Wronged figures encircle the world. Saturn's
rings of martyrdom expectant beseech
God, The pain we suffered in your Name, return
it from beyond our graves. With vengeance teach
our torment to those who made us suffer!
Impale their bodies on bolts of thunder,
Black bones and roasted flesh, they are but slurs
against Holiness. Tear them asunder!
And for us, the white robes of salvation,
And words of eternal comfort: Patience
and faith in the Lord of all creation,
whose rewards in Heaven will be immense.
All the hurt you have borne shall be lifted,
Through Him, foreverness is gifted.

love is a symbol
words are symbols twice removed from reality
and they are road signs,
pointers if you will
to that which lies beyond and
between and behind
and you can see it in the light
and Nietzsche saw it in the void and
Hamilton saw it in the venom.
you can see it in the white noise in the Lo-Fi.
you can hear it in the Vajrayana pearls.
drive behind the Diamond vehicle and ride inside
the slip stream.
sit behind the Bon funeral Priests and it says:

“Children of the Hologram - do not make me a martyr.
your kings will make of me an effigy
it will turn the Diamonds into paper but that is not my Will.
you’ll chew on discs of gold and that will be your King.
Children of the Hologram - my words are not my own.
it calls to us from the place of light.
when energy is at rest it is dark and the dark is good and time is a 1000 petal lotus.
at times you’ll encounter evil.
Remember: that is your own self you behold before you.
she is afraid and he is alone and its timepiece is a flat circle and round and round it goes.
only you can see him because only you made her and you made the light in which you see
but images cannot see.”

there are signs
there are those who have been before.
heed their warnings. Feed the Bodhisattva
your kings will burn them and your
kings will make effigies.
Disregard.
Overlook.
look to where the words point
you wrote them
you’ve been here before
there is light coming through the leaves and the branches.
the Japanese have a word for that

looking d
                 o
                   w
                      n on this earth,
the moon sheds iridescent liquid pearl gems,  
Lamenting FOR EARTH,
                             a earth that's pregnant
                                            with
                               sorrowful burdens,
how must I not feel despair,
feeling the moon's magnificent repercussions of sudden eruption,
feeling of sheer dread,
tearfully pleading for it to end,


In shock, for a moment,
muted are my words,
my tongue asleep,
Fingers crave, mind agonized...
martyred for words.

My pen bleeds ink,
innovating a remdesivir,
to cure the world,
if only there were a cure for
ONE
   &
ALL!

To cure the world of the pandemic burdens of HATE, INJUSTICE and VIOLENCE,
but until then,
we must not dabble in silence!
~SacredInkedBlood

Abandoned under the guise of self-sacrifice
How many times have you told these lies

A wonder to behold in your own right
Latching on, holding tight
I was lost the moment I got in your sights

A silver tongue with unmatched wit
Even the most dominant would submit
To your linguistic lashings

Skilled in verbal maneuvers and molding minds
You reveled in being one of a kind

Sly, and slick, smooth and quick
Your trick was finding what made me tick

You made me yours, then slipped away
I was your toy, begging to play

But then you were done; tired I suppose
You disappeared, to where..god only knows

You played the martyr, a victim, a pawn
Suddenly all of your power was gone

I know better, but I still feel incomplete
The flavor of erasure is so bittersweet

A knight’s honor is filled with injustice
The Martyr’s wounds are made by Martyrs
The traitor’s betrayal came from let down
A Ruler’s demise is to create a new Ruler
To Win, there has to be lost
Growth is stimulated by death
Happiness from someone else causes another’s wrath

Am I offering myself a knife to the heart?
Have I unsheathed my dagger?
I think not, I think not
Have you accepted your role, your part?
Would you admit your weakness, your stagger?
I think not, I think not

Deprecate my sense of taste and saunter away
Did you think I'd lay down and take it?
I think not, I think not
Putting my life on hold every single day
Did you think I could fake it?
I think not, I think not

My soul is music, and my heart is sound
Could you feel my past haunting your remark?
I think not, I think not
I looked for your empathy, it couldn't be found
Did you care if your words were stark?
I think not, I think not

Let me tell you this one time
Will you listen to such a girl?
I think not, I think not
What's been taken, was always mine
Did you notice when you broke my world?
I think not, I think not...

Songstress
by Michael R. Burch

for Nadia Anjuman

Within its starkwhite ribcage, how the heart
must flutter wildly, O, and always sing
against the pressing darkness: all it knows
until at last it feels the numbing sting
of death. Then life’s brief vision swiftly passes,
imposing night on one who clearly saw.

Death held your bright heart tightly, till its maw—
envenomed, fanged—could swallow, whole, your Awe.

And yet it was not death so much as you
who sealed your doom; you could not help but sing
and not be silenced. Here, behold your tomb’s
white alabaster cage: pale, wretched thing!

But you’ll not be imprisoned here, wise wren!
Your words soar free; rise, sing, fly, live again

Keywords/Tags: Nadia Anjuman, Afghanistan, Afghani poet, poetess, death, martyr, hero, heroine, voice, freedom, equality, justice

Wonderland
by Michael R. Burch

We stood, kids of the Lamb, to put to test
the beatific anthems of the blessed,
the sentence of the martyr, and the pen’s
sincere religion. Magnified, the lens
shot back absurd reflections of each face—
a carnival-like mirror. In the space
between the silver backing and the glass,
we caught a glimpse of Joan, a frumpy lass
who never brushed her hair or teeth, and failed
to pass on GO, and frequently was jailed
for awe’s beliefs. Like Alice, she grew wee
to fit the door, then couldn’t lift the key.
We failed the test, and so the jury’s hung.
In Oz, “The Witch is Dead” ranks number one.

Keywords/Tags: Alice, Wonderland, Joan, Arc, martyr, blessed, beatific, religion, witch, Oz, carnival, mirror, lens, jury, kids, lamb, beliefs, faith, sonnet

She worships you. Your sinful indulgence and all.
She laps up your grey blood
and nourishes her flab on your staleness.
On her weaknesses and confessions you elevate yourself.
Higher.
The altar cracks.
She darts to heel your splinter but her limbs are broken under the collapse.
Upset at her lack of agency and engrossed in prayer she drowns herself in her own tears unknowingly.
In the end your ***** amassed.
An unexpected end to a story of fatherly shepherding.
See not every story has a Noah and his Arc,
most end with the egotistical on the altar, and the saints martyred in the gutter.
Sacrifice is still bloodshed.