Everywhere I look
and see,
there is judgement.
On every face,
smile,
grin,
pair of eyes,
there is judgement.
In every push,
every word
and written note
or media post,
there is judgement.

And I ask,
"why?"
to the light within my heart,
but a different voice answers--
one of hatred,
and evil.
It told me of a tree
that offered good and evil,
and that evil has since cursed the hearts of many
and lives inside us all.

But I knew, that the shadows had not cursed me yet,
for I held the virtues in my heart,
like a shield against the blasphemy.

So I looked to the walls.
Cement and brick stacked up and up,
was my joy.
For on the walls were signs of color,
and love
and acceptance.
On the walls hung pictures,
of tremendous feats made
by the most intelligent of men--
inspiration that waited for me every day.
And they were solid,
static,
always offering me a glimpse into what could have been,
if good had slayed the evil,
and opened up our souls.

But every day I notice cracks
in the brick,
and melting of cement,
I knew Satan held the upper hand.
He was in every room,
every thought,
and every judgement.

But why should I care?
The walls shall not collapse
while I still roam these halls,

there is still hope for me.

If Satan lurks by judgment's guise,
slowly tearing down the light,
I will be in happiness--

For what have I to worry?
I say, "Let the curse spread!"
Let it tear the world apart,

In 500 years or so,
judgment will be no more

and I will have had the walls to myself.

There is time for me,
but for the future none will be left,

and the walls will crumble.

The dystopian regime
will reign soon,
but when my bones have already turned to dust.

I can hold on and pray,
for the future ones to weep on the ground--
facing eternal judgment,
in the fire that burns below.

The walls will crumble,

But by then the skies will have welcomed me,

and with the angles by my side

I will enjoy the last laugh.

There is a face in the mist,
One that belongs not to me,
And it stares into my eyes,
Knowingly.
Tell me what you know!
For what have you come?
Why do you reach across the mists,
And stare?

The reason for existence, I don’t know,
For life I am already tired.
From so much disdain to find,
In a gaze, the judging.

I move forward, between encounters
And life's disconnections,
Waiting for someone,
Who, in solidarity, understands me,
Without judgment, but with joy,
For the simple feeling of another.

The feeling is uncertain, fickle,
Reason, many times, certain
Until the opposite becomes clear,
Thus, we know little,
Except what is likely.
And we move forward, waiting,
To discover the improbable,
In the sighs and existences of others.

Someone told me,
To water my own grass,
But what they neglected to mention,
Is that my grass is crass.

This is due to my unfortunate past,
Every minute spent kissing ***,
To be walked on and trampled by,
Boots and heels of brass.

So no, I will most certainly not,
Water my own grass,
The thoughts and evaluations,
Of the judgment I pass,
Is necessary and voluntary,
In a sea of largemouth bass.

"horrible bird"
she called it
telling of how
she had watched
a crow pluck
and pry at
its weakened prey
while perched upon
the bird bath
outside her window
at the garden's edge
despite this sternest
of lessons
nature at its most fickle
she still sits
in her comfy chair
looking out
over a bank of flowers
buoyant in bloom
enjoying the sight
of wagtail
bunting and finch
alighting on the stone plinth
pompous and preening
refreshing themselves
admiring the plumage
of their reflection
before returning once more
to wing and wind