how do I write about the beauty of the world
when barefoot people pass before my window
in search of shelter

how do I share my pleasure of the birds' sweet song at dawn
when I see faces etched with panic
from deafening blasts of bombs

how to rejoice in love and friendship
when meeting people who could barely save their lives
after burying their loved ones

how can I write with passion of the kindness of the human heart
when I see thousands fleeing from the ruins of their homes
only to face police   walls   barbed wire

true words are hard to find
as said a poet of an older war

    when it is a lie to speak
    a lie to keep silent

not easy

yes, theology reduced to the anti-speculative reasoning
to choose he v. she, as if what pronoun mattered
to be hardly exact - national effigies exist
for ex-patriots - immigrants is a
***** word used by assimilating cultures,
the small intestines and the
the tape worms - she ******* Europe -
he labouring Europe - winged Hussars in Ukrainian mud -
while Versailles was built - Poles, the French of the East -
Moscow was trivialised twice - once by Mongol,
once by Pole - Nietzsche maddened called for
the Slavic-Frenchmen - i can already see the proximity
of French with Polonaise - the duchy of Warsaw -
Napoleon - Justepatron - just partition -
or thus the two bombardments equal -
thus two kept a holy alliance - that the Pole
be Frenchman when a croissant was questioned.

There goes my mind, snapping like an elastic lifeline
over a sea of daggers.

Waiting on words like waiting on fuses
to be no more, in hopes the explosion won't **** my so-called pride.

...Whatever is left of it.

This isn't the first time.
Knowing my luck, it won't be the last time my hope relied on the sympathies of a bomb.

And wouldn't you know that bombs are unsympathetic?

I'm wasting away here, as I have been for years.
Enduring bombardments with every day, more and more of myself blown away.

I just hope when my day comes, I'm not too damaged.

...If my day comes.

...Will it come?

My heart: already nearly gone.
My face: atrophied to deaden all emotion.

Am I worth anything anymore?

So much blasted away,
day after day,
I only recognize myself
by my scars,
the craters,
like torn earth.

Older-than-you people speak
But their words scream
Bombardments of condescension and pseudowisdom
"Things will happen and people will change"
They don't
And they don't
Ensnared by the lure of expectation
Their promise is just beyond your grasp after a billion grasps
One step away...for a trillion miles
But the potential of the now is undiscovered
Yesterday filled with regret and nostalgia
Tomorrow, well, it never comes
Nowness could be happiness
...Once the rest is gone
Isn't that what they should tell you?
And, but, can you?

Ladies and gentlemen,
    

      Boys and girls.
    

      The story I bring is one to tell,
    

      With Dragons and beast from far away lands,
    

      Witches and wombats and beast from the sands.
    

      Golums and ghost, great goblins gone gruesome!
    

      Mighty warlords that would survive if you nuked em!
    

      Werewolves so powerful that they consume the night!
    

      Don't worry, no vampires to ruin the plight!
    

      Bombardments of beast, broken skulls, bad burdens.
    

      A tantalizing tail if ever you've heard one!
    

      Zombies so evil, your skin crawls with every word.
    

      I'm not lying when I say that the fear is obsurd!
    

      But before I give you this recital,
    

      I ask and I beg, I need a **** title!!

It seems hard

But not concequential

To understand but still neglect the inner meaning

I've been meaning to look at you and understand a man

Mixed signals and arguments

Sacrasm and bombardments

Is all it gets

And I'm sure we have our differences

But I'm tired of it

Their is a void in myself

Where the desolate roam

And more seem to go

Underhanded it may seem but it seems to me

That this won't be fixed

I feel like it's the only way we communicate

My opinions spark the outrages

Now this feeling I'm gauging

Seems Amiss

There is rouble afoot

And the footstep I can't follow

Won't follow

Seems out of place

I guess even a parent is a person

And it's not the worst version

Of revaluations

Can't we relate the more in realize it's a debate

I'm trying

But im done trying

Let it repeat

It was the first time in a long time.

I had resigned myself to being locked in my fortress, alone, but safe.

Then you came.

You were a friend at first, and then you were more, and I opened my shackled doors.

Things were good. They were hard sometimes, but they were good.

You wandered my castle for a time, acquainting yourself with the parts of me you could reach. Sometimes you hurt me when you were hurting, but I didn't blame you. Because I loved you.

After more time had passed, I allowed you into my throne room.

