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Eli Nash Aug 2014
High upon the hallowed hill,
games of war played out for greed and gain.
Bombs away, both foreign and domestic;
this is the end of all.

The hands of hate pulling the strings so tight,
watch as the puppet sings, dancing around the caucus;
this is the end.

Thread so bare you cannot see
that they're controlling you and me.
Open your eyes; behold,
this is the end.

Sever the rope, it's dragging us all to hell.
Eli Nash May 2014
Just when we thought
this place couldn't get
a detriment of inadequacy ensues,
and the following hour is spent
beneath a paled,
frosted-blue canvas,
atop a frigid construct
of tether, and steel.


As quickly as the dystrophy settled
within minds scarcely caressed
by hallowed slumber,
a frail,
intensifying light
erupts from the faded line
that separates reality
from ethereality.

As this newly self-empowered
hero of the day
ceases the boundless tundra overhead
with a golden fluorescence
of warmth,
and rapture,
ever-trifling is the southern counterpart.


From out of the myriad sheets
of thundercloud gray,
laced with veins of majestic purple,
and glazed with the ensemble
of over-ripened peaches
that blanket the northern skies
of this dawning day
spawns a duet of our mothers'


This spectrum couplet
that champions the veil,
extruding their way out
from the darkest,
most steadfast regions
of our Terran celestial.

Betwixt these valours,
who stand
as beacons of glory
in these most
disparaging of times,
dance a flock
of little
black and white birds,
unveiling to our starving eyes,
ever so eager to feast-
their autumn courtship that,
in its own wonderment,
was that of a


For many a fort night,
we have gazed upon naught
but soot-black sand,
sun-bleached dirt,
and endless foliage,
who's lives have been bled dry
long before even our first wave achieved
boots on ground.

And even as the sun rose higher,
relieving the quietus night
to nothing
but a faded memoir,
so, too,
these masters of vibrancy
shall fade.


Even in their last moments of glory,
they triumphed as heralds,
mutely evoking a message
that said:

*'Even at our final breaths,
we shall stand as strong as we did
when She first employed us
into Her heavens.
And until we are completely vanquished,
never; never shall we falter.'
Eli Nash May 2014
None but the marked
shall rise in the dark.
the earth, shall they raze.
They took up the oath
to ever-revoke
mortality for immortal praise.

Lifeless, and hopeless;
a thirst so atrocious;
an eternal,
unquenchable lust.
In death, shall they grow;
to blood, they're betrothed.
Their hunger derails their disgust.

Sink teeth into skin;
to the flesh that's within;
bleed dry
the carcassed wellspring.
This world, once so grand,
'twas undone by their hand;
dereliction, their only decree.

The shade of the night
brings naught but delight
for those
who burn in the ray.
From out of the grave
spawn the crimson depraved,
feasting 'pon the walkers of day.

*When sunlight strikes west, 'til dawn, do we pray
against these abhorrent butchers called "They."
Eli Nash May 2014
Tears of creation
fall from the overcast blanketing
of the billowy, white fields overhead,
blended with a requiem
that only the absence of dawn could manifest,
and kissed upon
by the ever-fluorescent canvases
of smoke, and flame
that carelessly intrude
upon the horizon.


how fastidious is the misting
that blesses this premature day,
invoking a spontaneity
within the mundane clockworkings
that symbolically define
the average,
the everyday
and the norm.

Glorious is this sight to behold.

Not only by our soulpanes,
but through the remainder;
our entire spectrum of sensory awareness
that we are so gifted to have received,
rarely do their values go little more
than depreciated.

The refreshment
that quenches our starving skin,
and slowly enfilms us
with the caressings of unrequited purity.

The dampening of the air
that perpetually enthralls
even the most tolerant
resisters to aroma.

The crispness;
and without perversions of the modern day;
enrapturous are the resonant entrails of the strata
that ever so gently envelop,
and awaken our slumbering buds.

And finally,
but without conviction,
the resound of symphonic harmony,
abound with the alluring enchantment
in seamless refrain,
could only be achieved
by such a reverent miracle of nature.

These are the moments in which I revel.

And blessed be Her,
who benevolently grants us
with such an immaculance
of cornerless beauty.

Graceful, and sacred is the oasis in the sky.
Eli Nash May 2014
Every day we see them,
passing by them without care.
It comes as quite a shock to some,
but trust me, they are there.

They come in shapes and sizes
just the same as you and me;
their colors range from black to white
and all the shades between.

They're just like us in all respects;
they've hopes and dreams and fears.
They've been with us through spans of time,
from young to old in years.

Some of you may notice them
but most go by unseen,
and lest they let their secret out
a person's all they'll be.

But should they step beyond the veil
they've hung to hide their truth,
it's rarely welcomed with embrace,
and often with dispute.

It's a shame to see how some
could treat a human being
merely for the way they are,
or even how they seem.

Patronized for their beliefs,
or preferences declared.
Victims born of senseless crimes
are left to reap despair.

Stop the violence. Stop the hate
before there's nothing left.
Your ignorance gives wake to see
them all to pointless death.

Intolerance gives wake to war,
of which we're on the brink.
Love them all for who they are,
and not for what you think.
Eli Nash May 2014
I don't know what to do;
I'm strung out through, and through.
I try my best, they still detest;
I don't know what to do.

I don't know where to go;
I've lost myself below.
And here I'll sit; I'm ready to quit;
I don't know where to go.

I don't know who I am,
I wish they'd understand.
This flesh, my own. This mind, unknown;
I don't know who I am.

I don't know where I'll be;
this road lay not for me.
I tread a line so faded, and fine;
I don't know where I'll be.

I don't know when's the end,
it may be 'round the bend.
Wherever it be, it's waiting for me;
I don't know when's the end.

I don't know why I try.
I may as well lay down, and die.
'cause in the end we all shall wend;
I don't know why I try.

I don't know anymore;
I live a life abhorred.
I need release from this disease;
I don't know anymore.

All these things I show,
yet you dismiss them so.
I gave you signs, you fed me lines.
I don't know; I don't know.
Eli Nash May 2014
Once upon a time,
there was a sun that shined.
A light so long ago,
that sunk so far below.

It touched the skies and seas,
and glittered through the trees.
A gleaming to the wind
that gilded all within.

As the dawn would shine,
it cast reprieve on time,
and amaranthic ray
would warm the welcomed day.

'til darkness tread afoot,
and bathed the world in soot.
A blackened, marred despair
had snuffed out all 'twas there.

So fickle was the flame
that danced amidst the rain,
yet, time and time again,
its embers spread too thin.

And all that once was bright
now suffered endless night.
Their cries, a stifled wail,
and naught could pierce the veil.

This is all that's left;
a shell, akin to death.
An absent, lifeless scene
that once beget a dream.
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