you're a ****-no-good-fool-liar as my mother would've called you,
          and by god i was the fool who knew.
i almost loved you--once, when we were younger kids still,
          when the girl of your dreams turned you down,
          and i asked you for a date.
even now i'm not really surprised by what you did.

you were the first boy i ever kissed (not the last) and we had no idea how--
         i hesitated, and you didn't; but once there we stayed on flickers of
         endorphins and energy that i know now weren't really there.

and looking back i wonder if i was keeping you from the edge--
        you hid your drinking problem for me (not that i ever--ever--
                             (--would've shamed you for it--)
        and told me later that you never drank while we were together,
        that you were clean, that you were engrossed in me
                     and your **** musical theatre.
you didn't lie about that, but when i found you with another girl,
         when i saw the way your eyes dropped to your feet and swelled with
         tears you didn't deserve to cry?
i left you, and i didn't regret it.

i never have.
i wonder, dear, if you're drowning in your lies the same way you used to drown in the bottle?
i hope not--but you chose to make it your problem only.

we move on--hopefully you're not sunken in your basement
        with only the flow of your hidden whiskey to keep you company.

crusaders
christianized, zealous warmongers with ****** stains on stainless steel blades
hauling with them the great flapping insignias of royalty, emblems of their special heritage
disregarding the fact blood flows warm and fast all the same, nobody spared
familiar ties shattered over petty disputes of land and territory in the name of a great purpose
a great purpose disguising glory-seekers and painters whose favorite color is red
led by a massive snowy warhorse with crimson hooves and jet black beady eyes
old, worn, and of a raggedy golden mane forever worshipped
it is my fate to follow
(that’s what they tell me)

crusaders
biblical storytales springing to life as they gallivant across the country singing do-goods
while their actions connotate some great demon lurking about behind their holy words
valiant warriors in service to a mighty omnipresent deity watching woefully from above
as they unnecessarily **** innocents that they knew it was wrong to ******
blind belief is as alive as bloodlust to them, screaming their lungs out for the almighty
they are the salvation and the scourge, leeches of the land and lordly leaders for long
fearful eyes of aliens stare to the sky and grovel in a piteous attempt for mercy
he cannot condone this
(and that’s what they don’t)

crusaders
knights of cardboard armor and ironclad skulls falling by the thousands
yet they relentlessly hunt the enemy like predatory raptors of the past, voracious
not yet declawed or defanged as they are before the plastic wisdom of man claiming to be
the god of glory, gold, and gore; suddenly he is a savage ravager and avenger of the undead
men swear themselves to a cloaked idol in order to become accusers of the guilty
when the openness of perception may be all that is truly necessary
even kings are defenseless against the all-consuming force of religious blessing
how is it just?

crusaders
god’s greatest success
crusaders
god’s greatest regret
(am i both or neither?)