"atoning" poems
By the bus stop
By the lake
By the curb beside my leg
In the sun
Or in the rain
In the cold
I'm shivering in
Wait wait wait wait
Waiting for the falling rain
In a drought has never been
I am atoning for my sin
Wait wait wait wait
Waiting for the flowers to bloom
In a winter storm has never been
I am barely holding it in
Wait wait wait wait
For the love of god
My soul to take
I cannot run from my fate
If it is to waste away while I wait
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 11:13 AM UTC
Life can bring great challenges,
disappointment and despair.
At times we want to just give up,
from pressures hard to bear.
Life on earth can be beautiful.
We must never give up hope.
Tie a knot, and hang on for dear life,
when you’re at the end of your rope.
The rope represents our earth life,
whether happy, sad, or fraught.
Our Savior’s great atoning love,
represents the saving knot.
If we will but have faith in Him
when our rope is at it’s end,
He’ll be the knot that stops our fall,
and helps our lives to mend..
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 9:58 AM UTC
Coiled beneath a sleepers rafter,
atoning for the numbness
chosen, not felt.
I burn with a dark desire
to achieve an infinite satisfaction,
paraphrasing every minuscule sin
not fortified,
every schema variegated.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 6:08 PM UTC
god stood by me, he hid in my pocket like a piece of amethyst
when i ran he turned into the forest to envelop me
his spirits became soft grasses, scented woods and colorful flower
The elderly woman in her garden in the early morning before the sun rises too high. She never sprays chemicals to get rid of the snails, instead she works and plants for and around them. This garden is to celebrate life, not to take it away. The wooden fence bordering her property is low and unoffensive enough to allow through woodland creatures who are never shooed away for taking a walk or a bite through the herbage. Perhaps she is atoning for a life of death and destruction. Or perhaps she is a saint.
They enjoyed things like making forts out of sticks and blankets and cardboard boxes and dressing up and going to the opera.
Memories, fresh like a wound.
Sometimes something so small. Going to the post office. A slideshow of post offices in my life. The disinfected paper smell, the lines of people waiting to mail a package, the solid colors of the interior, gray, black, white. A scrubby short haired black carpet, well worn.
I turned into a set of wings made out of crayon or colored pencil markings. As if pushed and pulled by the wind I stunned through the air, waving in the sunlight, pencil dashes of red and blue and purple. Like an animation from Reading Rainbow.
Thrown and tossed about like a lightweight wale in the sea. An enormous behemoth of grey and blue leaping like a kitten among the waves. It should be terrifying and would be if its teeth were any larger or sharper and if there was not such a happy gleam in its huge eye.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 10:49 PM UTC
Say, heav’nly muse, what king or mighty God,
That moves sublime from Idumea’s road?
In Bosrah’s dies, with martial glories join’d,
His purple vesture waves upon the wind.
Why thus enrob’d delights he to appear
In the dread image of the Pow’r of war?
Compres’d in wrath the swelling wine-press groan’d,
It bled, and pour’d the gushing purple round.
“Mine was the act,” th’ Almighty Saviour said,
And shook the dazzling glories of his head,
“When all forsook I trod the press alone,
“And conquer’d by omnipotence my own;
“For man’s release sustain’d the pond’rous load,
“For man the wrath of an immortal God:
“To execute th’ Eternal’s dread command
“My soul I sacrific’d with willing hand;
“Sinless I stood before the avenging frown,
“Atoning thus for vices not my own.”
His eye the ample field of battle round
Survey’d, but no created succours found;
His own omnipotence sustain’d the right,
His vengeance sunk the haughty foes in night;
Beneath his feet the prostrate troops were spread,
And round him lay the dying, and the dead.
Great God, what light’ning flashes from thine eyes?
What pow’r withstands if thou indignant rise?
Against thy Zion though her foes may rage,
And all their cunning, all their strength engage,
Yet she serenely on thy ***** lies,
Smiles at their arts, and all their force defies.
