i go through this daily plot
waking, working, trudging
first world ease, office walls
wheeled chairs

afternoon run
tupperware lunch
dinner the night before

home again, dinner
dishes again,
play again,
daughter picks up
new phrases, new looks
vegetable strainer toy
"umbrella," she says

i see those eyes, my wife's
and i wonder

what is this place?
these walls, these roads,
those sitka pines and shrinking
glaciers?

how 'm i supposed to be a father
with all these things stretching out
vaster than reason, than comprehension

those talking heads, ranting this or that
liberty's *****, freedom's snatched,
the world warms, the world cools

Filipinos scream in the face  of angry
winds, the prim cut weatherman wildly
gestures at a colorful map, powerful
he says, historic
he says

more dripping mouthes,
government want guns now,
more money to ****** our phones
to send unmanned drones

our president's muhammad,
or jesus, or kenyan, or raciest
a genius or incompetent
everyone knows

just back home
a tiny algae grows and foams
thrashing in the autumn water
brown oxygen choking life
never found on our shores before
kills fish,

i imagine so much more

i hold my daughter in my lap
reading mother goose,
run my hand through her
thin smooth hair,
sometimes afraid
of what she'll see and hear
with her mother's eyes
and her father's ears

rip my hair and skin
scalp me down to my river mind,
innards of rot and process

take your hollow **** of words
bury them in my very own
valley of salt and waste

let's say,
"words are words,"
with purpose and shallow bravery

they
mean this or that
and that is that
of course!

this is this and the other thing
what a lovely ring

sure to rhyme
break the lines
here and there

a bold poet
with a neautered tongue and pen
a cold box, where chaotic sloppy life
should tumble forth with joyful hot moans,
explosions of spit fury finger breaking body snatching war hunger defeat suffocating three ton wool blanket thrown over our mouthes stifling the bitter gut gargling screams of drone death baby mother buried way down under by the son father stalking blind with tears and rage and poverty
skin not black but brown, religious garb for the crown
hypocrisy will be sure to follow him about

Yet, here we are, a small empty hall, short not grand
Yet, even here an echo back of our dim shallow fancies
words that skip on the surface of meaning and power

mothers grieve shouting at the earth, holding their
******* to the moon, while fathers eat the dry bleached
sand we've left behind in valleys of salt and waste

Hello, Thomas.


The night is waiting for you.


The gatekeeper scans the clothes decorating your figure.
The doors are opening.

Are you ready?

Here you are.
the music floods into you,
washing over you like a wave of colors you’ve never seen before-
rushing past you before you can examine them-
simultaneously melting away
and ripping god knows what away from you.
The experience feels new every time.
It’s a good feeling.
Breathe, and walk in.

This universe is tangled in stardust, in lights and movement.
The ground you walk on invisible,
existing only in vibrations,

mechanical pulse.

The place is littered with sounds- faint and drowning-
of hard breathing, occasional quiet moaning.
(Although they are felt more than they are heard.)
The scent of two hundred and fifty six sweating bodies,
all kinds of different smoke
and liquor;
not so much intoxicating as it is calming.

It’s full tonight.

The air spirals into you- fresh, clear, thin.
Sharp, but never painful;
your lungs full of the scented energy.
Faintly bitter, but never losing that distinct fruity essence.
Ah.
That’s what it is- forbidden fruit.
Toxic and irresistibly sweet.
Your teeth sink effortlessly into the soft surface,
it’s laughing on your tongue.

Candy-laced acid.
Stinging love bite.
Sweet poison,
like a slow french kiss tangled in the need for more.

You walk.

Your body brushes against worn leather,
warm skin.
You make your way through the bodies that feel more like a single entity than separate people (or people at all),
alive only through energy.
Hivemind of young souls.

(You move so slowly…
drink it in.)

If there is a god,
it exists in the body of the human.
As an unexplored force
corrupting the man-made man,
reverting them to pairs of hands that kiss the ground shamelessly,
to bodies that speak through groans and whimpers.
Primal angels.

If there is a god,
it is in this room tonight.

Where are you now?
Where have your slow steps taken you?

