Golden all around me,
rough grass bleeding through the dry ground,
this place seems so dead,
something I can appreciate,
something I can relate,

Looking at the sky,
azure with but a hint of yellow from the descending sun,
I see that this place is just another suffering beauty neglected by whatever God has descended upon our Earth.

From what I see we are not the only forsaken beings out here,
silver lynx run free,
flitting from end to end of this undead space,
terrorizing every little grey and white creature in their path,
their eyes darting back and forth,
I notice this from the subtle glint of what was once a soul.

But these creatures,
so driven by blind hate that their movements now echo ungodly bloodlust,
were once a servant of heaven,
progeny of a good God,
feeding only upon the sick and broken,
to give them quick passage from undying pain,
playing with each other like brothers,
like friends,
like lovers.

All is gone, however,
in the kingdom of golden death,
high peaks casting shadows from a once blissful sun,
and only me to watch as hell takes its hold.

Alacrity is what she exudes,
a passion for greatness,

and she has it,
it,
sublimity,

too many distractions,
too much derision,
or she would already be so paramount,
a DaVinci with the brush,
or a Lagerfeld with the needle,

her beauty is Merovingian,
so humble it vamps me,
me,
a lucky man,
electrified by her words,
and waiting for her touch,

Blowing on her hair I thought I was finally in heaven,
a place that had always eluded me,
a place that would never accept me,

She smelled of lush, playful lavender,
she felt soft, soft like the petals of a crocus on the first day of spring,
and as I play with her hair I feel so secure,
so loved,
so blessed through all the pain I had caused,

As I kiss her I look into those grey eyes,
they scream for me to look past the beauty and let her in,
"I wish I could" I tell her, but she just smiles and presses her head into my chest,

Smelling that scent, so lovely, I begin to fall asleep,
embraced by only good dreams and beautiful sounds,
and so I rest on,
and on,
and on,
until I feel light and snap awake,

There she is,
across from me,
naked with shadows caressing her body in such a way that it haunts me to realize what had happened,
as something that was never mine to take, I snatched it from the grasps of her maker,
I am to be impugned,

But for now we dress,
her portrait in black and mine near the same

My brother,
I am done with this game,
taking lives has turned me cold,
feeling gone,
with their cold eyes sewn to my soul,
I yearn for love,
but it eludes me,

If I stop,
will it find me?
or does it obviate me?

My brother,
I am done with this game,
rendering harmless,
or terminating with extreme prejudice,
just sayings to absolve and exculpate our actions,

My brother,
I can’t stand this,
I cry to her,
or to the ghost that I wish was her,
I ruined it,
and all in the name of God and country.

A hue of blue,
the skies dark as twilight consumes,
clouds contort and dance as the soft rolling thunder breaches the shush of rain,

A full moon--cobalt--as the sun has still not returned her love,
and still the trees cast her shadow like paint upon the canvas of crackled pavement,

Not cold, but refreshing is the rain upon my face,
my jacket shining as its leather moistens,
I look up to connect the moon’s solemn stare and espy another face;
hers,
the one who haunts me,
the one who stalks me,
or does she hunt me?

Distant and infectious can describe his being,
A force unleashed only when he see’s fit,

His façade a stoic stare, his voice long since heard,
His walk blending and his dress subtle,

A past, vibrant and commanding,
but his present stays cold,
subdued,
derelict,
and focused,

He chooses this, however, and lives happily by it,
As others dispute his new state,

"I will control my fate," he thinks, "and I will die for a reason;
Because what is man, but a vessel for his own desire?"

Is he wrong?
His isolation for the betterment of his being?
Never loving a woman, never speaking a word.
Is he so wrong?
For living the way he believes?
Living to fight for those who can’t?
Doing the unthinkable—the ungodly—because the rest of us can’t?

Cold,
Even with the sun on her face she’s cold,
A simple smile,
And a screening stare,
She seems so innocent at the same time,
But what we don’t see,
Or hear,
Is the truth behind that stare,
And the reason behind her chill,
She’s a devil,
They all are,
And those smiles only hide sharp tongues,
Claws left behind that soft skin,
Cold hearts filled with dead blood.

is she distressed
or is she just waiting for me to ask her?
She is a temptress and to that I stay weary,
blood, her lust and chaos is her beauty,
Shadows are her eyes in the sun that I cannot find,
but when she whispered in my ear that evening,
Her dawn,
a full moon,
it's time to work