Told you what had been lurking in my depths, the fears I felt and how the mortar of my structure was crumbling. I let you into my very core. I thought you could help.

You seemed to grow slowly hostile after I told you. My halls weren't filled with the usual warmth. Then I brought you to the throne room when my stone began crumbling and my throne began splintering, you agonized on how the splintered wood affected you, instead of giving me the support beams I needed to stay together. The wood of my legs split, and I was hurting, and I needed you most. I still bore your weight when you hurt, but my breaking, jagged wood was... Too much for you. Though before I began crumbling, you had told me you would endure anything, for you loved me.

But then you left.

My throne was broken, the stone of my castle shuddering without support; I was falling. I supported you in your loneliness, cradled you by my hearth when life was too much. But when I began crumbling, you decided my halls were not for you any longer. You would not help maintain that which sheltered you through brutal storms, that which always promised you a safe place to stay. You left.

And it hurt at first.

But then I was angry. My fire flared, knowing you told others that my crumbing bricks weren't really breaking, that I was an insult to those that truly needed help, even when you knew that the bombardments of my crisis shattered my walls, broke my throne. You would have people look at my cracked stone and jagged wood and think it a ploy for pity, even as I struggled to keep myself standing in the vicious storm that raged on.

I allow close friends to wander my halls after you left, and they help rebuild. Place mortar between the cracks of my walls, clean the cobwebs away from my corners.

I will not allow them to enter my throne room. Not yet. It will take time. I will rebuild my broken throne, my hands will bleed from the splinters, but I will prove you wrong.

I will be the King I was meant to be, I will show you how wrong you were about me.

I want you to know what treasure you left behind. What you took for granted.

My walls are fortified, my dear friends maintain it for me, and I hold them by the warmth of my hearth. I will support them as I did you, for they are grateful and help keep me standing.

Not like you.

This
Is
Ragnarok
The violent end of worlds you’re pagan ancestors feared
Watch as the strikes from Thor steal your comrades from you
No Valkyries to guide you
No Valhalla to welcome you
Ankle deep in mud and rats and **** you load your rifle begging the God you believe in that you won’t have to **** another man

How did you find yourself here?
An Englishman fighting Germans in France
Because a Serbian killed an Austrian in Bosnia
Or an Italian, 43 years after your country was unified
Or a Serbian, longing to free your countrymen from Austro-Hungarian oppression
Or maybe your a Russian, a Frenchman, a Turk

Hear the whistle blow
Now is your time to storm from the trenches into razor wire and the the hail of bullets
You will likely be slaughtered
Like the 40,000 French soldier during one week of the war
This is a tragedy
But this is also a holy experience
Like for T E Lawrence
Fighting for a cause he never thought he would believe in
Or Ernst Jünger
Surviving bullet after bullet
Endless bombardments
This is the heroes journey
Do not let your children’s children take away from your sacrifice
When they say you died for nothing
You believed in your nation and you believed in yourself

Do not let them take that away from you
You who returned home and were ignored if not simply forgotten
Who returned home missing limbs, missing homes, missing loved ones
You who were traumatized shell shocked
Who could not return home
Who returned to what was supposed to be home
But life went on without you
So you found those who fought with you
From your bonds you formed brotherhoods
Formed paramilitaries

But that all comes later
Right now you look death in the eyes and can’t help but laugh
Laugh to keep yourself from crying
Laugh because you have never felt more alive than in this moment and never will again
And in this moment you can’t help but cry out
AVANTI
ARDITI

Sol oh paniter of visions, curator of those under your light. Your passion is easily confused with fury and your momentary absences are known to be a time of danger and chaos
Basting the blessed and decimateing the ******,a infernal bliss.
General of the soil, those born from it follow your call under you they toil. maestro of the bloom and birds their harmonious notes in the air ,smelled and heard, from the plains to the berg but at the coast is when that celestial sovereignty ends.

Enters,a vision, Oh Luna; soft yellow dipped and dyed in the honeied hues of the horizon or a radiant alabaster, stark and chilled. cut from the heavens, apart of the city resting on that which scratches the sky but only visitors in the sights, you Nobly looking over. Teach me as you are, not as they say ,cold but ever observing seen every day.
You the Choreographer of the waves they dance by your direction, beautifully and brutishly birthing rainbows from their violate bombardments, for the birth of Brilliant ideas they have been the midwife.we lose and find ourselves in your teachings

Raising higher as you we age, as one should, on the path of the sage.