Set forth
and use that weapon
so meticulously handcrafted
with care and attention
throughout your life.

That weapon you've always known
but couldn't quite bring to use
on the tip of your tongue
and always on your mind.

That weapon set aside
by belief the sword is mightier,
I pray thee:
raise it high
so all may see
in the sky.

Death is the hand
That touches us all
In so many ways.
It touches our heart,
It touches our soul,
Caresses us to sleep
Gently tapping the body,
'tis then it takes its toll.

Its cold grasp holds us
As it touches those around us.
We lament but to no use
For the hand that holds
shall touch us too
In the end.

Be not afraid,
For tis just the hand of mercy.
Fear not, cry little
For quick and easy is its touch
But its grasp,
Squeezes so
That we cry and cry
But it never lets go,
For we refuse to let it.

Tis not mercy's grasp at fault
But we who struggle.
Her grasp only tightens
As we struggle to get free.
But if we cease to lament
And embrace this hand called death
For what it truly is,
We find she follows her namesake
And loosens her grip,
Yet never lets go.
For if she did
We'd not be with Mercy;
What a horrible fate that would be.

I'll get me a yappy dog
A small one
Scrappy.

He'll screech and holler
Like a rat lost in the dark
Oh how it'd be
To bear such a mark.

I'll get me a mousey dog
A youngish one
Mousey.

She'll annoy me in the mornin'
Evenin'
Night
Back to the height of the sun.
She'll tap and scrap till...

I can't take it anymore...

Maybe I'll get a biggun one
It'll protect me
Like a gun

She'll keep watch
While I be sleepin'
Till they put out some food
And continue on creepin...

Well maybe a medium one
Crazy as can be
Runnin' out in the mornin' sun

He'll play catch and give chase
Run with the pack
Cageless and free
Until I bring it inside...

Well, now it's gone to ***...
On the carpet...
Doggon it
Maybe I'll throw out that dish
Send 'em back to the homestead
Perhaps get a fish instead...

Understanding comes mid-sentence
Understanding comes
Division of meaning
and characters
On pulp

No words express
No phrases actualize
What they intend to compress.
What use is it?
If understanding comes

Like markings on sand
Tides change
Characters in minuscule rock divided
In
Fading
Out
Gone
Misunderstood
Misdirected

What use does it serve?
To feel?
To teach?

Only goes so far.
Must realize for self
Must interpret
Must click

Understanding co

I don't know how it came to be
To have so many holes in me
But here I cry
By and by
Bleeding from the heart
Where so many rivers start.

I cannot explain
This inexorable pain
As I cross this river Styx
Wondering how I'd come to this
But here I am
****** and Dammed
Crying cold tears
Wondering what fate nears.

I remain here with the ferryman
Wondering how I was ever a merry man.
Crying my tears of blood
Just as any man would.
Touched so high in grace
****** for all my race.
So burning is this torment
Yet cold, silent, and dormant.

But I am no betrayer.         No, Not yet
No sin increases my fare

Charon does not bring me to that gate
But rather back home to finish my fate.
For I am not dead
And it is not living that I dread.
I have only been shown this torture
So I may avoid it in future.
I have no place in that weeping forest
Just as Dante, I was but a tourist.
But so my sorrow deep and cold
Should not permeate into my old
But rather it shall remain
a past pain.

O I shall remember
these such foul members
But it is that which makes me
Not breaks me.
These are that which become me
For I shall not succumb to these.
And so these folds shall make me
stronger
Till I feels these holes,
These rivers in my heart,
These tears of blood,
This passing of the laurel,
These faults within my ore,
No longer.

There once was a man who only could scream
To sway his opinion was but a mere dream.
To hear what he had to convey
Not one could say
For his screaming was too loud
And his tone was too proud.