There is nothing that to this world I would add...
but with the power to destroy I would rise up
to rid this earth of housing tracts that voraciously
eat the earth...chewing up all open space.
Squatting there, rotting, no pride of ownership.
And those low income housing high rises, where
curl the humans that have no hope, but great hate
born of their environment and lack of education.
This world rumbles with government wrongs,
users and cheaters **** and trample the souls
of the poor...line their pockets with misplaced funds.
These things I would destroy, allowing the land
to a green place, where gardens would flourish -
and people would share equally, and at last
smile and be at peace.

The wicked, the naked, the holy abstract dying...
sinister whispers from their papery lips rasp,
painting lies on the forehead of Deity himself.
Black ribbons bleed, are used to tie the earth
onto its galactic post.
Sins, crimes, acts of inhuman terrorism
against children.
Each winking star the soul of a baby
best not brought here into this pestilence of spirit;
this disease of immorality.
Murderous hands cover eyes so evil they
cannot be looked upon;  the living become the dead.

Rather than the clean, quick nuclear fire,
we will dribble and ooze our noxious cruelty,
our diseased DNA and the pus of our vacant minds
until we make of earth, an abattoir.

What black-cowled apparition this,
creeps on raven’s feet through my house?
What forsaken, decaying reflection?
It slumps around and waits for me to pass.
then it lunges and plunges the daggers
of its hatred into my heart.
Lying, stunned, my soul withering,
as does a peach in August sun...I die.
She who pulls herself up, like-visaged,
but not me.
This replicator of old poets dances
in my skin, ******* in darkness
as if it were afternoon tea.
The sky grows fierce with clouds
as curdled as milk from a witch’s ****.
Bird song dirges cry, melancholy.
All the doors in my room slam shut -
throwing their bolts into locks,
more meant for keeping me inside
than keeping the world out.
The bitter blade of insanity
has cleanly severed my living cord,
and I must writhe in hell’s fires,
knowing I am unloved, unwanted and shunned.
Waiting until the hateful, hurtful deed is done.

Winding shadowy etches
come whispering at
my window.
Night whispers.
Forgotten whispers...
whimpers of the wind.
Blow blue, wailing as you go.
Crawl inside an
empty paper bag...
play me tunes of the moors.
Give me lonesome tonight;
hollow dirges tonight.
Reality is the whisper
of grasses on a back fence;
the crying of an empty swing.
Some shred caught in a car door
struggles to twist free
with a slap and tug and creak.
Whisper me lies and benedictions.
I cannot hear the truth.