It crumbles.
It dreams.
It waits.

A little bit of its old face
has become visible
now that the newer parts have
crumbled away.

Those new parts were put on it like make-up
on hardened and aging *****.

Some nice ladies said it would be better that way.
They said it would be more dignified for her
and for her children
and for everyone, really,  
if the hot obscenity and blood
of her quick, easy childhood
were obscured with wrought iron
and pastel colored paint
and flowers
and fountains.

But then the nice ladies all died
and we decided not to do that anymore.
We saw her with her glammer and sharp edges
mostly worn away,
and we saw her with our own eyes
and we saw that she is
finally what she really is
and she is genuine
and she is truly beautiful
and we love her like this.

She has some
fresh, young drunkards
with fresh, young haircuts
and lots of fresh, young
optimism
who stand out and starkly contrast
the deeply lined, rotten old *******
who hold out the torches,
for all the good it does.

It’ll hold.
They say it’ll hold
inside the cool, dim cafe
as they drink
without
reason
or need.

And the pain-wracked,
wretched old things
are also there,
and they
drink more
and  they drink
much better.
They’ve had a lot more practice.

And they wait.
And they dream.
And they begin to crumble.

Don’t look too closely.
Don’t see.
Fools see.
Fools look for such things.
Fools celebrate these things as if they are immune
to the cold, black river
to the dry, coughing crypt,
to Lethe.

Don't look too closely
at the places you intend to sleep.

It really isn’t worth it.
Not if you like sleeping, anyway.

oh, caverns of the moon so cold and dark
beside the trembling waves that drift and spool,
where urchins cling and breezes blow so cool,
such stony blackness vaulting in an arc.
upon the thorny land you make your mark,
beside the sea, that undulating fool
who clowns around and gathers in a pool
upon your doorstep, ocean green and stark.
and something draws me close, a story told,
fantastical, where hidden paths begin,
a dragon's secret hoard or horses white,
who foam like sea-spray in the frail moonlight,
(surrendering night's depths that brood within)
or some lost world bright crowned in ornate gold.

Sometimes my heart aches, thinking about those that I got close to.
But they went away, without me reaching out to them about God.
I fail to minster to them , and now I feel ashamed that I fail them.
When I think about all those people whom made a difference in my life.
But I fail to make a difference in their lives while they were here.
So many people that needed Jesus but I fail back then to minster.
So now here I am missing being able to have been their true friend.
For now I try to Love with Agape Love, but I fail back then to.
I just am feeling so blue because I miss being able to minster to them.
The way that I should had, so tonight I pray one more time for others.

He was a simple man of simple words,
or high-school girl with broken heart who thought
they had a message, or a call, or not.
Arriving with a sense of the absurd,
a bittersweet purview on life and love,
together with a gift for nuanced phrase,
appreciating how the language plays
upon the mind and tongue, they rise above
the well-worn similes, the tired cliches
for days, perhaps for weeks.  Then comes the time
when human ugliness shows up to flay
the budding poet.  The evidence of crimes
committed: smoky circles, nameless gray
reminders of whose gifts they took away.

I've seen the colour of poetry
It's black and white and blue
I've seen the love for poetry
It's in you and you and you

I just want each of you to know the truth.
There really is real Hope in this dead world.
It's not the person sitting next to you either.
But it's the one that spoke you into existence.
The demons do not want you to know the truth.
But Christ can speak anything into existence.
The struggles that you are going through here.
With that broken heart of yours , he wants to heal it.
So just pray to him to reveal himself to you today.
He wants to save you, more then you shall ever know.

Why, Judas why?
Your kissed became the treachery symbol
Sold your faith but hanged yourself and die
After you returned that thirty pieces of silver

Why, Judas why?
Might you have a big crisis for money?
A sick parent or child, perhaps
To cure their pain, but ‘twas cut in the story

You returned the dazzling silver
Might they’ve never fulfilled their promise
To never hurt your master
That’s why you weep unto your best

Why, Judas why
If the tree and the rope could talk, they’ll never lie
Might you’ve kissed the image of your master in the wind
Before you bid the world goodbye


10-26-2015
Mysterious Aries