we start the day again
as though sleep is just a memory,
the wheel keeps spinning

Son of Ham, slave of slaves, reigned.
Humiliated, but unrepentant, defiant, and unfearing,
They asked for one of theirs to be king.
Saul, anointed and prophesied, crowned king.
David, feigned madness, fought for the Philistines.

A mixture of ash and dust
floats down from ceiling.
From rusted chandelier to
stone.

He sits at the top
of a long hallway,
the tapestries guiding visitors to the
throne.

Greying sideburns, hand too weak
to do much as lift his key ring—
the keys that most define as a
sword.

He makes no eye contact
while you kneel on his dust,
more focused on how his wine is
poured.

Look upon your king
Despise if you must
He has overstayed his welcome

He lifts his head
Bones shuddering
Voice that makes any man feel his thirst

“Odiet dum metuant”

The Jews searched long and hard
for signs of their Messiah's coming
but when he arrived as prophesied
they traded their King for a thief.

The Evangelicals love their bibles
Proud they see, for the Light has come
And not as Jews for they're true Israel,
Desirous as Eve, they hasten the Apocalypse.

The Evangelicals searched long and hard
for signs of their Messiah's return,
the lawless one arrived as prophesied
and they made him King.

If the Chosen suffered the Holocaust,
how can anyone escape chastisement too?

Devils of saintly virtues?
Or a saint of sin?
Who is evil or good?
Who bestowed such titles?

A boisterous ***** baron?
Ordained by dour dukes?
Spilled blood to pave a road?
Does your honor sunder and erode?

Was it virtuous to shove innocents?
To put them under lock and key?
Saintly, to make them fear?
Courage, to turn a blind eye?

Is it a sin to feed the starving enemy?
A devil to help a dying foreigner breath?
Bereave their suffering?
To feel guilt when malnourished prisoners beg for feed?

What makes you so noble?
Foible flags, and an adorable mantra?
A little training makes it right?
Maybe you know it does not,

Paving roads with bones and blood?
Did you join to fire a gun?
To retrieve bullets from inside of someone?
To stand for your flag and defend?

Does a medal wash away those sins?
All forgiven because you won?
Bombs dropped and humanity undone,
Another chapter in the book of justification,

Titled, ‘War is Hell’
The history of death, peace unsung,
Souls seized, leaders appeased,
From rot, money and disease,

Waiting for battle under south side trees,
What makes you better then them?
Education? A uniform?
Signing your life away to conform?

What if your not as noble as you seem?
Noble intentions in a hellish scene,
In total might, what if neither is right?
A hired killer of a higher power,

Atrocities in the name of swell intentions,
Killing for Lord Benton, or General Jenkins,
Does what you read make you mad?
Or sad?

Will war ravished ruffians take pity?
Is it wrong if they slaughter and **** your life?
Everyone in it?
Will your god founded, blessed flag save you?

Maybe they are right,
After all,
You did it to them first,
Suddenly it’s wrong? No chalking up to war is hell?

Maybe you’re lost,
Maybe notches on your gun makes you proud of past,
Maybe feel lied to, in a cloud,
Or maybe you’re a demonic psychopath,

The history of Saints is usually tattered with sin,
Passing volatile judgements upon men,
Devils usually do what they are asked,
Whether or not it should come to pass,

After all,
It was conflict that caused Edens fall,
Do you care if you’re right or wrong?
You, mercenary of the flag?

When is wrong, right?
Right, wrong?
Call you hero and sing your song,
Will history see it like you?


After all,
Stonewall made innocent civilians fall,
Regarded hero,
Instructed by a drunk,

Who are you?
What makes you so great?
Why are you right?
Why are you wrong?

In the end, I don’t care if you think,
Or ask yourself stated questions,
That’s not my biz,
Simply put...
It is what it is..

Naked arms extended to heaven
resembling monks of infinite patience.
The scrawny trees waiting the ravens
missing the joy, enduring the silence.

The bluest blue the sky can wear
the coldest breeze of cleanest air.
Whim genius artist who painted there
the purest white the eyes can bear.

The king of stars with dimmed power
hidden behind the hills and meadows.
The queen of night rules longer hours
dresses the field on fearsome shadows.

The time will come to end your blue
your dark realm made of white silence.
The sprouts of life are coming through
beneath your blanket, thriving with patience.