what small act can I make
to help change the course of history?

Solitude can be chosen
whereas loneliness is not.

poets without borders
poems without restriction
poetry freeverse freedom.

Electricity-
searing through
every vein,
body brimming with
voltage, head to toe,
lightning
that strikes
every nerve simultaneously;
blinding, white hot pain
-
then blackness.

Flames-
the piercing spasms
of ten thousand sunburns,
combined with
the unbearable heat
of smothering summer darkness
licks slowly
up
       up
              up
your legs,
choking, choking
on dry smoke
and the ash of your own body;
screams, melting flesh, can't breathe, can't breathe,
-
then blackness.

Nails-
cleaving wrists
and feet,
invasive, bone-deep,
soul-deep
pangs, aches, agony,
as they punch out the other side
and iron
meets beam,
locking limbs in places.
Then lifting,
lifting,
lifting,
until you're
finally,
horribly,
upright,
hanging by your wrists,
iron grating
and grinding
against bone,
slowly,
oh so slowly,
suffocating under your own weight,
as muscle and sinew
convert from
allies
to traitors,
turning on you,
compressing,
and eventually crushing,
your lungs;
minutes          hours                      days
-
then blackness.

Oh, humanity.
Oh, terribly, cruelly creative
humanity.
So many torturous ways
to ****,
to execute
each other.

- the chair
- the stake
- the cross
- countless, countless others
each more brutal
than the last.
Oh, humanity.

Yet somehow...

the cross left
this darkness
for light,
a symbol of hope for
millions.
Men, women, children
everywhere
draw hope from
the cross.

WHY?

Why?
Because
we know
who it has
murdered - killed - slaughtered
massacred - executed - slain
sacrificed
but didn't
destroy;
who it
failed
to defeat.
The cross
couldn't defeat
HIM.

senseless rejoicing
depths of despair

pray
keep me from both.

When, in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
    For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
    That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixèd mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
    If this be error and upon me proved,
    I never writ, nor no man ever loved.