The sand that creeps around the rock The base of that column, lonesome The valley, splayed in beige and flaking Sands, Fallow and constant-- The cold marble, weathered and soft And lost is the rigor of its shape.
In old age it has grown pale, White, cracked, sinking into the grains And I watched with solemn gaze between the tightened gasps of breath Thinking in good time to watch The sinking of this fated tower Upon the rustic sea of rock
And I watched.
Pompey, the last vigil for our Trojan souls With no way to mount this feeling And guide it to the pastures of the east Or comprehend the rudiment Of the west-- What phoenix keeps the desert in its crop And feeds these grains to hungry beaks?
I could not satiate these thoughts, The burning of my heart that dripped From the embers of that bird, aloft
Pompey, for your sake-- Do not give your name This place, the knaves, the cruel Failure of council Will be our end of days As it knew yours.
Please forgive us, We have no place to run No Coptic King nor Ptolemaic ring No sigh but sin within this vein
We are legion Humming the prayers of heroes sung When Quaestors rap upon the snare For tides of valor left in blood
We are the mist of that Coagulated stuff, Bound upon the rock And left to Love.
For each judges according to their truth; And, accordingly, every truth affords a judgement.
The title attributed to Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington. A catchcry of freedom of speech advocates the world over.
‘My Lord Duke, in Harriette Wilson's Memoirs, which I am about to publish, are various anecdotes of Your Grace which it would be most desirable to withhold, at least such is my opinion. I have stopped the Press for the moment, but as the publication will take place next week, little delay can necessarily take place.’ - John Joseph Stockdale
Come, wherefore dredge up Tolkien's silly tale, With that girabbit hard in tow, as hence The Scriptures count off Ehud and how thence He judged ya, Isr'el, killing in betrayl That fat, fat king ole Eglon to avail, Me seeing lost visions of the shire for sense, And Mister Bliss' adventures rising whence I canna say why, to trip 'long as bail?! From movies of far distant climes in tour, With savage ninjas, or the sixties too And student riots, loss, *** as it were Their capping triumph of that mixt-up view, Have I a minute to drift off, all's poor-- Yet why see fables when I half hear You?
you See Them everyday but you don't say a woRd just A hello good morNinG aftERnoon, evening some have hIdden knives in pockets some could be kind some mAy be drinking the devil's drink or sneaking looks maybe they don't look barely a GlancE maybe they can't see you or heaR your greeting or farewelL maybe they are artists, painters a predictor Or an animal a sad sOul, a happy spirit, a serious soldier a helper a student, a gunman who will **** milliOns bUT that doesn't matter you won't see him or her again
How we treat ourselves Is the tenor upon which we represent ourselves The hell that raised us Doesn't have to be the hell that sustains us We are blessed to have our own minds To choose the course we want for our own lives Our course was meant to be a horizontal one And it can only be undone by the One who called us to be his daughters and sons We are not judges We weren't put here to condemn I believe it behooves all of us to leave that for Him And while we may disagree whole heartedly by someone else's choices What right do the rest of us have to be disrespectful and poisonous We may have taken the traditional route and even made our lives better But to make light of someone else's LIFE Does little to make any of us better It makes us lesser Because in the end we are all the same And we are all just one bad decision From sharing the same blame