1.8k
Hobbling out of bed
Half dead
I'm led
To the bathroom
The shower a vacuum
Of my powerlessness
But first i ****
Then get in
**** out the contaminants
Of my ***** habits
And i scrub
I scrub off
The plastic love
The mean mug
And tug on my ****
Plant a vision til it pops
And drop
To the shower floor
Tilt my head back
And gurgle to the gods
For more
Scrub the grill
Lay a towel on the floor
Suit up for a war
Two sprays of cologne
And im out the door
Headphones on
Angels atoning
To the morning
As im floating
Through the fog
Descending in my grog
Along the path
Like a lab rat
For a slab of cheese
Through the swamps
And trees
Trampling
Dead things
And leafs
And im seen
By nobody
As i ascend a hill
To the corporate power
Where ill cower
For nine hours
Before reporting home
Going to bed
And waking up
To do it all again
Its blue collar zen
And im bored
So fraking bored
With my chores
Id rather scribble sounds
Into forms
Verbal storms
Visual cores
Implored
To explore
The tortured
Terms in torrents
Of turbulent
Talks with dead gods
And im born
Into the horns
Ive sworn
To protect
In widows peaks
And deepened
Speeches
I'm infected
With my perfection
Torn
In the muffled traces
Of noiselessness
Among the space-less
Distances
To my sentences
Taking out the crackles
And recording
Over the blemishes
Relishing
The fragile moments
Of eloquence
In **** jokes
And threatening
Gestures
Jesting
The restructuring
Of molesting
Verbiage beat
Over the mic
Delusions enticed
In my writes
Of fights
In long sleepless nights
Of rhyming
With bad timing
And mumbling
Of slimy things
Bubbling in the cuts
Dubsteped to **** fits
Sunkissed in lacking curtains
Disturbing the certainty
Of sleep
And cheapening
My dreams
Rolling over
Planting my feet
Upon wood floors
Hobbling toward
Tomorrow
Sorrowfully
Repeating
The same thing
Washing away the sleep
And fleeing
My creativity
For the rest of the week
(in progress)
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 3:38 AM UTC
Don't bury children in suits
Let them wear their favorite clothes
Let them wear their favorite basketball jersey
The sweats from the college you can't stand
That **** sweatshirt that you can never get clean
The tire-tracked underwear
Let them wear it all
Let them wear the clothes you could never get them out of
The ones they slept in
Played in
Dreamed in
Just don't bury kids in suits
They're not going to a job interview
They aren't atoning for a lifetime of sins
They're going to the great playground in the sky
They need to be able to run around
Bury them in overalls
In the baseball hat with sweat stains
The pants with holes and grass on the their knees
The shoes with the souls that flap when they walk
Let them wear the straps that the Velcro keeps falling off of and you keep having to put it back on
Put it back on
Put them in the casket
And make them smile with your thumbs
They didn't do anything wrong
We did
We let them down
Don't punish them
Don't bury them in a suit
This is our last chance to do something right for them
Bury them with those candy necklaces they used to shoot across class at the girl they liked
Give them all their Halloween candy back
Fill the grave with hundreds of melting dilly bars
Slip them a ring pop
Please don't bury them in suits
Don't comb their hair
Leave the dirt under their finger nails
Don't fix their collar
Or shine their shoes
Let them wear their Victor Cruz jersey
And for those of us lucky enough to live in one of those small towns the whole world doesn't know how to pronounce yet
Lucky enough to not live in a dangerous city
Lucky enough to trust the locks on our front doors
To trust the bus driver
To trust our neighbors
One more cookie before bed.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 2:16 AM UTC
I am not testifying my emotion with the poetry, I am
atoning to it.
I write about God like a friend but we
Haven't been speaking.
I confess my sins to
Whoever will play the part.
When I write about how quiet the moon has been,
I am saying I'm sorry.
My lack of honesty is writers-block.
I crave all of the hurt. I
Torture myself into unhappiness.
I have this habit of starting things I don't
Finish and they're usually letters
Bursting with nameless blame.
I shut down in the middle of
My emotions because they are too loud, I substitute
all of my connections for a painless quiet.
I am cold because it is easier than being warm,
Than getting burned, than being honest. I am cold
because it is easier than saying that
I am selfish in love. I drain, consume
devour everything that touches me and I
Don't know how to stop taking.
When I write about how I am scared that
Love and violence sound the same from an empty bed, I am saying I'm sorry.
I am not presenting my pain with the poetry,
I am conceding to it.
I can't take a pen to paper without punishing myself with the ink.
When I write about a fence with vines encasing the wood,
About neglect, about a garden full of overgrown weeds and
A cold house, I am saying
Forgive me.
