The only makeup I wear
Is my sun kissed skin
And a light gloss of sin.
The stain of ink
And a blood driven
Flush of pink.

We live in mist and cloud
searching for warmth and mirth.

The mist fades, the clouds falter.

We each stand on a peak.
I see her glimmering smile
it banishes doubt and worry.

Who knew a smile could
be
so mollifying
so
filling, yet distant?

I look below
to the treacherous
valley.
I shiver at thought
but
omens cannot purchase
my hope.
I march forward.

Across the chasm
of maybe so
and
perhaps not
I fight the tide of
blistering denial, of
mourning and loss
but as I near,
her smile loses its bearings
it slackens and crumbles
smeared in shadow
it dies slowly
so does
my
odyssey...

Without her sunlit smile
to light the way
through treacherous valley
and darkening day
I wait, in wonder
of my eager
stupidity,
and waste away
in ravenous dismay
for her smile does fade
in the nearing
when will I learn that I
can never get
close for comfort.

Our world is dying
Its aches are the wars
its groans are the screams

Blame
like a thorned crown
needles my mind
sowing doubt
and guilt.

Yet, I accept my purpose...
I heed the signs
I slay the serpents
I caw the call
salvation is worth this.

I gather the worthy:
the wheat from
chaff;
those humans, now demons,
in abandonment,
laugh...
but the worthy, chins high
heads aglow
walk the path;
I tread
through endless snow.

Yet when the passage
has been met
"Was I wrong?
Am I false prophet?
Crazed all along?"

For the gate is not barred
it spits us out.
It cleanses its treasure
from our ilk
like holy drought.

Left to scour the wasteland
gnawing us with frost
We wander its wasting reaches
We're not frightened
we're lost.

Strangers meet under banner of peace,
Each with bubbling thoughts to release,
Words, flooding jaw, to open mouth,
Salivating tongue, whipping words to route.

Gingerly they stand, like spices they are,
Ready to aid any recipe,
To reach for dreams afar.
They don't even know who they are,
But they make shapes of one another,
Regardless of fit, unlike kindred brother.

Bright words fade to dark whispers,
As the strangers make new friends.

In the end, what is left are daggers,
Made from the shadows of contrast.

One stranger bleeds, invisible wounds that bleet,
Calling out for transcendence, beyond defeat.
The other ponders for silence, amongst the wheat,
But in a field of sorrows, one cannot help but eat.
The strangers stand apart, on a stage bitter sweet,
For underfoot is the rage, a sword incomplete.

Rage desires vengeance, out of arcane countenance,
Fallen from mercy, they each are kane to the sore,
Humans thrive on the jolt of fear sans repentance,
For the breath of *****, and wine, are of death.

Acquainted strangers shed blood instead of nectar,
So as not to drink of the life, from which they all are victor.

Yet they stand mortal enemies, under the stars of fate and boredom.
Where is that banner of peace, waving to set the stage... again?
For we are not sworn enemies, we are mortals of a fallen kingdom,
Meant to die for beliefs that will eat us alive from the inside.

Gone is the freedom
Collapsed is the passion that was load bearing
Our hopes lie in groves, past knowledge.
Waiting upon dying breath if Despair is to die.
And what remains for us who remain?
Are we the useless tea dregs waiting for flames?
Has everything good been stripped away aginst our choosing?
If so, do we allow ourselves to drown?
Righteousness is as a static charge - building until someone is shocked.
Are you jolted awake?
Will you be my monster, assembled from the legs and arms of myriad saints?
Question upon question... does it derail you, or embolden you?
They will find you without regard for your privacy.
Even in the wake of your denial, they will test you.
Are you who you think you are?
If you are not, then I will define you.
You are weary. Confused. Searching.
Much as any beast in the wild, you hunger incessantly and no one and nothing has the fill you seek.
Then, are you not the living dead?
A body that still ticks and talks, but, dear me, no soul, have you?
We are on a quest to reclaim such forgotten things.
In the depths of darkness, a darkness nestled in the heart of mystery and not really a darkness at all, desire whispers.
All you must do is whisper back.

No lover alike.
A chill, but a respite
from summer's dogged
immolating
bite.

I recant the blessings of summer.
Autumn hath a kiss
that I fondly
remember
or can't
forget.

Wishes of plenty
promises veiled in wintry charm.
Mother nature tames the land:
Spring and Summer the lofty arms;
Autumn and Winter the legs,
giving longevity to the work
of creation.

I beg of thee,
gentle season.
Kiss me softly.
Reap my lips of the memory,
but fulfill me in the reaping:
let me rest in the heavens;
a last kiss for the dreaming.

They dragged me
screaming
down the highway
to their sacred hell.
My torture was a whisper
to their grinning
over fires
that fester.

Nothing in nature
can rewind:
naught but the hand
of God.

Upon retaking my first
steps
anew
I mounted the struggle.
Peace my birthright.
Truth my shield.
Bold conviction
became shaking steps
ascending
the stairway
to heaven.

With my folly transparent,
I witnessed
the cackles and claws
of the demons
to be mine own whip.

I set down the weapon.
I let the ashes of despair consume it.
I do not look back,
for the stairway is its own guide.

Bittersweet is the rasp of envy,
and gratitude: the beckoning of peace.