Ah.

A throne stands before you,
a familiar image.
The king is another tonight,
but the role of a spectator is almost equally as satisfying.

“King.” you think. “Ruler, but not of the people.”

He needs no servants
and your eyes are the only ones drinking in his figure,
as the others are too deep in trance, eyes glazed.
Dead, but with the essence of the living.
You observe them for a moment.

They are not bodies anymore- their souls having inhaled the life out of anything you can touch in a human.
You swear you can almost see through them,
the lights kissing, pressing the surface of their ghostly forms.
They’ve probably already been here for hours- unraveling,
evaporating into divine steam.

And what of the king?

He seems rather uninterested, or perhaps some combination of focused and relaxed.
He doesn’t move much. It’s a strange contrast, but not too strange-
it feels right, as though the young man, so unapologetic in his sole state of being,
makes the subtle nodding of his head appropriate, despite the violent nature of the beat.

The music is powerful, steady, reminiscent of your own passionate concentration when the throne is yours.
He’s a handsome fellow.
You chuckle at the thought, maybe you should stop staring now.

Oh.

Eye contact.


For an excruciatingly long moment, neither of you can tear your gaze away- (you are, after all, the only observer- this was inevitable.)
eyes locked on a stranger, reality submerged in the thick liquid that is this knot of sudden, unnamed emotions.
You are unsure if the pounding in your ears is the music or your heart that has leaped into your throat.

He turns his head slowly, still unable to tear himself away, trying to break free form your accidental and- completely unintentional- spell.
He manages to do so (it wasn’t easy),
fixating on the machine before him, his cheeks slightly flushed now.
The expression on his face unchanging.
(You don’t know it, but you’ve cursed him.)

Well, that was interesting.

What a powerful spectator you must be, to distract a king in such a way.

He hunches over the machine, cradling it with his chest and shoulders.
His left hand presses his left ear- the messenger whispering secrets to him;
the sounds that are to come.
He twists knobs with his right hand, clearing the path for the next song.
The track blends with the fading beat and becomes another.
Worlds colliding,
realities woven into one another.

Your shoulders drop,
the tenseness melting away with the melody encased in this secret universe you’ve entered tonight.

“Mmh…”

The music starts to get a hold of you.
You are beginning to submit to it’s voice, it’s demanding pleas.
It begs to be let into your body, to possess and consume you.
You are allowing it to drink away your free will.
There is little left.
You aren’t new to this- but again- it truly is a fresh experience every time.
And how intimate, the vibrations that seem to stroke, caress…
the sampled melodies who’s home you now hear being foreign to them– ‘till they become entwined,
one with their new world, through the love of the people.
And how strange, you think- to come from one universe, but belong in another.

You close your eyes, everything you are coiling around the music now,
and accept that this- here-
is the universe you belong in.

The room disappears along with your body.
Sensation and soul make up all you are.
The king has been observing you quietly,
he’s taken interest in you.

The more you move, the less aware he becomes of his hanging jaw.
His lips are parted only slightly, but his curiosity is evident.
You are impressing him.
The contrast between what he sees now and what he saw in your eyes just a moment ago-
it’s fascinating- how human you were, how familiar- a face in a crowd.
Yet now, how unrestrained, how pure and animalistic you’ve become.
He lets out a huff- eye brows knit together- in what seems like frustration.
He blinks a few times, his expression quickly changing to something like a half-worried look
that is secretly sheer ****** pleasure.
You are unraveling before him.

Thomas,
he’s found God in your movements.

Something of you now belongs to him,
but he doesn’t try to take it, and you don’t consciously give it.
It is a silent, intimate exchange you’ve unknowingly taken part of.

How untamed, what you’ve become.

You smile
as you feel yourself let go of everything you once were,
making it possible for the universe to do with you what it pleases.
You don’t know it, but in this state, the universe is not the only one able to take you,
touch and taste you,
breathe the language of sound into the crook of your neck.
Anyone can.
Anyone watching, that is.

Who’s watching you, Thomas?