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 3:24 AM UTC
All through the afternoon,
among these drinkers
to their tables to java cups
all from a bird’s-eye view.
Blended individuals,
of varying hues
too much sugar, no need to stir
hot, no ice - “a language of their own”
adding “cream to this crop”
like fraternity’s rushing thought
to seemingly **** out the weak.
Textbook before my face, coffee to my right
surrounded by chatter, and apparent debacles
behind the rearing of my ear lobes
set the seem from my shirt and cut
play the motion picture, film, pan out.
360 crossover,
these eyes wander, merely to ponder
conscious parenting to the mind; reminded
yes I did complete that -
atoning to what could be done,
view now from my eyes
around clouded peripherals
(zooming into this page)
trying to read to figure
a Venn diagram of the temporal lobe;
committing to memory ironically
it’s long-term function to maintain
the conception of this thought.
Distracted, back to this drink
re-calling coffee mythically impedes growth
or so they say to stray from focus -
the holder is the cup, to handle is abrupt
but we drink it, to straighten our view
so much as this morning vice stimulation
branded by a jaded graphic mermaid,
or possibly a siren, or to some a muse.
But, it’s the afternoon; no need to rush,
just here and there, casually taking sips
temporary jolts of caffeine
a temple of thought,
temporarily fading,
due to lacking the day-to-day rest.
Same perspective,
but this time curious, calm, and collected
like a child looking above an ant-farm - proud
gazing at moving points like synapses
of our coffee cups as opening our wakefulness.
Can we just remember to understand
that everyday is different.
Our mornings may start mundane
but we find joy in the day
for afternoon connections
no matter what they may be, just to remember,
so that we can have lasting memories,
and not the caffeinated ones.
Aug 22, 2011
Aug 22, 2011 at 10:51 AM UTC
[Click]
“Yo yo yo, welcome back to the Def Poetry Slam. Comin’ up on da stage next we got two favorites who certainly ain’t a favorite of each other… na mean, na mean? They’re both hear reppin’ the London, so give a big round for ‘Lord Bye-Bye, and Johnny Cleats’…
Yeah, yeah. You guys know the rules… get to it. Bye-Bye, you’re startin’”
He walks in Beauty, like the dawn
whose bright and crimson sun alights
So all of those around him fawn
and follow him into the night
Now I know why my friend Trelawn
does envy him with all his might
Oh no, I, am so sorry,
My mind has come to function
all of this, you see, is me
And while he’s got some gumption
aesthetic he, but hungry, Keats
only talent for consumption
“Ohhhhh! No he didn’t, no he di-in’t! Yo Cleats, get some traction on this and tear him away.”
Standing aloof in giant ignorance,
staring down from atop an ivory stool
Your title, then, will keep them in your dance
and little else, you shallow-swimming fool
You see, My Lord, and that is all you pageant
as simple work as that does a flask
My words, instead, are all that I imagine
Of that, My Lord, mine is the hardest task
*“Ohhh… well Round One’s gotta go to Bye-Bye, the audience has chosen, but… John? Johnny Boy? Hello? Where lies you, English Poet?… Can it be?… Can it be?… Ladies and Gentlemen… I think we have our first official **** in the ring. Must’ve been something we said. I guess it’s over. Bye-Bye… you got anything to say on your victory?”*
So, we’ll go no more a roving
as our battle was cut short
Just as I thought you would be atoning
for your lack of literary tort
I’m classically trained, John Dear
and a weakness of the meek:
It’s that you have a deathly fear
and cannot survive critique
“That’s kinda cold, dude. You and I both kno–”
[Click]
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 6:11 PM UTC
assembled
our living love being aligned
I tell you we re-union
my dream is boss run
an image of my dad viral to come to me
atoning tall alert and correct, stought 6'6"Utahan
the all knowing blank look on the man
Daaaaaad I say all long and drawn out
something big of the future about
something big say kanye west
the time of the stars coming
a being in the house of daughters mother
the her happy and bright concerned loving
looking like her youth in memory
the web tumblr blog pleiadian-starseed hosting
you celestial being honored kanye west
my pink quart shard from Louis' mom
a deep one full breath the sound
of 1000 honey bees buzzing
my finger tips dripping
how about you
say the Dove cooing
my eye explodes in vision of matrixs
colors designed shapes patterns
all life reflexed is each other...
all thru the mind watching me
now about your shoe our moment over keen
with family moving in the ground and patterns
the non celestial beings losing in his shoe
his eye of greed watching me maligning me
from a half mile away all he knows
is the **** in his shoe...
neanderthal evangelical living dead meat
stop exploiting creatures
let them live amongst all to commune
the cooing dove far ahead of man
mimicking the sounds of crows
I talk given back to the Dove
without speaking
the way of the dove
Starlight insured gjmars 6/27/15
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
Wintertime
Summertime
Spring and fall;
O' do I loveth
Her; always
Dear God.
