Your sincerity
becomes a
menial job.

I am not reading poetry.
I am cupping the words
in my hands, pouring them
over my head, rubbing them
through my skin, into my bones
breathing in
breathing out

becoming a poem

self worth is self hope

I was not the original son
A first page
A number one
I was always the period
At the end
The quotation marks
That were left undone

I was the pause
That separates
That feeling you get
That you came too late
The one who stood
outside the door
When inside were passed
Out the fates

So I've come
To walk around
Those now living in the ground
Where in the dark there is no light
None to much to talk about
Just my breath the only sound

I have come here
To settle down
Upon this space
My hallowed ground
My favorite stone
upon which I sit
Beside the ties they left unbound

With the Dead
I hold my court
There are no groans
They don't exhort
The chase is done
The horns have sounded
Hark the chords of a la mort

Until dawn
A captive audience
I hold down
My midnight's deviance
Until first light
Threatens with
Complete radiance

The boxes
which keep my blood clean
are stacked as tall as I,
a monument
in the spare room
to past battles.
Too many words,
too many thoughts
******* in the
hand-to-hand combat
with mortality.

No more.

What life I have
will not be defined
by an indeterminate end.

I live to write poems;
I will no longer die in them.

Lock up your men, and your sons
the war has begun
the truth will not be overwritten

the dark ages have returned
the freedom has been lost
big mother ate big brother
now the Father has come

the pitch forks are ready
the torch is lit
the light overpowers
the truth is out there

freedom
free will
free thought
choices
in a world gone to the lost  
irresponsible altruism
the sense and census skewed

The love will return
the Law will have mercy
your daughters will be spared
your mother will step back in her place beside the father
and with all
We shall learn,
the true meaning of grace
the three virtues
of light
that too many mistake
as the guide to freedom
and liberation
Only to be handed
to the devil
on a plate.

Do not judge others because they sin differently than you.
Be beauteous of heart
be fair of grace
be wise of life
be fruitful
be kind
be industrious
idle hands make for folly
and the downfallen
will cast the steps
to righteousness
one fallen angel at a time.

When you free yourself
Finally
From your casket
And find all your silver
has turned to tin

Find your dreams
They all have turned to dust
And your carcass is blowing in the wind

Will you know
There were days you could have arisen
There were days
you could have set yourself free

There were days
you could have redeemed your soul
There were days to have forgiven
your sins
11 Apr 2017
(M. N. R.)

When you open your eyes
And find out you've been blind
You thought you have them all fooled
Now you say the world is unkind

What are you searching for
Time doesn't stand still
You are out seeking a thrill
And time comes in for the ****


When time stands still
And you get out of bed
Find your dreams
As they all lay dead
All that you had was
Was all in your head
You struggle as you breathe
(M. N. R.)