It starts off small, like a perfect tasting cigarette, a pleasurable breath-
but soon becomes an overwhelming addiction
wrapped in the fear of having to stop.
You’ve unknowingly given yourself to the king.
He’s unwrapping you like a child dying to know what his christmas gift is,
so desperately and so quickly, that he hasn’t been able to register the event yet
and this translates to a breathless, low moan escaping his lips along with half of his soul
as he watches you, still too shocked by the foreign emotions to manage paying attention to anything
but the gracefully savage mystery before him.

His eyes are on you
and you are not consciously lending yourself to anyone willing to take you,
but here you are, shamelessly exposing yourself without showing an inch of skin.
Similar to the ghosts surrounding you,
save for the fluidity of your movements distinguishing you from the crowd.

His thoughts grow hotter the more your hips sway,
the questions melting into more intimate ones the deeper he goes:
What’s under your shirt?
What would it feel like, to have his hands there? Palming at your chest?
Is your skin warm right now?
Is it sensitive, Thomas?
Are you sensitive?
What shade of red paints your skin when too flustered to speak?
When you’re moaning a boy’s name?
And what would his name sound like
sliding down your tongue, dripping down your chin?
What sounds crawl up your throat when being crushed by repressed desire
like the kind crushing him right now?

Something like pure hatred forces his chest to tighten.
He’s secretly blaming you for the chaos banging the walls of his brain,
yet no part of him wants this to stop.
What he feels is some mixture of hatred and barely contained inhuman lust.
He’s panting now.
Christ, what have you done to the poor man?
You bare your teeth, as if sensing the king’s needy breaths.
You wear a look that he’s seen in lovers who chant his name in bed.
**** it.
The image is too sweet to ignore.

He is suddenly reminded of an old girlfriend.
She was so shy, always hesitant,
but that made the night they had spent together special, sweeter.
She had stripped, baring herself for the king,
all for him, all by herself.

(In a whisper, the words lick up your jaw-)
Just like you, Thomas.

“You’re such a ****; you’re so easy.” he’d whisper, commenting on how she had been waiting for him all day,
just so she could have him breathing commands into her,
making a barely coherent mess out of the girl.
(***** talk was reserved for special people, the times he’d speak during *** were rare, and words like those were to be considered a treasure.)
You are nearly as exposed as she.

“…****…”
he mouthes, not referring to old girlfriends anymore.
He wants you.

The eyes that have been tugging at your clothes, stealing you,
they blink twice,
what seems like interrupting confusion painted on the king’s face.
His head lowers in shame of admitting his desires,
but soon rises to resume watching his new reason to visit this haven.

It’s somewhat amusing-
you are so lost in ecstasy, you’ve yet to notice him
devouring your image,
silently storing the material you’ve provided him with;
celluloid images that steal the breath from his lungs.

The song is ending. His set is done.
“That’s enough.” he thinks, finally breathing,
trying to convince himself that he’s chosen to stop this behavior out of his own free will.
His face turns a lovely shade of pink, the embarrassment sinking in.
He cannot quite understand what’s happened, or how, for you were merely
a pair of eyes that locked on his for a little too long.
He wouldn’t doubt the idea that he’s been possessed, or cursed (or both)
had he been taught to be superstitious at all.
“He’s just a stranger…” thinks the king,
“king” no longer a suitable word for what the blushing boy has become.

As if on cue, another is ready to take his place.
It’s time to give up the throne, let another rule the night.
Packing his tools, he remembers your image and tries spotting you in the sea of dancers.
(They’re much more human now, becoming less transparent and more grounded in reality.)
He doesn’t find you.
Where have you gone to?

“…oui…ah- merci.”

You sit on a stool, back facing the swimming lights.
You were thirsty.
The cold inhabiting the glass is transferring to your palm.
The liquid hugs three ice cubes,
it’s only purpose being to coat your throat in something other than saliva.
(You don’t understand why your throat feels dry, what, is saliva not wet? Ugh.)
You fixate on the glass, stroking it slowly with your thumb.

At this angle, there is not enough light entering the glass to truly appreciate the color of the drink.
The lights pound on your back, like waves crashing on rock.
Your body casts a shadow directly over the glass.
The color and shade of it’s contents are a mystery to all but you;

Gold.

