She tasted akin to the death; a
bullet knows when it hits the flesh;

merciless and delicate,
a gorgeous fatality everytime.

and she knows her power;
and she flaunts it well with luscious intention.

she laughed at my mortality, as the wave
laughs at the sad pathetic row boat cast unwittingly into
the cyclone,
for she is a jovial feline set to
feast;

and i dig it, and i surrender my flesh for
her satisfaction. and if what I offer falls short,
then
i want to know nothing else but
a pretty death.

The great dictatress gives willingly, like a scarlet
Mother Teresa,
providing transient solace the way a
serpent tightens its coils around
that one last breath;

her pious sustenance
kept me sane, at least in my own eyes,
while she dangled me on her lips
and
told the world I was
her
most dedicated captive.

my white flag conceded my defeat,
a defeat which felt more like a resurrection within
the flesh of something more powerful than thunder and
peace;

The chains of love are thick, but they sure
deliver the last meal
I
crave.

Deep in the pit,

is the place to dine on
those lovely woes,

and
rise to levels,

previously hidden

behind
the
facade
I
was
doing it right all along.

So in the
pit

is where I’ll lay
for
awhile,

where I’ll ponder
for
awhile,

where I’ll ****
the worst
of me,

where the worms will
speak the truth
and
devour false hymns,

polished and beaten
bare like the earth,

a fresh brewed cup
of second chance,

and

perhaps when you're ready
to forgive,
I’ll come up out
of that pit
and be
that man
you always
knew I
could be.

Beautiful humans
here we are,

fraught with eternal upheaval,
behemoths of the soil,
the same soil
we so daringly corrode and replant daily.

is this what you imagined we would become?
have we been able to see through
all the pain and glory,
deviance and
delicate rage,

and come out better for it?

beyond the glimpses
of joy and
misery,

how much have we changed?

dear beautiful humans,
so
strange and remote;
yet close and
familiar.

brother to my left,
sister to my right,
hope to the front and
difference to
the rear,
is this not the ideal?

who are you,
what have you become,
what will you do with
the gift,

here we are,
beautiful humans,
look up at me,
look up from your safe little
silence,
from your concocted prison of
narrow perception,

tell me we are
real;
when everything feels
superficial and
tainted.

fragile beautiful people,
a mass of tender confusion and
lusting for the right way,
how many times
must we throw barbs and
dance in a
wicked moonlight?

how i know that deadly foxtrot, too.

look up at me,
tell me we are worth the trouble,
do we see who we really are?
am I not just a marauding crooner
singing to the empty rafters?

Have we all sang our last song?

Beautiful humans,
so mighty and yet so exhausted,
souls thirsting for reform for it seems
we have lost sight of the sky.

here we are,
beautiful humans, long lived outside
the garden,
from ground dwellers to builders of
empires,
yet the infinite war rages on
and
my last faith remains intact
if only because
I've been convinced
of something
beautiful found
within you and me.