The years are running cold
Like sand through your finger holes
Like cents in your old jacket getting lost in the pocket folds
Stilling hemmed to the edge of a jaded crown
To get praise from a faded crowd
Trading being right for the right to be loud
Tell me where are all your glories now
Just a clown with an open mouth
In a house where the lights are out

D Vanlandingham

Death only has power  when entwined with flesh;
as it is the pathological.. and its need to be propped up
--which is all there is   to embrace the illusion.
Yet, no flesh can stand  before the Face
and so  is burned-off  in an instant.

Now, with nowhere left to hide--  
the hidden..  becomes, fully known.
                   (the illusion,  and it's deception)

And so  separated,  (but not really)
all things  known
will eventually be brought  back home--


A boat, now empty of its captives~
the last to step off;  

                shining  as  bright

                         as the Morning Star