Rain, light
Dark, night;
O' the way's
Of her plite.
Sun, star's
Moon, sun;
Verily she's
Mine chosen
One.
Destined to
Be, O'er we see;
Cherub's on harp's,
Playing fourty
String's.
Flutes, horn's,
Trumpets,
shofar blowing;
Empyrean opening,
Past sin's atoning.
Peace, comfort
Joy and hope;
Inside her arm's
Mine head's
Enveloped.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( anasa mou) dedication
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 12:12 AM UTC
Atoning
Admonishment
Beloved
Blessings
Confusing
Contemplation
Debating
Disturbance
Everlasting
Eternity
Foreboding
Faithfulness
Gods
Goodness
Hasting
Heaven
Internal
Intuition
Jesus'
Judgement
Kings
King
Loving
Light
Monday's
Moment
Never
Numbing
Open
Opportunity
Peoples
Persons
Qualify
Quiet
Redeemer
Resemblance
Saving
Salvation
Thee
Truth
Undenying
Unity
Valient
Victory
Washed
White
X chromosome
X factor
You
Yelling
Zealously
Zapped
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
Refusing to be
healed.
A wound will stay awake.
Mired in bitter controversy,
the captain said―
the war was not a deliberate act of
atoning for the soul.
That prevents the sun
to come out after a long night.
You walk in the light years,
gaunt and dazed,
in pain of hunger. The words
hang in shame.
A city fails, for
another voice of verse,
in favour of renunciation.
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 8:04 PM UTC
Can you smell the lilac I picked for you?
It wafts over world wide web airwaves
As onliest promise of perpetual woo
Interception through an Internet of slaves
Catching this drift, shall we last eternal days?
Of finding attention, blissfully I your wooer
Atoning for on and on, or be it peculiar phase?
Flower's perfume, is it detected by viewer?
O that this lilac's aroma might mercifully mend
A nose bouquet which an infobahn can't send
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 9:09 AM UTC
our past is the foundation of our future
our deeds, creeds and regrets
shaping who we are
never quite atoning
always honing our desires
in the present looking back
the fog grows thick
losing track of who we are
and who we want to be
nostalgic poison coursing
through the man, always cursing
the day the world turned grey
the fog is suffocating
a dim light breaks, glowing
through the mist, ever growing
redemption is within sight
God help preserve this light.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 1:47 AM UTC
her eyes reflected a distant sky
beautiful but bereft of warmth
years of toiling
in an unforgiving landscape
took its toll on her
slowly changing her
until a cold blue hue
radiated from her pores
a freak storm separated her
from her kind
and she was left battling
the wind and waves
on her own
as wave
after gigantic crushing wave
pummeled her
again and again
she sank below
almost ready to succumb
but in the depth of despair
deep down in her soul
she found the strength to survive
and something else
an ability of sorts
she was able to shield herself
from the violence of the storm
and raise herself above the waves
she wrapped herself in a cocoon
storm raging outside
absolute calm inside
silence
absolute focus
she looked beyond the storm
but it had swept her from all she knew
she found herself
in a vastly different place
everything unknown
she buried her birth place in her heart
and embraced this new world fully
in this place she healed
herself and others
always helping
never harming
it was almost as if she was atoning
but never reaching
the point of full atonement
she was not from here
but she was
Home
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 1:35 AM UTC
I have forsaken you again, my Lord
All because I was insatiably bored
I took Your precious book
And burned every word
With the blazing fires of my sin
And the ashes of guilt that come after
Lord, how can I win?
