We thought we had tamed the ancient dragons.
But they were simply sleeping and waiting,
Watching as we, with untested method,
Created a fierce climate most suited
To their needs: heated, hostile, disordered.
We built world-wide high monuments
To hubris, our folly of invention.

And for all this, out of the acrid mist,
Rising through the heat of long decay and
Glowing furnace, we morning to bird song,
To breeze on dewed leaf and green filtered light -
Still with God's warmth - that we may join the song
And lift our face to the creator's sun.

the trees branch as they grow,
the wind cuts through the forest,
the sea breaks into itself eternally—
this is cleaving,
this is creation.  

cells split,
shadows stretch long and thin
over trimmed grass
as the light returns
to the other side.

and now the moon floats
in ghostly meditation,
hinting at what’s hidden
and how close
it all seems sometimes.

I was never far from myself,
except when I was,
and writing this doesn't
make any sense—
why should it?
who’s keeping score?

who’s the grand cosmic judge
of all artistic expression everywhere
across all
dimensions and time?

nobody.
that's who.
nobody cares.
that’s the point.

it doesn't matter what
I say on this page,
even if it's terrible,
even if it’s rotten,
even if no one reads it.
it felt right
to let it flow freely in the moment,
to spill it all out.
that’s what matters—
the spilling of it.

there’s a sweetness in that.
in the clean slice of the razor
and the blood it draws—
quiet,
quick
and true.

drip,
drip,
drip,

all over the page.

Oh, the sound of Your mercy
a calf’s skull cracking like wet fruit
between the lion’s blessed jaws.
Such elegance in hunger.
Such holy punctuation in the scream.

We praise Your benevolence
in the slow bleed of the gazelle,
its legs still dancing
long after the gut’s been opened.
A waltz of grace. A lesson in letting go.

Behold Your love, you the all loving,
as it comes ashore in Tsunamis,
dragging children from their beds
into the arms of the tide.
Baptism by bone and salt.

Oh Creator, architect of fang and flood,
Who crowned the strong and taught them to drink blood.
No wiser hand could craft such law divine
Where nature loves the slaughter, by design.

Your favor is a wildfire,
Your kiss, a plague.
Your will, a butcher’s hymn
we dare not question
lest You love us harder.

To you Lord,
forever we bow and say,
Amen.

In the beginning, the universe was simple
hydrogen adrift, uniform, featureless.
No spark. No shape. No meaning.

Then came gravity. the invisible hand that pulled atoms toward each other.
Not out of need, but out of attraction.
It didn’t shout. It didn’t rush.
It simply drew things closer.

And in that closeness? Friction. Heat. Fire.
Stars were born.
Inside those stars: gold, carbon, diamond, uranium, the rare, the radiant, the necessary.
Then came life. Then came us.

Without gravity, the universe would have remained cold. Silent. Pointless.
With it, it sang.

So too with love.

We, too, begin as scattered selves.
Drifting. Guarded. Independent.
Then someone enters our orbit
not violently, but undeniably…
and we feel pulled.

And when love is real - not forceful, but fundamental - it becomes gravity.

It creates heat where there was indifference.
It forges meaning where there was monotony.
It makes the rarest things - trust, sacrifice, ecstasy, forgiveness… possible.

Without love, we remain inert.
With it, we combust into something bigger than ourselves.

Not every force is loud.
Some reshape the cosmos… quietly, persistently - one touch at a time.

If between our palms
We held
Twelve elements
                    Of nature          
Surely
Hand in hand
      We could create
A universe of our own

Before there was EVERYTHING
–there was NOTHING

A quiet void of endless,
POTENTIAL

And in that nothing,
–there was CHAOS

If God isn't your EVERYTHING
–then you are left with NOTHING

And to exist in such a state,
is to dwell in CHAOS!

Zeus and Hades Dispute the Soul of Man

Upon Olympus’ storm-crowned throne,
Zeus spoke in thunder, wrathful tone:
“Let me shape them, bold and bright,
With minds like flame and hearts of light.
They’ll build with stone, they’ll climb the skies,
Their dreams as vast as eagles rise.”

From shadowed halls and molten floor,
Rose Hades, Lord of Death and War:
“You give them fire, but I give fate.
Each heartbeat ticks toward my gate.
You build them high, but I make whole.
What good is man without his soul?”

“They are not yours!” the thunder cried,
“They breathe beneath the open sky!
Let them rejoice in song and feast,
Let love and war be theirs at least!”

Hades laughed, in low despair:
“And yet, they whisper me in prayer.
You give them hope, I give them truth
The mirror time holds up to youth.
Their gods may lie, their hearts may roam,
But every man comes crawling home.”

“They shall defy you!” Zeus proclaimed,
“With temples, towers, songs unnamed!
They’ll name me Father, King of Kings,
Their lives uplifted on my wings!”

“But when the wine runs dry,” said he,
“They’ll find their way from gods to me.
Let them rise but not forget
Their roots are born in ash and debt.
For what you raise, I shall receive
The last to hold them as they leave.”

And so the world was born of strife
Between the spark and end of life.
One gave will, the other doom,
And Man walked bravely toward his tomb.

With dreams from Zeus and dusk from shades,
A creature of both light… and grave.

Late October,
and they have assuredly returned.

A canopy of clusters.

At second glance
the leaves on the trees are wings.

Whisper into the dreamscape
for they sense your voice.

Revive them with your breath.

Hold out your hand
like you hold out hope.

The warm sound of flutterings.

Circadian clocks in their antennae,
a sense of where they've been
and where they are going.

The gift from their Creator
moves them in the right direction.

It begins—
not with a shape, nor a line,
but a spark, a whisper, caught in design,
something unseen, not yet thought,
a seed before rising to light.

Fingers trace the unseen design,
pressing the silence, pulling the thread,
molding what stirs, what longs to be said.

The wheel turns, the rhythm wakes,
clay that trembles, bends, and breaks—
too much force, it shatters fast,
too little, and it cannot last.
Again, again, the hands return,
not to command, but to discern.

Then—

the self dissolves.
No hand, no clay,
only motion, only sway,
a pull, a pulse,
something rising from the space
between knowing and embrace.

No thought remains,
only touch, only trance,
only creation’s quiet dance,
shaping itself through the one who bends,
to where the art itself intends.

And when the wheel slows to its rest,
when breath is deep and hands are pressed,
who shapes, who surrenders—
the hands, or what they manifest?