I am a man against violence.
See my own blood spilled, rather
Than that of any other.

But I have a wall full of knives.
I've collected them my whole life.
Still do. Tools of war.

Tools of craftmanship.
I know the story behind every
Blade, Bowie or handmade

Russian letter opener.
I am not a man of religion.
I see God in every thing.

Worship all; therefore none.
But I collect rosaries.
The one on my desk, I bought in

Vatican City. The one above my
Bed was brought to me from
Transilvania.

I know the story behind each
One. I may seem confused at
Times; contradictory.

Construction working poet.
Heavy metal loving meditator.
iPad wielding viking.

I collect interacting opposites.
Wear snakeskin boots with my
Funeral suit.

Shave only my head at times.
Warrior monk. Knives and rosaries.
Stabbing at

Gods. Praying
For my
Enemies.

And they come
Like ants to sugar
Seeking the sweet
Granules dropped
From the cake
Prepared for a special occasion
Until someone
Blew out the candles
And their wish
Turned to fears
Dripping like wax
On the frosting

~

Influences corner me
on a narrow strip of land
falling off into a sea of uncertainty
Raging waters reflecting fear
desperately deep

Toxic tides reach for me,
attempting to drag me under
Spilling breaths on uncharted beaches
I fall to my knees lost…searching
for merely the tiniest thread of hope

When a rope, strung of woven longings
appears, tied tightly around your heart,
hand knotted of promises made
and gasping, I pull myself once again
to the safe haven of your love