There is no glory
in war.
Your heroes are forever
stained with the sound
of whizzing bullets
and spilled guts.
The soil shall no longer produce
fruit nor anything sweet.
The ground was watered with blood and death.

There is no more life in it.

There is no hesitation
to pick up bird feathers
from off the ground,
and heal an angel's
broken wings.
But there is a pause
before we reach a hand
to the broken claw
of a demon.
Tell me now,
Are they both not in need of saving?

Your insecurities
will rot you inside out.
And when your corpse
comes begging for forgiveness,
I shall be nailing
the last nail to the coffin.

She was serendipity in a bottle,
A fire in a jar without a lid.
She was the flower on the side of the road,
She was the garden in the dead of night.
She was moonlight bleaching dark clouds.
She was my favorite accident.
My serendipity.

If existence
is but the fools game
then I play
to become
existential.

It seems what differentiates
the mad and the musician
are the bow
in which
they strum with.

There is something
so ominous
about
her iridescence.