all evolutions,
revolutions
to absolution
by liquid?

can we drive always away away away
our sins that are burnt into our
skin?

Without the spillage of a
witness of wetness?

is my own sweat insufficient?

product of sunrise and rays
testing the body’s hydration,
my words beckon to reckon
to emerge,
purge my seditious  sins,
my owned dissolution,
with false, half hearted acts
of contrivance contrition?

Why are
my daily confessions,
halved by inability
to give myself up a
full~on
fullsomeness,
but words available,
censored by a stub of
unwillingness
to embarrass
what little honor
left in my shrinking
possession

I am guilty of ******.

this act of admission
is legally insufficient
to sustain even
sky painted clouds
to cease moving,
there, it’s sad said,
and i breathe no easier
only comfortable that my
shame is openly accounted
for by you, my jurors…

The sins of nightingales are always forgiven
as pardon for their music,
that sweet song which brightens the world

Peacocks should never be absolved
their cry is harsh and their beauty skin deep
they believe they do no sin at all

today is the day i decide to love me,
instead of you.
how, i’m not quite sure. although
i’m sure that i want to.

I'm in a room without recovery area:
a room of intermission, a room
of collapse. Where are
the convenient little windows
to release a wicked bird of thought?
The quiet there is monk-like,
rogue, and slightly unpleasant, guilty
of moments spent with shadow.

I want to build a clock
that ticks once a year
—more dark than shark,

my confessional capacity
—time-stretched,
like the heavy intoxicated *******
of the witching hour. And I'll
make soup from the leftover prayers
of the day before, all in hopes
the rooms of me, then so clear,
will one day be faraway suns
in the temple of heaven.

Be assured, the sun always rises
through out morality.
Re, nach einmal, crows caw,
and race down the valley
laughing, beating the call from the roosters.
Re joyed be,
re joyed being, noise of life in morning,
caws of crows,
calling crows.
and tweets and peeps of tiny things,
wake us all to be once more
users of light made in life,
doing duties,
crowing and cawing and
stretching and yawning and such.

oh, what a day!
Mitwoche, aber mas, mucho mas,
este dia, este dia
Vvoden's tag aqui, we rejoice
and be glad as on any given Wednesday,

as though it were like any other fine day
to begin in,
in relation to light letting
letters let the sense
of life seem true, sure things, can't loose,
choose, this day,
miércoles,
realizes its possibility… being the basis,
the one event that must occur
as in the night,
the earth must turn,
doing the actual cycle of living
in quanta mediated reality, ones in order,
this day
digital squawking alarms, flashing
red-lights and green, signifying
oomph enough, trickle
charged to aid my being connected…

to the task at hand,
this is the given
Wednesday,
I choose to pay a whole day worth
of rapt attention… drawing on
power stored in darkness,
dripping into day, clepsydra wise.
Wiping sleepy from woken eyes, to see the old new.

works burned to cinders
poplar trees leaking resin
bulging eyes lashed
punishment as a lesson
but his chain links snapped
fresh from slavery
hefty debts to the procession
the gally of people alike
that lent him a hand to his ascension
a journey his own
luck and his mind
fortified his constitution
they carried him to his fate
that was to be
absolution

I left home young, I scarcely remember
being a lad and learning the way
of the old wisdom hidden in swordplay
When the war came I enrolled, a beggar
Then, I unleashed my consuming anger
And waded through blood, through every melée
I rose to command, and all would obey
and through my skill they came to call me ”sir.”

Then, when I returned, I had no more fears
Back as a lion though I left a lamb
I strode with vigor, to scale the last hill
Alas! On the crest I burst into tears
The same war that made me the man I am
had vanquished my home, such a bitter pill !

we search for saving in every little crevice
of our lonesome existence
we yearn for release
and for whoever may be generous enough to grant it

it is comforting to believe in a savior
because we crave the idea of rescue
a moment of peace in this endless cycle of suffering
as if redemption could befall on us from the sky
as if there was a miracle crafted from the heavens above
just for our sake
selflessly gifted and waiting to be found

to live one's life in the hope of saving
is the most poetic tragedy ever written by man

I have come to understand the charm of religion
and those who seek to pursue its principles
for if I were certain that someone out there cared enough to save me
I'd get on my knees too

Your love is of a sacred kind, that leaves me basking in the afterglow of your longing embrace.
There I find myself alight with emotions so radiant that their golden rays burst forth from my ribcage as if holy arrows have pierced my very soul.
And it is in your divine light that I wish to remain ever more.