arrows find rest in pillows of flesh
and pain casts a symphony of loss
– the song sung sweetly,
his word whispered gently in the bark of a tree.
great things have been taken: i’ve given for thee
three gifts of water, pious sacrament
kisses between two damp palms.

devotion breaks soil and holds resolve
and how it loves, and loves, and loves
– pebbles mirror a blanket of stars,
the impenetrable mass of fiery constants
you chew, swallow, receive with haste.
feet sink heavy in the holy mire
breath lies hiding in the roots of a willow.

Wonder and amazement
of the greatest feeling.
Real love and mercy
supported by a great feeling.
Holiness and peace
intertwined  in God's love.
Pain disappears when kneeling.

I drink coffee like
I take
holy communion-
with eyes closed
in thankful
prayer.

Route the dark in light
Ducking down
Masonic freedom fighter
Tend to rend the holy crown

Chalice overflowing
When did this cup pass to me
Empty vessel wrestled from a twine
Entwined fate
Engorged ball of hate
Flattening the gluttons
I've seen it all
Its never right to Intermediate
Limb of light
Invigorated, left unchecked
Balances precariously
Between the seance of death
And the scorn of the righteous
Overbearing and meaningless
And still it beckons

To walk a thin line
Is to take everything in stride
The same stride
We strove for

Through every long night
Waist deep in the sin
Crying out internally
Giving everything to win
Starving on the battlegrounds
Carving up and laying down
Doubting every action
Stained by affliction
Destined to persist

Slaying anything

Monster...
Demonic...

Only light escapes

How do we know of god?
By word, visible presence or internally-constructed belief?
Can we read a book and know
That these are a god's words
Or sense that an ambitious man
-great or malevolent-
Created them for temporary gain,
To impress others, or for power.
Is god a grandiose representation
Of either gender, and why should that be?

The myriad flowers scattered around,
wind-blown, gale tossed
are but our planet's codes
Tree and toad
are equal products of earth and time.

Why ask for another kind of being
in a world replete
with every grim and wonderful sort,
in another realm surrounded by
other winged and chubby divinities?
Why believe that old books,
written in time and place,
are products of gods?

Do gods really write so badly?

It's prime time we get into business,
nothing like a schizophrenic crisis,
You see; DEATH IS BUT A BRUISE TO THE RIGHTEOUS
AND THOSE WHO LIVE A HOLY LIFE AIN'T AFRAID TO DIE.

See the man in my shoes; he is feeding the sheep slaughtered wolves.
See the man in my shoes; he got lost a thousand times in between a black cloth,
See the man in my shoes; he has become the king of the Goths,
And these walls that talk carry ancient ghosts.

You see; DEATH IS BUT A BRUISE TO THE RIGHTEOUS
AND THOSE WHO LIVE A HOLY LIFE AIN'T AFRAID TO DIE.
As clocks tick and times flies, we are in it for a big surprise,
As clocks tick and time flies say "WE ARE IN IT FOR A BIG SUNRISE"
And these walls that talk carry ancient ghosts that keep screaming "king of the Goths."