#falseidols
He spoke his pronouns
and tensed before the door.
His sword,
more ancient than the sanctum
where he stood,
swayed like a flickering flame,
like a leaping fish
caught in the silver light of dawn.
Yet, no sound returned,
no echo comforted his claim,
just the dust that swirled
in glittering gyres
to rest again upon the floor.
He called once more, and then,
in the silence trembling,
whispered one last time:
“They, Them…”
His tears smudged among
the ancient motes
gathered there beneath his feet.
The long dead sconces gaped.
The winds that circled in their siege
groaned with a slakeless thirst,
pounded with a solemn fist,
but still, it stood,
The Ebon Keep
— too ancient to recall
the eye that measured,
the back that hauled,
the hand that laid the stone
that still disdains
the lineage of wind and rain
and all who came before the one
who stood and called.
Such freedoms fought
that brought him here,
such perils overcome,
he who stood against
the dice of fate,
that bears upon each face
a one.
He gave a wretched shriek,
in descant to the keening wind,
and bent his shoulder to the stone
and pushed with such a force
that broke the seal,
and sent him prone upon the floor
— as once those ancient acolytes
had done.
There he gathered to one knee,
witness to the Holy of Holies
whispering in its reliquary;
then he turned and bowed
before the golden throne,
but there he found,
long dead and turned to bone
—the faded motley of a man,
crumbling like sand
to the shudder of wind on stone;
so too, his rotten teeth
rattled in their jaws
that out-endured his juggling rings,
his leathern *****
whose gut and cord
spilled out upon the floor.
Though the bells upon his shoes
lay tumbled on the stone,
his lute unstrung,
yet, there still endured
the whispering hum
of that lost Covenant;
and to This he turned
and spoke again,
unanswered,
declared one last time,
and unavowed,
took his seat upon the throne.
May 1
May 1, 2026 at 4:59 AM UTC
he lost his way, he knows not when.
chasing false idols he mistook for men.
he'd lose the child, if he only knew then -
he'd find a way to be a man again.
Nov 18, 2024
Nov 18, 2024 at 1:24 PM UTC
I've been a slave so many
times.
I've been a slave to
***** and vaginas,
to poverty and the streets.
I've been a slave to opiates
and poetry
brutality and love.
I've been a slave to
the flesh and my addictions,
good intentions galore.
I've been a slave to
beauty and hatred,
passion and desire
the flame
and the
fiery dance with death.
I've been a slave to the
crowd and the pedestal
the morning glory women, and
their spells.
I've been a slave on
the slow ride to hell.
So for the last time,
I'm done with slavery.
Go find a new **** to control.
This rooster is going back to
the barnyard,
chase the horses and hens.
I promise
I will crow at the
freedom-soaked dawn.
Mar 24, 2020
Mar 24, 2020 at 1:18 PM UTC
She draws attention with spellbinding dance,
No man has ever looked and looked away.
So much mistaken beauty for romance,
Those men who see with just their eyes, her prey.
Her body is the uniform she wears,
Nubile and innocent in father’s eyes.
Enchanting beauty fueled by endless stares,
Of men who see with blindness idolize.
She’s only all the beauty, nothing more,
And nothing else she ever wants to be.
The promise of a Siren on the shore,
Exposed to every ****** on the sea.
She’ll never lack for men she can control…
Just not men who see Beauty with their soul.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 12:10 AM UTC
I walked into our chapel
shoulders back,
head high,
dignified.
No Catholic shame
forced my eyes
to the mosaic aisle
Trodden Over
by my Sandaled feet,
It was a feast day,
praising God
with our laughter
and shared
beneficence.
We joined
in joyful prayer,
receiving each other's
sacrament
with the reverence
of saints
but just as I sang
the psalms the loudest
there came
an unholy silence,
Believing I was being
tempted,
I fell to my knees,
contemplated
your wonder
waiting for your return
to your
prodigal lover;
squandering our
sacred time,
not counting the blessings of
our moments of grace.
I hung upon
my silent cross,
weeping into my
wine-soaked rag
Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani
Descending into
Despair,
Waiting for
an Easter
that I swore
had been prophesized,
Even upon your
high holy
return,
you seemed resurrected,
and yet I not saved.
I felt like Moses
on his day of death
beholding
the promised land
covenanted by
souls
and yet
remaining in
this desert
thirsty for
the wellspring
that seemed to be sitting
behind your eyes,
the water that would
quench
my forever thirst.
Despite the ache
in my dried mouth,
I'd find
the will
to stand upon my feet,
tired of relying on
a charitable heart's
sympathies
as my means of
living.
But I found
that I was
praying for
too much
from you
and I fell upon
my knees again,
wondering if
humility is meant
to leave you feeling
this broken.
And so begins the litany
of sacrifices
wondering
if you are my
love made flesh
why it is I who is
scourged,
stripped of dignity,
nailed to a cross
that I had brought here
myself
Mumbling words out
to a silent heart
that I know
hears me.
Thinking that surely
our death
will meet me soon.
But by
the clever grace of
the devil
I continue,
finding life
that should have
diminished
at two o' clock.
Is Hannukah
not
supposed to be
a celebration?
Because while burning
in this modest
Menorah lifestyle,
sacred
and
devout.
I find faith
in you
and have been shepherded
to no redemption,
but only the
salty pillars
of one who trusts
in gods
created by another God.
And upon this realization,
I rush to confession,
knowing my worship
of false idols
is not over.
As I remember
our love
as beautiful
and mighty,
I'm forced
also to remember
that
Lucifer, too,
fell when things were at
perfection.
Try as I might,
I must turn my face away,
with the hope
that something
greater
truly does await
for one
who loved paradise,
body and soul,
with the finality
of resurrection.
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 5:43 PM UTC