--the angry inch, always speaks the truth.

When your worst horrors have come to pass
     and you did not die
and sleep  is actually a comfort,  
instead of a curse
Because dream-themes are no longer hauntings
but  instead,  flow in and out of consciousness
as random acts of grace
And the death that should be coming

becomes, instead
a replenishment of living cells--
a surprisingly-unexpected regeneration,  
this bracing for a Fall that never comes.

Winter is coming,

and this death, has a warmth
that will carry me through
And though the ground will be frozen soon,
there will be no death this year
above the frost line

But below,  in what is still warm
there will be a death,  that brings life--
encased in fear, yet floating within the midst
of a subterranean stream..  an ocean, of peace

Winter's chill is coming;  
there is a strange feeling in me
that tells me, I am ready.

On the streets of gold,  forgiven
by the skin of his teeth, maybe.

On here; on Earth--
stuffed in a corner
Bloodied.. trundled, fondled
wearing his sin--

(his unholy,
carcinogenic/pathogen).

And I,  I want to go to heaven..?
I would **** you, everyday
You self-serving *******,   now forgiven

I will take hell, you ****

She is still down here
and so, here.. on earth (and below) 
will become my heaven.

And I will become like you
and I will wear your pelts of perpetration
     and I will be hated for it
but there will be healing in the land
    because I am not  of you
nor am I of those who continue to do  

what it is that you have done

May the heaven you have entered into,
fully forgiven..   fully 'healed'
    become your hell

  through all things revealed

You felt nothing then
and you feel nothing now
But soon, you ****.. you will feel
I promise you  that  you will feel..

There is a darkness, even in heaven

You have a foundation that you can feel now--
          its load-points, bearing directly  on top

                                    of Love's firm bedrock.


Whatever  you want to become on top of that
    is  whatever  you  believe   your loved core
    is  worthy    of being built in to  (becoming).

I see you staring off into space,  your trajectory
aimed towards a specifically-patterned constellation.
I am only the launch tower--
providing stability, support
aiding in your refueling  and the replenishment of your supplies.
Star-patterned destinations are your calling
and, I am just the launch pad,  
and its ever accommodating tower.

They say that a rocket expends fifty
percent of its energy just clearing the tower;
It is the final destination:  
not the clearing of the tower,
that your heart needs most
and holding you firm,  I know that as you lift off
I will  even now  be tempted to
reach out with one of my ever-sustaining arms..
that I may touch your gorgeous tail section  
as you fly clear of me

But even in the doing of that,  
I would change your trajectory
and the constellations would never come to know you
nor you, them

I am just a tower, love..
a platform,  constructed solely  
to aid you in your newfound flight into freedom:
a tower  to love you
and hold you steady,  
with a finely-built strength

until you are finally clear
even,  of me.

--it is,  how very
tremendously cute you are,
and how your little stinkerlings
climb all over me;  their
trusting little Spirits drinking in all things, Daddy

And within you, dwells  all of the
fullness of their childlike hope, ******
And within them dwells hope's fire--
aflame within each little set of eye's
sparkle

Yet, beautiful Mommy--

There is a brutality, embedded deeply into
God's Love
that all but compels me to call you out
on almost seemingly-random things:
things that push up (almost fiercely)
against all things within you, stubborn
but they benefit..

                       they benefit.

And you fight against me-- even to your own detriment,
and I am reminded  then of the same fight shown--  emanating
from a young,  forming child's spirit:


           "No"   is the first word that should
                                          form freely
            within the mouth of a young spirit,
                                    aching deeply...

           within the depths  of the loved self
           for the true meaning of the word,  

                                           Autonomy.

An­d there is no loss  of love
in their little movements  towards separateness

And there is no price to pay for speaking the truth in love
nor, is there a payment owed, for speaking it  in defiance
and separateness, even to the point of  eventual separation
need never have to come at the cost of love--

the truly-loved, freely formed, self
is a beautiful, magical thing to behold, indeed.


And your participation in to it all, little-one's sweet Mommy

is a celebration in itself.

Onto a crumpled, weathered parchment
he bleeds out  his love for her

And she,  in turn
finds words,  that wax poetic

Flowery words.  pretty words

Words that rhyme,
quarter tones of time

Flowers, hearts, peer-laden smiles
lined up-- all, in a pretty little line

There is a spattered blood,
on tattered parchment,   still

and, still..  no less mine