We will falter, they will ****
upon the altar, blood will spill
The blade will fall, and heads will roll
One and all, will sell their souls
Drop your knives, close your eyes,
kiss your lives of peace, goodbye.
Fires falling, buglers calling,
I wish we had more time.

Left behind
the me, I never could find,
blurred negatives,
burned.
The smoke conceals
all the False Positives.
Stop Praying
if you refuse to believe,
that mirror is a liar.
Instant Karma came to get you
but you were Too Far Gone.

The ice times have past
now is perfection,
the garden spot,
dream times.

Gather up your gear,
spear walking time is here.
The young yarrow is still sweet,
shoots and sunshine
journey back in, time.

Too much of good things time,
never should of sold it
time.
Now
the wishes made
will all come true, at this time.

Time you must be grateful,
the silver lining is gilded,
and their is pleasure
by the plateful.

I keep a cruel collection
of wicked torture devices.
Gathered together
in a faux manila folder,
labelled with a crudely crafted symbol
of birth to death
oppression.
I occasionaly use them
to flay my gray matter.
And as I stare
at the visual razorblades
and white, hot, pokers,
I can't help but think:
is anyone else using my image
for similar, sinister purposes?
And if so, I wonder,
should I be appalled, or flattered?

You cannot understand.
You see
what is,
and only know
what was,
in fragments
gleaned
from pilfered tombs.
Like shredded tomes,
whole,
but unintelligible.
What is it
you think you know?
Who do you see
when you review
the logs and docs?
Who
do you think you hear
muttering through
your dust caked speakers?
An angel
touched vessel?
Cracked
but not yet discarded?
Useful
despite its flaws.
Can you feel
the strain?
Can you taste
the stain?
Is it really precious,
or is it as false
as the piles of transcripts
dog-eared
and finger-smudged?
The prophesies
that have all fallen through.
Like the blue eyes
I was Promised.
The water,
a cliche.
A voice,
spoken to a child
in a bright
and steam-filled bathroom.
What is it you want
to discover
to uncover
to recover
from the pit
of past moments
and what makes you think
that any of it belongs to you?

where there was shortage
there is surplus
whers there was famine
now there's feast.
Where there was doubt
now grows a burgeoning belief.

Regret is a pack of Coyotes;
A howling dirge of cacophonic noise.
But, relief, and repentance
they are a dampening field.
A wall at which every single mistake
and mispoken lie, is forced to yield.

I am led to wandering
and diverted like a river flow.
But no matter the barrier
or engineered feat
I am steady going
ever onward
towards the valley of belief.
And If you believe it
you will receive it
faith is only as strong
as the angle of descent.
I am steady going downward
and I know that at the bottom
I will find paradise.

You are so dynamic, darling
I fear your flames
might be raging too fiercly.
You are a fireworks display.
The light and noise
can astound, and dazzle
but you spread yourself too thin.
I would rather you focused
on the blindingly beautiful bursts
you show me every so often,
than burn your fuse at both ends
and bury your gorgeous sky flowers
under barrages of bottle rockets.
I understand that your displays
are not crafted for me alone.
But, I know the spark
 buried inside you
and it is that fire than ignites my desire,
but the packs of jumping jacks
you toss at my feet
only serve to distract me
from your far more brilliant offerings.
I know I cant afford the ticket,
but either way, I will watch the show
from the other side of the tracks.
And launch one of my mortars
like a sympathetic shout
whenever I can do so,
without sacrificing my own sound.