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Jon Shierling Feb 2019
I'm tired, so tired
They look into my eyes and some
turn away
some hold their gaze.

What do they see I wonder,
what would they say
if walls between crumbled?

I'm weary of the game,
weary of throwing up my soul
in dark alleys so that the yellow men
won't know that I'm considering their offer.

Cicero was right though, **** him
all is indeed vanity and it is my lot
my cursed blessing to be able to see
through the tides of ******* nearly
hitting the high water mark.

It's an old game we play,
I the Jackal, and they the fat takers
those peddlers of ease, the green frog skin men
the flimsy platters of slot machine tokens,
the pale promise of pleasures unending
if only I sign on the dotted line,
in triplicate and also a thumbprint
and also we'll need your social plus two pieces of mail.

Whenever I get a bit too far gone they're around,
pushing their world with far better skill than
the very many dealers I've bought release from,
and yet the ultimate deal remains the same:
give us your identity, your fire, and in return
you need not suffer any longer.

It's a decent offer I guess, but they push a bit
just a bit too hard to play it off,
they always show their hand too soon and I know
that for some reason they want me more than
I want the release they have on display.

Sorry boys, I'm not the guy you're looking for.
I do have my moments, I'm a deeply broken
scarred and horribly imperfect person
not above taking bribes or stealing to survive,
lustful, greedy and wroth.

For all that you misjudge me,
thinking perhaps hatred of those who've
cut me so deeply could be useful,
failing that, hatred of myself would
perhaps be more beneficial to your plan.

Go ahead then, cut me away, turn my love to ash,
pull my once bright courage down into
the slime that brought down my grandfathers.
Do what you will and I will indeed despair,
indeed I despair even now, loveless and alone
exiled or freed I know not which.

In the end it doesn't matter,
for you are just as berift as I my enemy,
and we'll meet face to face one day
upon the shore of a distant sea
or perhaps in the darkest heart of
the great river which helped birth us.

Do your worst,
but understand
that which you do unto me
you do unto yourself
poor beloved shadow of mine.
Jon Shierling Sep 2018
Behold, my cup runneth over,
and I rejoice.

I was alone in the desert,
and now I have been brought home.

Those beautiful things I had thought
lost forever have been returned.

My shame hath been shown to be illusion, and my failures forgiven.

Faith I had not in the workings of
the One beyond my ken.

And yet faith I have been given,
and love, and hope, and a new life.

I rejoice in you Oh Lord, I give thanks
to you for the small things, the little proofs that you have not abandoned us.

I give thanks that You in your wisdom
have brought me to this place; that You have not despaired of me, though I have despaired much of myself and of You the Eternal.

Behold the garden I have always sought, and yet hath ever been my home; that which always liveth within me, yet I journeyed to find.
Jon Shierling Aug 2018
As if I only have that much time to type
a lifetime's worth of beauty.
Or it may have only been
that seven minutes of memory.

Seven minutes to scream out
the glory of a first kiss, and
the shuddering surrender of an ******,
sweat and fire and ecstasy.

They told me, when I was young,
that I had to find my love
and let it **** me.

Seven minutes of music
the world rolled back and Samsara
a mere smile in the lamplight,
just another of the gods' company.

I've found many loves,
and their knives tearing holes
and their beauty a weapon
and their innocence a torch
and their hatred a drug
and their pain abhorrent
and their abandonment a sin
and their touch heretical
and their eyes of jewels
and their words made of bullets
and their hope a sad Gypsy
theirs tears a lonely guitar
striking chords in me and
God forgive how good they feel.

I am undone, overthrown, emaciated,
torn out, weary, overcome, eviscerated,
redeemed, hallowed, sanctified,
all of this and more.

I love you.

I have yet to die.
Jon Shierling Apr 2018
Shutter filtered moonlight bright and clear as a flashing sword
    my surest guide over the landscape of your body.

I cannot say whether it is my hand that pivots brush and ink,
    or they that carry me along across your back.

This then is what the sages meant by formlessness:
    I am the Brush and Ink and Moonlight.
Jon Shierling Mar 2018
Your voice on the wind
A sigh in the night

Trailing fingers across my neck
The kiss of flowers

Folding into each other
The embrace of rainfall

I turn to your presence
The sound of water
Jon Shierling Feb 2018
I think that enough time has passed
  enough rain fallen
  enough memories swallowed
  enough pottery shattered and remade.

I think it is time to write again.
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