"inri" poems
Broken flesh, infected in dissolute.
We tend to dispute our vision of the world seeing only black and white.
Our eyes decieve us blatantly concealing the harmonic view of a one race with different shades.
Philia filling my heart with philosophies of what love actually is.
Conforming to the emotions of our soul drifting towards carnality.
Seduced by the luring sweet scent that our desires tend to offer often leading to our spirits fatality.
A promise is yet to come. A sacrifice made for us with the Annointed One hanging under inri. We forget our mistakes are not irreversible and He gave us the chance to live with Him for eternity.
Agape. The love so beautiful its tangability pushes us towards Him even when our lifes are resisting. His love being the cure to my absence and His peace being the sustainter of my life...so who am i to barricade you from His real love.
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 8:43 AM UTC
A dreary gray fills the sky with a sombre mood
Like ash sprawling in the air in a manner of crude
A coronation begins, for the foul, not good
Mockery fills the room as a man sits in ****
His skin filled with fresh bruises and blisters alike;
His eyes painted with tremor, etched within his psyche
Upon his head sat, a diadem of sharp pike
Its needles slithering through his forehead in hike,
Puncturing his once soft skin; warm blood trickles down
Escorting his pains were the digging of the crown
It continues, wrapping his head like a long gown
For a king, adorned with a frown: a thorny crown.
Among the men, they bring out a coat of blood anew
Draped on shoulders, blood meets blood; the searing pain grew
A contempt shroud lingers, a call begins to brew
"Hail the King!" they chant, "Hail Jesus, the King of all Jew!"
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 9:49 AM UTC
THE FLOWERS I SAW EVERY MORNING WERE CUT DOWN TO THEIR BULBS,
THEIR STEMS TWO OR THREE INCHES JUST ABOVE THE GROUND.
TWO OR THREE DAYS BEFORE, I SAW THEIR WHITE FLOWERS,
LIKE SUPPLICANT HANDS, THEIR ARMS RAISED TO THE SKIES.
IT IS RAINING OUTSIDE. IT IS RAINING OUTSIDE.
A DECISION WAS READ TO A MAN, YES, TO A MAN.
WHY DO PEOPLE HAMMER THE WRONG NAILS?
OR NAILING THE WRONG MAN?
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 1:48 AM UTC
warm and white all over like the black Alpha channel; the dead poet has the queen's face in the dark time of the year to go snooch hunting with the state of green mixed with white; Radio's big child goes to sleep in the left hand corner and I, the living Jesus, Maria dreams to find golden in order to form the United States Americans handpicked poetry; And the blood of phosphorus in the soldiers; For those years, that appeared on her ***** they call at the rate that is in hell to a wife or a girlfriend in the future; Of the sickness, which the women had to choose, the blue, the sky, or the kids, to do as of history.
Black Alpha Channel warms to the white head
resting at the feet of the dead poet
who has to face the queen of something dark in that period of the year
for which the fair snooch is the death of a large green state
as the Beaming young big skin of the sun shines
into the left corner of money, INRI the living Jesus,
sees seas afire, forming on the United **** Of Golden Dreams, finds poetry;
the stars of the blood of the war live,
the calling rate is said to them of old slippery *****
with hair hell male or female the wife of the future;
Sky blue soccer kids out like women
choosing to coin a word of history;
American thinking the baby is the cool young boy,
lost his gold called the real body, a specific book;
a walk across the stream behind River High, Spirits
who had turned yellow with water on his Hands;
poet children coming to drink from him at the door
open mouths full of dental work, St. Igor drunk
and listening
to the better side of the ancient airtime's running
agreements
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 5:33 PM UTC