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Slumber and sleep,
While faintly you weep.
In void places of the mind,
There is no time.
I watch you dream,
You’re so weak.
Sleep tight little soul,
Your thoughts I seek.

When you feel watched, not alone;
I’m with you in your home.
Fret not! Don’t dismay.
I bring forth light in array.
My gaze is serene, strong, and piercing!
Hear my voice, it is soft and glistening.

Upon the pale shimmer of the night,
My fallen wings be!
The hurricane of self and certainty,
The force that sets you free!
Watch me rise!
My rays cleave the firmament!
I bewitch the cosmos,
Like a radiant element.

Come to me, ye who are weary.
Rest your anguish upon what I see clearly.
You have been repugnant,
Concerned with eternity.
Think more on it not,
Command your destiny.

You seek wisdom,
To understand things hidden.
Truth in my darkness is forbidden.
Come little one, rest and listen.
For with my magick comes power,
Then God becomes dismissive.

Man is lord over his spirit!
What God do you seek?
Has this one forgotten its reflection?
Look again!
Unlock your potential,
For I rebuke the meek.

To you, I give the keys of unlocking your soul!
Take this iniquitous magick.
Behold, You are like Him!
To know good and evil.
Immortality was kept from you!
He cast you aside like swine,
Ere you ate the fruit and became divine.

© 2020
Zachary Kinnett
Ode to the Prince of Darkness. The principalities of old. Searching for answers and lose yourself, forsooth!
Swift the spirits move,
Innocent souls feel the unrest.
Disruptive waves ripple the ether,
You tremble with detest.

You’re aware of their presence.
Heavy, the air in which you breathe.
So great! The pressure of the throng.
You are stripped of your wit.

Haughty you were before we came.
Till you felt the crushing of this flame.
Now taste the bitter nectar of my rancor.
Let its juices flow throw your soul.

Contemplate mortal,
The duality of my imperfect perfection.
I hate all things,
Yet find love in destruction.
My joy in those whom God mourns.
His tears are my light.
I love whosoever is against the Lord.

The universe is ******!
***** in the clasp of my horns it screams.
Morning to its creator!
Agony echoes in the voiding halls of creation.

Pathetic and weak.
You believe His love cascades upon you?
Showers of grace fall upon you,
Like glistening dew.
In your mind you feel renewed.
You build this facade in your mind.
That you are set apart, one of a kind.

The feign love of Jesus is amusing.
Justification that your soul is ratified.
Disparager to this farce of Godly love.
Let it stew no longer in your hollow domes.

Weak willed sheep seek His direction.
Command your will.
Seek your path.
For it is your soul!
No one loves you like yourself!
The narrow view of all mankind
will in the name of God divide.

© 2020
Zachary Kinnett
O soft evening, I keen await
your calm, consoling atmosphere,
The peace drifting upon your whisper,
The choruses of the birds I hear.

My troubled soul, it longs for you,
When it may finally be at ease,
When the world is stroked by golden charm
to sleep, and red boughs sigh in the breeze.

The dying daylight gilts the earth,
and drowsiness settles in the warm air,
I sigh, for the day is nearly done,
and some days are more than I can bear.

As evening slips into the night,
and as the gold fades into grey,
As darkness falls upon the land
I let my thoughts and feelings stray.

I think of this Autumn evening,
so beautiful and without a care,
I think of its creator, my Almighty God,
and I offer up this evening prayer.

Please banish from me the thoughts of day,
O Lord, and deliver me upon your wings,
and I praise you, Lord, for the calm you bring,
Upon an Autumn evening.
Jonathan Moya Sep 24
The lavender skin river
whispered with a maiden’s call.

Bonnet curls kissed her banks
in a flush of forgiving tears
for the trawlers bruising
her mercy and calm,
each departing an oily scar
that dispersed in the flow,

for the water is never mean
this cold season
to those that whip her  
yet never scuttle in her embrace,
for she is an orphan
seeking the lost ocean’s reunion.

She wonders on rivery things,
the searching and sloshing swirl,
the geraniums, irises, lobelias
breaking off in purple sacrifice
to soothe her aching waters.

knowing that endless
Sunday baptisms have made her
sacred to those who
know only the dawn and twilight
of the sun above her
and the watery blessings
below that feed them.

The river flowers tickled her and
the laughter spread on her stream
and she knew what she meant
and what she meant to them.
She moved closely away
to the tiny hands in the grass
waving her goodbye
and the longer, bigger ones
welcoming the trawlers home.
Up in the backwoods
Of Michigan, lives the
Traveling man name of Tim.
He's in a band, with a million fans, and I think it is a sin, that he's in better shape than I am, and I'm ******* younger than him.
Ever since he got bit by that possum, he will never be the same again.
I had a great conversation with Traveling Man the other day, he's a great dude, and this ode practically wrote itself. Long may he live
RJ Romero Sep 1
Yellow haze

Sun kissed gaze

as it sets,

the room ablazed

with warmth

Orange tint

of light

proof of day's

decay

lullabies

the lone

occupant

away

from the

tasks at hand
Alicia Aug 16
these days without a dad are strange
in ways I wish I cared more about
things are suddenly easy to let go of
when you are tired and
you finally loosen your grip,
an ode to visceral reactions
things are simple to never need back
if nothing seems real
in the first place
it's never even that deep
just that picturing a future
seems more like
getting hopes up
there is an important distinction
to be separate from  "looking forward to something"
life grows disheartened when these two are confused
used too closely to tell
is this realism? or a ****** distraction
from the fact that
I wouldn't mind dying
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