Wasn't that the way
It
Always
Was?

All that blood
Atop
The mantelpiece and
The screaming queens
Shaped like
Mutant hyenas.

A tall tale
For a
Big lady.
She had five
Hands with
A smile
That could turn
Medusa
To *******
Mist.

I at least recognized
The danger
In her ways;
Recklessness has a smell.
It's a mixture
Of gun powder, cayenne pepper, and
Salt water.
Throw a little whiskey
In there
And wait
For the fireworks.

Sometimes
Eternity seems like
A second and
Sometimes
The weight of the
Day to Day
Is too much to even
Go to asleep knowing it'll
Be there
Tomorrow.

Aren't
We
All
Just
Weight?

The stories,
They come
And
They go.
Who
Wants more
Stories?
What else are
We
Learning that
We don't
Already
Know?

War's been done.
Torture's too much.
Deceit's cowardly and self-serving.
Entertainment gossip...Jesus, really?
Religion stays the same
For fear of finding out their fiction.
If they dig
Perhaps they'll find a truth
They'll have to bury
All over again.

Love, well, Love changes; it stays the same;
Shape shifts based
On the chemistry of the two.

We are nothing but
The ongoing experiments
Of
Love
And
Hate.

Love with one
Will be different
If
With another.

Hate,
Being baser
And simpler
Than
Love, is easier,
Common.
Hate is less
Complex.
The reveal is more
Gloating.

One does not hide
Their hate
For
Too long.

If they did,
Their love of hate
Would turn
Inward:
Like a worm
Like a termite
Like a parasite
Like a sickness

One does not get rid of it
Unless
One
Shares it.

After the last bomb has dropped
And
The last throat slit,
The dust will settle and the sun -
Glory orange yellow -
Will set on the land like a blanket.
Silence will be as clear and magical
As the harpists of Parnassus.

But when
The sun
Rises, our self-inflicted
Carnage
Will reveal and
Our horrors, our doing,
Will lay in ruin with
Only our hands
To
Blame.