Satan loves my state of hopelessness
So he will continue to mess
With every single part of my life
And destroy me until there's nothing left
But you see
The blame must be put on me
To blame Satan for my own choices
Wouldn't be the right thing
So I will take these sins of mine
And atone for them
Until my soul takes up a shine
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 9:39 AM UTC
The nights are kind
For they let me drift off
Into a deep slumber
In pitiless daylight
I ponder on the not happened yet
The flood of thought
Deadens my soul
Envy taints it
I Linger in the shadows
Perpetuating the stain
Of my ascendants
Volition is an illusion
The silence of my own silence
savagely cuts like a warrior’s machete
Dismembering the remnants
of my authentic self
The design of my misfortune
Was perfectly orchestrated by the ingenuity of diablo
Distress inhabits the catacombs of my mind
Strangling on the lasso of consequence
Perpetually atoning for unknown sins
From another lifetime.
Thunderous footsteps of wolves
Gathering at my feet
Nourish my fear
The demons of recent past are screeching
Outside my door
That which plagues, devours
The blood I lost grew cold
As have I.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC
death is my neighborhood friend
she has followed me all my life
no matter the outcome of situations
death always prevailed
speaking lightly on such a subject would inflict a mere slit on the tip of the tongue
she is genuine at all times
though some may find it hard to believe I have never caught her in a lie
to be frightened is to be frail
for tears shed, hearts break, last words are spoken
actions are derailed into a different outcome
yet through all the demise, she remains vigorous
death has no boundaries
I have learned that the strenuous way
there is no difference in those related to my own blood and water
death stops at no personal obligations nor obstacles
adolescent days dare to compare to my maturity of today
death broke apart relationships of all kind
sometimes spiritually she drained me of love I could no longer bear witness to the outside world
she drained me of my close ones,
'family,' if you will
left me to anguish and mourn like a deserted soul
isolated from society, the world, love, or any such interactions were just extreme to divulge in
building up a tolerance to agony was just a challenge to her for the near future
other times she lacked me of mental termination
friendships of such were burned and buried beneath the ground
someplace called hell
for they would never return and if they sought out to intervene in my life once again death would appear and rip the soulless creatures right out of their existence with me.
I could barely bear witness on either or, nor did I want to comply but I, myself, had no say in the fate of life.
my mind, body, and soul were alternated
never will I be a carbon copy of my old self
death is my friend
she remains synonymously unpredictable
if I, myself, were to die, I would, in turn, welcome my friend.
, eulogy
"Hello my dear, for I have not missed you for an abundance of time it seems you have missed me. whereas I contemplate over no comprehension other than the certainty of you needing my very presence. all of the atrocious things I have done is diseased along with the misery of atoning to every thought and situation dealt with my life on this earth. let alone the well being that I also obtained in a timely matter has now released me into a never-ending dimension"
Sep 11, 2019
Sep 11, 2019 at 7:25 PM UTC
Maaaan, I ain’t got nothin…
‘cept 3 li’l buns that came outta her oven
Just when ya think everything’s going to be alright
Yer served with papers and sleepin’ in a van at night
Lookin up at the nighttime sky
Sounds in the background of future DWI’s rollin’ by
They ain’t got nothin’ either ‘cept empty promises and broken dreams
No clear direction of what their life means
To a corporate fat cat, they’re just an asset
A tax base, bleeds green, a budget offset
Sombody PAH-LEASE turn off this ****** faucet
They say I make a decent living and STILL I’m living out of boxes
And okay, I’ll be positive, I have a couple nice things
But I paid the price in meals for the joy that they bring
So I sit my broke *** in a corner by the lake
And center my mind, lotus position, atoning mistakes
And I realize there aren’t any, and I retain my ego
Cause when I think about it, we’re all just stuck at a different level of zero
Confused mice in a maze looking for the moved cheese
Moving purpose to purpose like a band of gypsies
Seeking out the lie that is the American Dream
Relax the frustration with pleasure in my bloodstream
I practice my art of being happy for what I’ve received
Instead of the hopes and dreams that from us have been thieved
Yet some other mouse with a weapon demands what I’ve got
Yelling, spittle in my face, from a man that fate forgot
I scream back, fire like a cannon, with pride, with passion
Looking straight in his eye, I laugh, say it with me…
Maaaan, I ain’t got nothin
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 9:31 AM UTC
Sins that track blood across black and White pages.
Staining everything with deep Burgundy.
These events leave a bitter aftertaste.
