the retina of those we're
unknowingly strangling.

Their whimpers fill our oxygen tanks,
their stomach acid resurfaces the earth we burn and purge.
Their saliva cleans the barrels,
their imagination makes the bullets,
their incentive the gun powder,
their action our selfish itchy trigger
finger.

Written apologies through scripted
eulogies; we simply cared little
for your insistance we listen,
easier to brush it under the bed  
we tell you harbors no monsters.
Simplified for us, our course is set
our destination known, yet this
monster tucks you in at night.

I can't with dry eyes ask your forgiveness, for like an addict
we'll be at it again. Burning intellectual freedom, that well bleached parchment we've already scribbled your names upon.
Oh you didn't know?
Yeah we were ready for you,
we knew you were coming.
In our much praised cunning we've
already turned them all against you.

So why don't you swallow your angst,
go ahead and eat that anger. I don't care how much peace matters, go ahead drink that too.
Do it again, and again until your stomach swells and bursts.
See the best part about lack of nourishment it mimics your stomach as if you've gorged yourselves.
And you better believe that's what we're going to tell them, that's exactly what we're going to show them.

Now seriously, there's no monsters
under your bed, in your closet, or outside your window.
Please little one just sleep tight;
don't worry I'll get the light -
click - blam!
Page after page I turn;
The fulcrum worn, and
brittle. I'm waiting for
it to disintegrate,
fall away.
Absent of their spine,
the pages flutter, sway,
leap, land, rise, and fall.
To some they'll see freedom,
but to whom those pages
were once contained
memories, recorded action,
hopes, aspirations, dreams,
as well as sickening
realizations.
Seen will be
unbridled tragedy.
He could compile them
together again, sure, but
The loss of just one paper
destroys the integrity,
the fluidity of his release.
So dance you lined darlings.
Fill the sky,
litter the ground,
but when Destiny again comes
To reclaim you, I pray the ink
is the last thing to leave you.
Losing my hand, the one clasped
round a crutch I've never made.

Losing my mind by simply
submitting to routine, repetition
of unnecessary thought.

Losing my procreative choice,
because my objections remain
voiceless.

A gesture lost to action, action
over intent, intent instead of
purpose. As though it had any
reason to be qualified, or quantified.

Losing the, "High ground," the "Perspective"
the advantage of knowing from where
all is coming.

Losing all the angles, the objectives,
because it's better to be committed
to the guidance of other's
you're no leader, trapped in semantics.

Gaining concession, conciliatory
victory, opened eyes, compassionate
ears; whisper to me sages, kings, and
queens I'm becoming.
civility, senility, sterility, sincerity, security, strategy
Belligerent- at war, designating or of a state recognized under international law as being engaged in a war.
Decadence- A process, condition, or period of decline, as in morals, art, literature; deterioration, decay.

Belligerent decadence,
may I reproach your horrible
agenda?
Fore-score wasn't a play on
words. These years have passed
as unwillingly as we've
accepted your rule.
Hyperboles creating a sense
of dissidence, because judging
anomalies is a task better left
to the proficient.
Maybe now their decadent
dissidence may materialize.

Belligerent decadence,
is it for you that sympathy
now grows sour?
Sour enough to please a pigs
trough. A malignant canopy
erected for weary heads,
yet finding relief means
resolution is what's being fed
to hungry bureaucratic slave
hands obsessing on getting more
for nothing.
Obsolete, ritualism has become
more copied than read. Is one
agonizing grin of disgruntled
workers creating the back drop,
for proud men raising a trophy,
the emblem of monetary
perplexity.

Not enough make enough.
So belief can die it's painful
reminder,
"Faith cast as dice, when no
one believes there's a chance."

Belligerent decadence,
remind me to remind them,
the people you so rally to scourge;
that interpretation is not
better left for your eyes,
but theirs.
Remind me to speak in
rag tag metaphor so as to
dispel the wrench clogging
their system.
Remind me to encourage
them to explore further;
beyond their machinations,
so they again can see this
machines engine.
Maybe the clog is yours,
but like every circulatory
system may fall victim to
stroke like conditions so
shall yours.

Belligerent decadence
rise up fallen brethren,
falling faster than the
history of Columbus.
How long till we see
the incredible hyperbole
being played out so
deliberately? How long till
we seethe for proof,
the products of ignorant
disease.
How long till we find
life's anathema like genius
executed upon every casted
ballot?
The forsaken taking heed
making up the norm for the
moment.

Empty rants, mind slowing
products infect our once proud
carriers with poverty, and
disease.
Creative incentive tossed
upon the coals of cold furnaces,
define all eyes and see all
ears believe.
Then again if you haven't
given interpretive thought a
chance, belligerent decadence
will never vanish, but upon
this battlefield, your soul
will be brandished.

"Belligerent Decadence!"
Disparage me the words,
and I will whisper sincerity.
Hide from me my insecurities,
and I will bare you my purity.
Barrage me with tyranny,
I'll witness to depravity.
Show me strength,
and I will teach you posterity.
Abide by wisdom,
and I will give you integrity.

Developing within, a conscious
thought, a work in progress.
Reminded, yet my eyes can't see
what it is my soul yearns to hear.
The clothing a thin veil for the
shame I feel. The smile, an
imposter for the agony I carry.

Come across the gorge of clarity,
receive the outstretched hand
of my charity.
Grace me with your demons of
infirmity, and receive a closed
mouth, an open heart washed in
unity.
Give freely your inheritance,
and receive abundance that surpasses
all monetarily.
Stand upright, for we all stand
together. Stand with conviction,
none of us are worthy. Stand with
resolve for none knows the journey
of the other. Stand heart exposed
for we've all felt incomplete.

Hone your craft, guard it with
ferocity.
Be bequeathed a right to remain
in anonymity.
Focus your eyes on that which is
above, be made fertile for the minds
that crave guidance.
Humble yourself in the task you've
undertaken; but to simply mark
and remember where you've been,
and what you're becoming.

In the essence of torture, you'll
find self condemnation, recognize
this contorted disfigured lie,
****** it when it's forked tongue
comes to sit at the door step of your
ear, the portal to your thoughts.
Sweep it's carcass away as you would
cobwebs or dust bunnies, but remain
vigilant it will come again, masked
as some other idea you hold of
your own failures, your own
deformities.

Show me perfection,
and I will say God.
Talk to me of wisdom,
and I will silently nod.
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