Metamorphosis from the start of the day,
January’s promises,
had so much to say.

The beginning of the cycle,
to the end of the new.
The remnant of the spring morning dew
moves summer breeze
into leaves of a green hue,
and the Heartache of July.

The sun rose and set with You,
until it rained
and the skies once again turned a somber shade of familiar blue.

Metamorphosis of the self,
turning like a snake.
Shedding the skin of heartache and
remaking myself, again.

Metamorphosis I bloom and break,
I wither and wake
through the hardships of the year,
taking a new found shape
of me-

The moon wanes and waxes,
while the heart mends and sax’s
continue to play sweet melodies from the month of May,
and we are reminded of the day
that breaks and dawns.

The body yawns
from the weight of the year.

Yet still, the metamorphosis blooms and births
a new beacon of light,
preparing herself for the thirty-first night
and the turn of the calendar, again.

they say the lone wolf dies
yet the pack survives.
it is the strength of a whole and it solely that can mend for sturdy fangs and foreign bites
of ill-fated violence.
regrettable.

and although they say the pack survives, what is of the lone wolf?
is he fated to be swallowed whole by the jaws of his most trustworthy companions?
to be crucified as a slave and mistreated as a martyr?

they say the lone wolf dies
and his carcass serves as a reminder of what can be forgotten so easily
through the years he can be no more
and the pack will be, still

they say the pack survives upon the feeble shoulders of the lone wolf
feeding its ego and stomach
praying for another to idolize like the most precious of waste.
after one comes another
and time does not make saints out of victims
nor does the pack which thrives and feasts and tears limb to limb deities and sinners alike.

cruelty is no stranger to the pack
it is a principle to build community upon
and everyone relishes being the predator
until they too are made into the prey.

nobody ever remembers the lone wolf
nor do they remember whom he was before crucifixion
what they do remember is to never be pushed into such a place

the struggle never ends
and when another falls into their godless clutches
you'll thrive and feast and rejoice
and find yourself thinking
at least it’s not me

As golden leaves fall gently down
From treetops in the sky
They scatter ‘cross the golden ground
When Autumn breezes fly

These tiny leaves don’t realize
The power that they hold
To nurture growth that will arise
As they decay and mould

Relax and let the ebbs and flows
Of seasons cycle round
For that’s the way abundance grows
When leaves fall to the ground

Well, well! These numbers,
don’t they tell quite an interesting story:
Aligning ever so perceptually, perpetually
perfectly with our half-full moon.

We are absorbing only
what we truly are
and honoring release
of all that is not.

The first full moon
of this Master Builder Year
of the Tigress Enchantress
capturing our hearts
and filling us up
to flood our programmed minds
with proof that we are free.

The drowning turns to flames
as quickly as flames
turn to vapor and disappear
into our One True Being’s
Eternal Grace. Smile,

even Laugh Out Loud
at this joyful purge
and holy release.
We are all one heart in love.

As a kid, I know I saw air shows
although none specific stand out,
I know there were skies that
buzzed and thundered
the sound of determined direction

at each one I know there would be pilots
who threw small planes in tight loops

everyday, pulling back on the stick,
taunting gravity to notice and push,
barrelling to a zenith
of impossible weightlessness, momentary,
before the nauseous crush returned,
over and over in front of an audience

and I know I watched and thought
“That’ll be me one day.”

Captain Obvious non-profundititties:

The same individuals, families, groups, institutions, organizations, governments,
and foundations that fund and profit from the research, development, and manufacture of weapons/arms/firepower, and that spark wars with propaganda, sloganeering, and social moral tribalism in general, profit greatly from the use of bombs that damage cities.

That same Apex power structure gains massive profits from the rebuilding of the damaged cities and from the modification of socioeconomic platforms and systems, and profited gravely from the genesis of those cities in the first place.

Apex power uses a middleman saviour syndrome power structure within Crisis Management Economics to perpetually keep the peasants divided against each other in groups that achieve groupthink psychic phenomena within an overall state of inner hyper-conflict, guilt, shame, uncertainty, and neurotic fear. The Apex power structure has three main nexus points that are the Unholy Trinity:

The Vatican: Spiritual (variants of ******, an ancient concept, require spirituality/Occult and quasi-science to merge with the pre-existing centralization and monopolization of authority and corporation spawned via fascism)

City of London/The Crown Corporation: World Bank driven global economy

Washington D.C.: Military and hyper-surveillance/Big Tech

The Sun Tzu saviors play good cop/bad cop in slow-boil, two faces on the same Judas coin lying and flipping at the bottom of the ***. Both sides have the concentration camps. Both sides push dope but gaslight kids for using drugs. Both sides engage in non-consensual **** on many different levels. Both sides are directly connected to 72+% of all negative pollution, and gaslight the poorest to supposedly help fix the problem with giving money to the entities that **** Earth. Both sides sell arms/weapons to all sides, and both sides obviously don't want the peasants to know how the world functions and operates.

Things come and go.
Like people I suppose.
We play games to pass the time.
Roll dice on gambles.
Take chances with our lives.
Only there is no collecting when coming full circle.
That's called a mistake.
So we jump to other boards.
Hoping we aren't sorry.
Realizing there is no perfection.
Trying to balance every risk.
Like we ever had a clue.
Some try so hard.
While others scoff at effort.
What is the right combo that will lead to the end game.
It's like an ever changing rubix cube.
So many patterns to memorize.
But doing the same thing.
Over.
And over.
Is that living.
Or insanity.
Whatever it's called.
One thing is certain.
We shall never get bored.
Playing with our demons.