The familiar taste of guilt.
But instead of atoning,
You sugarcoat the evil doings,
That you find,
Hard to swallow.
Feb 22, 2021
Feb 22, 2021 at 8:21 PM UTC
Tis important to remember,
the holy Standard that was set for us!
Its purchase was selflessly made
by our beloved Christ Jesus.
Upon Calvary, this single sacrifice
of Jehovah’s perfect, atoning Lamb
completely demonstrates the truest form of Love
from our God, the Great I Am.
Lord, we may not entirely comprehend,
how Your ways are superior to our own,
but we need to realize that we’re called
to reach towards Your Kingdom throne.
From the cruel spilling of Your Son’s royal blood,
the ransom for Humanity was fully paid;
and the foundation of Heaven’s eternity
has been utterly sealed and forever laid.
Author Notes:
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2011, All rights reserved.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 6:18 AM UTC
Crouched by the car, I curse at the sky,
Soaked to the bone while people turn a blind eye.
I blink.
I see myself with no mirror.
Yet it couldn't be clearer.
I blink.
This she,
These we.
They all look like me.
I blink.
All wearing the same high-tops with a wrinkled T.
The same me.
I blink.
They have died since.
Oxygen deprived arteries left behind like blueprints.
I blink.
They now resemble twisted mannequins,
Eyes lifted eternally to heaven, atoning for their sins.
Expressions all poising questions.
I blink.
I see myself, miles down my current route in a deadly collision.
Body at an unnatural angle--no seatbelt, bad decision.
I blink.
Myself at a party, sippin' on some whiskey.
A quick plop in my drink ensures I can't get away quickly.
I blink.
The high tops I wear are worn, much like myself from abuse.
Empty apologies don't make up for the blood on my shoes.
Just another victims name on the evening news.
I blink.
I was the person who held signs saying "free hugs."
Now an addict, I'm throwing up on someone else's scrubs.
I blink.
Is this my future?
Dead, abused, a user?
I blink.
A man appears, an umbrella in hand.
"Would you like some help?" He asks, helping me stand.
Where he came from I can't understand...
I blink.
"They call me Heavenly Father.
And I take care of my own--Especially my own daughter."
I blink.
"I've seen too much--What do I do?
I'll always die with a sense of déjavu."
A smile.
"I'll always be here.
Perfect love casts out all fear."
He's gone.
I realize I don't have to die from abuse or a needle in my vein.
I don't need to choose pain.
A laugh bubbles out of me as I realize, I just met God in the rain.
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 10:52 AM UTC
The Man who never brought hell home
was wise beyond his years.
He suffered long
but lived it loud
imprisoned by his fears –
and those were thus:
that those before him
came and went
with nothing left but
pain and name
and more of same
who went and came
from seed in soil
to root and stem,
to fallen branches, time again:
a family tree to fuel the flames
on cold and lonely nights.
Embodied by the coat of arms he wore,
this Last to hold his name,
he swore,
– in vain, perhaps –
to stand at ease no more.
The Man who never brought hell home
encased himself in spite and spirits;
ghosts of generations gone,
encroaching deep within.
He sought for answers,
fought for reasons,
questioned why his bloodline grew
to fall and rise
and curse and ****
with secret lies
and stolen rights
and ties he could not sight.
The Man who never brought hell home
had died
the moment he arrived
– or so he thought –
he always said,
with eyes in search of something else . . .
perhaps that love that once he’d felt,
despite the years of crime he lead.
And what is left, again, but holes
to fill with buried woes
and broken war-like games
and shattered dreams
and darker still yet, nothing.
Nothing, as it always seems.
Not a sliver shall him by, it pass,
of hope,
of love,
of peace . . .
Not until the very last,
this Man who never brought hell home.
And so, this Man, with blind belief
declared his story would be brief,
atoning for the sins he cast
in other’s lives
in years that passed,
and spent his days in self destruction,
free from want, control, and need,
biding time with bated breath
like men, before, who longed for death,
entrained in mind and soul,
until one day,
the hell that never came,
came whole.
For every man,
and son of man that once there was,
who sharpened knives
and counted tools
and cleaned his guns,
and polished pride, his moral compass by his side,
who now lives to wake and wakes to die:
repelling faith, repelling truth, and cussing lies,
this Man has died.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC