Can't be sad that I have no Easter poem, the bible says it all
that whence He died, He died for my Soul
He took beatings, insults and all sorts of pains
including crowning with thorns to free my chains
He carried a cross in shame whipped by scorn and hate
just so you and me could have tickets to Heaven,He changed our fate
He stood up each time the weight got Him succumbing to gravity
because He knew we ain't no Devil's property
He even descended into the hades,it was no fairy tale
and that way we all, to go to paradise won't have to go through Hell
He beat the Devil in many ways including the forty days
when the cunning lad tried to tempt Him with Earthly praise and raise
At the Gardens in Gethsemane whilst the disciples slept He bled
and didn't end there,on the third day He rose fresh from the dead
ask me not how I gained from Jesus' suffering death and resurrection
for it's beyond measure, it's as miraculous as the transfiguration
but my lesson besides the gain is that I can overcome pain
that no matter how steep the hills may seem there's always a plain
that even when all hope is gone there's a third day to rise
that the devil is out there in the desert, I should always shine my eyes
He taught me that those who crown us with thorns don't define who we are
We're kings and Authors of our stories, different from what they claim by far
Jesus taught us to forgive the Judas and the Peters
We shouldn't forsake them just because they looked on while the world beat us
that while on my cross,some are going to give me inspirational talk
sincerely while others are just going to satirise and mock
that there are still good people in this world who can help me with my load
Just like Simon of Cyrene lifted the cross that burdened my lord
I just have to let them in, a crowd of adversaries can't lack a friend
He reminded me that in this world I am but a visitor
you should always remember this even after Easter
so many lessons there are but mostly, that death is not the end

Fame seemed just out of reach --
Across the bay, mere miles away
Her senses privy to the charm,
Head brimming with alarm
For she knew she’d never
Make it through
(But why stop dreaming?)

lies wet on my lips
eyes set to the sky
ears keen to the sound
of your reluctant goodbye

the gods hold my silence,
as aphrodite sews my lips shut,
all the while your fading silhouette
becomes just a bit too much

for years i'll long for your touch,
but i'll forever wear this hue
of a red so strong
it brings back visions of you

I found you sleeping with price tags
             like tea bags
little men inside the barcodes

Dragging you to the forest
I plant you by your shoes
Digging your heel into the Earth
  to feel its heartbeat

I told you this story once before
       The little men are trying to build a cage around you
But I won't let you be
no Gulliver's Travels
I send them scurrying like ants
to Noah's Ark
They set sail for Wall Street

Only one sprout comes from
          your veins
And waterfalls have hope for you yet

We met in the summertime,
which I recall because the AC in his apartment
was mediocre at best,
and fans were splayed throughout the
white-walled space as we attempted to
keep cool.

His roommate introduced me,
as he sat with no shirt on,
perched on a wooden chair,
staring intently at a deck of cards.

I think the first thing I noticed was the dazzle of
his smile,
but I can't pretend my eyes didn't veer
to the perfect V that was on display
just above his basketball shorts.

His skin glowed a perfect shade of honey and
cinnamon
in the dim lighting
that emitted from the sole lamp in the corner
of the living room.

I became submerged in a blur of
card games and laughter
and an eerily similar taste in music,
so much so that I forgot it was not he
who I had come to see.

His eyes were empty
but filled me with life
His hands were cold
but warmed my heart
I knew his lips spoken words of pain but his kiss numbed me
He had been broken before
But he completed me now
I've seen the girls staring at him
Who could blame them?
He was beautiful
He taught me that some people can only give what they can't receive

apollo's dead-set light shines on beauty.
the gushing of blood boils high in the guilty crowns of gored kings.

TO COURT BEAUTY IS TO BATHE IN IMMACULATE, ETHEREAL ECSTASY!

YOU ARE NOT WORTHY.

ichor spills in the cursed name of the light-born.
blessed with the scrutiny to scorch the iciest of hearts.

they sit on their faux thrones, just above Olympus,
with the wide eyes of wander and lust;
the bodies of gold and trust.

they sit high on their thrones,
with their own
black-light sun.

they sit on their broken thrones
stained with the blood of seraphim.

beings of smokeless fire burn away the truth

and we love them anyway.

I need castles made of sand
instead of men made of snow,
eventually we'll fall into the sea
and bath in sun induced slumber
among our kingdom in the sand.