It looks lovely when kissed by sunlight,
although the times you’ve had this drink in broad daylight are few.
You have fonder, clearer memories of the liquid glistening under the moonlight, or drowning under muffled lights
like now.

You feel a sense of power over everyone there for a moment-
the lights, ever changing, hide the liquid’s true form;
it becoming a myth, shrouded in doubt.
At times it appears champagne pink.
Laurel green.
Dull, dying vermilion.
Mustard yellow bleeding into a powder blue.
It’s true beauty is a secret nobody in this universe knows of.

Indeed, Thomas.
Tonight, you are the only one who knows the beauty of gold.

An image comes to mind, sudden and powerful-
eyes of the king.
The thought pulls the breath out of you, your lungs empty for a moment.
You inhale shakily, shuddering at the feeling, but loving the memory.
Left. Right.
No one saw that. Good.

…Black and gold.
This sea of darkness, space.
Empty, soundless, but only when lost enough-
enveloped in the crowded, booming universe.

“Mm…”

In that brief encounter, something happened.
You can’t understand it,
but this doesn’t bother you in the slightest.
He was shining, you think, like the only star in a sea of black,
visible to none but you,
the only observer, his only spectator.
(The effects of the drink are settling in now,
the warmth nestling in your chest.
Loose and easy.)

Golden King.

Ruler of the night, star of your world.
Treasure, glistening with sweat.
Your treasure. Your secret. Yours.

“Mine…”

You don’t stop caressing the glass, it being held up in your left hand now, elbow resting on the counter.
You stare straight ahead, through the wall, into nothing, completely lost in thought.
Eyelids lowered in a confident, relaxed look.

Silver smile.
Gleaming, blooming before him.

What are you?- the words are silent in his mind
and he mouthes them without quite realizing it. (The movement is too subtle to notice.)
The king is seated next to you- wide-eyed- no doubt in some initial attempt to speak to you.
Mind-reading powers would be wonderful right now.
He doesn’t know what’s being unveiled before him, but it’s quite a sight-
you are unfolding into something he cannot fully appreciate, your thoughts a mystery to him.

“Oh…”
The shirt you’re wearing has short sleeves- a little too short.
Short and tight. It’s almost too small on you,
but no.
It only gives the boy a chance to better appreciate your skin.
(He doesn’t remember seeing you like this. There’s a jacket on your lap,
he assumes you took it off when you finished your… display.)
Soft skin.
He looks back at you, (deciding that your skin is not you- there’s more to you and he wants to see that.) your eyes.
Still lost in thought, still a mystery.
A warmth settles in him, a familiar feeling that’s usually induced by watching children play.
Hidden. Pleasantly amusing, delicate.

Delicate.
Beautiful, but in secret.
Moon flower, blooming only in the dead of night,
in it’s own private world.
He is not a part of that world right now,
but this makes your image all the more beautiful.

Distracting thoughts aside, the king truly does enjoy your current display (he almost thinks back to your other display from earlier,
and doesn’t, deciding this is much better).
It’s as if you’ve found the secret to stay forever young, he thinks
and remembers your dancing, what you became.

Divine steam.
The god in you evaporating into the bitter-sweet air.
Precious, eternal for tonight, young.
Forever lost in heaven’s labyrinth.

He hadn’t noticed, but you were speaking. To the bartender, most likely.
You turn and

oh-
oh god.
You’ve found each other.
He had forgotten that was a possibility.

(Golden star.
Silver lips.)

That’s him– that’s the king.
The very same you so confidently claimed as yours a few moments ago.
Did you say it aloud? Does he know?
It was just a fantasy, you think- trying to explain to him- to you- trying to convince someone that it’s not what it looks like.
You forget he can’t hear your thoughts, they bleed into the world and you actually begin speaking, trying to explain that no, christ, you don’t think he’s “yours” in any way.

“I–”

You don’t notice the absurdity of what you’re trying to do right now,
but nothing else comes out.
You are both simply lost in each other, speechless, shocked.
Someone has to breathe, and it’s him who does so first,
being the more lucid one right now.

“Is… is that real leather?”

What?

Your jacket, Thomas. He’s talking about your jacket.

Oh.

“Um… yeah.” You look down at it plainly, not sure of what exactly is happening right now,
then back at him.

There is an awkward pause, broken by a statement that can only be even more awkward,
or not. It’s soothing somehow, you think.

“I play here fridays and sundays at this same hour.”
He speaks holding his breath,
lest he drown in the moment.

Another pause.

“I’d…”
pause.
“like to see you again.”

You’

Maiden and Observer

As speculated,
The observer and the scientist
See an enigmatic entrance.

The arrival of the specimen:
He shows haste,
His wrist flickers:
Punctuality.
He mouthes questions of career:
Orderliness.
His vocal appetite silent:
Surrender.
He declares instruction:
Superiority.
He brightens athleticism.
Focus.

The smile appears through
in the unknownest places,
Within restaurant doors,
Through the soundwaves.
Through ideations:
Competitive movement.

Inertia and stagnation is of disinterest.
Wordly reflection produces empty reciprocration.
Can it be a metaphor for the observer,
Can the specimen by the symbol?
Both reflected from one another.

There is the one,
and then, the other.
The challenge is:
Exhibiting both states
Simultaenously.
This is the task of the maiden.
The balancer of scales.

The scientist seeks to understand,
There is evidence of somes sort
A hidden bliss a smile inside,
a moment of analysis.
Notions brought on by previous experiments.
Past failures predict present outcome,
Recent knowledge or estimation?
Emotion links to reason,
Reason negotiates but stands firm,
The scientist is fatigued, his hand lowers.
Body language is lazily interpreted by curious Observer,
Studying this new behaviour.

The professor places his spectacles on,
He sees no other path to take,
He concludes and hypothesises,
This specimen can be learnt from
No more.

Specimen's silence allows flowing thoughts to pervade the mind of the observer and the scientist.
Silence given to the cynicism of life,
the broadened mind
perceived as narrow.
The observer is observed.
Now conciousness changes in the realm of the user experiencing himself.
Self perception, self defense,
Guard is raised,
Gates are closed.
Only water flows through,
Other matter obstructed.

Maiden, Observer, Scientist, Specimen.

this is a shout out to the kids who haven’t cracked a smile since last summer.
To the kids who’s wrists turned to cutting boards
and stomachs intentionally went empty.

This is the anthem for saturday nights spent on the couch just asking yourself “why”
For hours spent thinking that it’s your fault your parents split and theres nothing you can do.

For the kids who drag a blade across their wrist and carve grand canyons into their wrists although its still not the same.

A song for the kids who crack their knuckles as a distraction from the glares they get from across the classroom in fifth period science.

A harmony to the kids who are trying so hard to fit in but cant seem to get the hold of the right words to stick on their tongue so instead the wrong words slip out of their mouthes and roll into a ball of embarrassment.

A five star dinner served to his four friends which left him three years later and two years later he was just one kid by himself fending off the monsters we call classmates all alone.

Another sleeping pill for the boy who prays with his eyes shut but cant sleep because his eyes have already been closed for hours.

A brace for the broken and the weak as the week drags on to the point where every word that ends in the letter y makes you want to pull your hair out.

A poem dedicated to the kids who cant fend for themselves in the jungle.
Its a hard existence.
But we can make it through.

There are days I wish I could remember
what is was I said in a state of stupor
and haze. The times I tipped bottles
back and poured them into my soul
releasing demons and their lovers
into the air around me like smoke
rising. Stumbling in and out of sentences,
incoherant thoughts, and blurry vision.

There are nights I wish I could recall
what you felt like,  a bare treed forest,
wet with morning dew, and the sound
of echoing geese. We awoke
to the distant whines of lonely dogs,
and the knowledge that it would be hours
before we could meld into each other again.

The memories I have, a muffled question
to dance, an honest eyed I Love You marked
by bloodied hands, chewed puzzle pieces,
and freezing to death watching men chase
pig skin down damp turf. I lift my hands
and chase them like fireflies in the dark.
Hoping to catch them and keep them
in tiny boxes beneath my pillows.

But as butterflies do with nets, they slip
slowly through aching fingers,
like the waves tease the beach, washing
against it and then disappearing again
into murky depths. I would have let you
band me, keep me wrapped up in your
tattoos and scars. I would have fed
hungry mouthes and slipped into
secret moments stolen between sheets.

There are days I wish I could remember
what it was I said. And there are nights
I wish I could forget, what it was you told me.

The day the calves arrived was my favourite. We put them in our shed full of straw. They were skinny and looked unbalanced on top of their long, bony legs. They smelt like a dry room in winter, of vanilla cake and damp straw and droppings. The other kids retched, but I didn't mind.

I came in early every morning to feed the calves. I measured them and mixed water into powdered milk. They fought fiestily over the feeder, nudging each other crudely to secure the last few drops of milk. I put my hands out to calm them, and they latched onto my fingers with their mouthes, thrusting with their tongues, desperate for the milk I had spilt on my hands. The other kids retched, but I didn't mind.

I groomed them and let them drag me around the oval when I took them for a run.
Although I could barely keep up with their childlike bounding, I felt exhilarated and could not stop laughing. At the end of the day I'd lead them back to the shed and play with them. I took a pitch fork and scooped up the soiled straw for the compost and replaced it with clean straw. Of course, the smell wasn't pretty. The other kids retched, but I didn't mind.

On the weekend we met outside the sheds in our overalls and boots. It was cold and early, and the teacher was late. The other kids moaned about having to be there just to get "a stupid grade".  I didn't care about the grades. I would have loved to have slept in, but I didn't mind.

The teacher finally arrived and put on her suit. She unlocked the shed and we were engulfed with the warmth and soft yellow light, the air scented by the sweet vanilla-like aroma from the powdered milk. I walked over to bid the calves good morning. One was nuzzling at the face of the other.

She was dead.

Natural causes apparently. I retched, but the other kids didn't mind.

if only i had the courage
i would speak up to those
jibbering mouthes they own

if only i had the courage
let me be free and happy
avoiding negative thoughts
on my surrounding

if only i had the courage
would i carelessly not worry
about who or how
or why or what

(c.r)

White wall of flame
Do you see it?
***** fingernails and coal eyes
Do you see it?
Gluttural groans and mouthes fixated in 'Oh'
Skin that lies while butterflies dance on their skin
Do you see it?
Dollies in a line with the red kisses upon their heads
Their wings opening around them and hanging
Displaying the glory
The power
While weak eyes tremble with awe
Do you see it?
While the King and Queen argue
The rook slithers
Taking pawns and two Knights
Scaled to something magnificent
Alluring and burning alive
Do you see it?
The weasel has no Will
The weasel will not be reborn
No
He will be ash under my feet
While I pick my teeth of his flesh
And when you see me disappear
My failed consummation a dying echo
I will come
You will hear me roar
And you will know I breathe again
Do you see
me

Closed in so tight by this ten-cornered room;
It rains through the window with thunder and gloom.
The branches reach out and scratch with anxiety;
But my window stays closed, as I pose in shear piety.
I blast my heart-attack music as loud as she dares;
Rest on the bed deep in thought with no cares.
Need some water, cotton mouthes swam in the same canal as me as a child, and memory manifests.
Tuck myself in comfortably about my new nest;
And what's best, or even better, or maybe just a tad less:
Is that I just cannot come to accept the fact that life is worth breathing without you:
Especially, lately--eyes shaking, dry heaving in doubt of truth.
Pretty sure you know what I mean, unless I'm asleep once again, and this is just a memory of a dream on replay. Who knows these days. Certainly ways...to stay lazy and lose thought when down under

A season prim hostler's proper attire
while this bolsome flower is blooming by the savin juniper shade
though a diadem purport the crescent wane anew
in mouthes of horses nights attain  
a welding of alliance brilliantly tempered how it has grown afield in agronomics with a tact of finance in speedy recovery again!

the public square is scattered
with traces of wild excitements

hats thrown into the sky are trampled on the ground
shoes danced so fast that their feet couldn't keep up
a brown bear is held tightly in a little girl's hand
her other hand holding the string of a balloon now plucks
at her father's intestines
motionless eyeballs still flicker with last night's fireworks
blood streams out from open mouthes like a passionate song

and the roaring message from a distant festival
can no longer excite any heart to beat again

The flames roar high
Teasing heat, the devils game
Chorused demons wail
Fires dance without light
Moonsung only light

Angels scream in songs
So beautiful, such hatred, rage
Fighting claw tipped wings
Buffetted winds in storm
I look above to see
nothing but
Bloodied feathers falling

This is the heaven, or maybe hell
Promised from pulpits, pastered mouthes
A place of torment, shattered light
A place of hell in heaven's
crusty, fallen shell

God looks down, a sorry state
His face of sadness, little interest of late
His angels, fight, die, and procreate
the demons angels
themselves delete
No peace for or
For other

Not the heaven I wanted
Nor God of power
He placed me here
To gaze up, writhe
Past hate
Final revenge
A soul's debate

Its not fair!
Screamed from broken lips
Defied His words
His council
His fate

I watch these feathers
Bloodied, unworn
float to down to me
So beautiful, such a state
Float to me, come down

One, slides on down
Touching, brushing my face
A touch of heaven
Of peace, knowing
He turned his face
I cannot blink
Cannot hate

Bound by hand and foot
Taken by the beautiful
And disgusting at whim
Less than a battlefield trophy
I stare at his face

Mine is eternal ****
Bathed in fresh blood
My legs spread wide
I am torn deep again
ravenge over and over

Forced to see His face
sins of my pride, beauty, and ***
He never looks my way
But kills his angels
Their feathers
My bed

my symphony played the song that broke my heart. the song haunts me in my sleep every night as I grip the blankets trying to tell myself to keep holding on. the song played louder and louder as I drove away from my broken heart. in my sleep she said come inside, fall asleep it'll be okay, but when I woke up I wouldn't be okay. when I woke up, their mouthes wouldn't tell me it was all just a sick joke. their mouths would scream that song. the song played louder and louder. it'll play on a warm day in August when I'm wishing for their arms around my shoulders. it'll play when I'm in a park kissing my husband, thinking to myself about the terrible lives I had because of their decision. it'll play at a wedding. it'll play at my brother's high school graduation. it'll play at a birthday party. it'll play and it won't stop.

ooh! the faith was stood
against every worst

God has its word
all technology had given up

all apparatuses became as a decorate
the media has no word

the arts had been from an ancient
football becomes an old fashion

sports lost their luster
the world has one order


their play became boring
and it is gone so farthest

it may not be returned
the only art is the *******

the white becomes a new color
the faith will grow so fast

the films will tell a word
the art will draw a portrait

tell the oldest and hated word
that they want to hide it

they tried to **** believe
believe leads to live
with happy and give
the others the funny

God is not presented
but the fact has appeared

untie your feeling
and ask your God from deepest

worship and be honest
all **** sites became the preachers

the naked at the end gets clothes
they all talked one word
save us our God

there was injustice
governed the land
he believes that he was the god

he believed that he deserved
to govern all world
when a prophet appeared

he argued him a lot
the prophet told that his God
could get the life and the death

the king said," I could do
more than your God could do
I could judge that to be killed

so I got him dead
and the other to be lived
and so I get him safe from the death

the prophet told him with shortage,"
my God gets the sun from the east
could you get it from the west"

the king got in troubles
the problems and worst riddles were faced
their mouthes were widely opened

the only and only the matter to be solved
is killing that awful
as he damaged the others Gods

and put the ax at the shoulder of the biggest
they came and asked
, "who could argue to destroy our gods"

one of them answered, ' he is that youth
who refused to worship them
he must be punished"

when they asked
he answered so clearest,
brightness as the sun of August

the big god's statue did
they looked with amazement
they said in one word,"
that he could not do that

he could not be jealous
the facts he could not do that"
he attacked them as a fighter

carrying strong armies
," how do you worship them
as they had no harmful or useful

how do you worship who you make"
they got astonished
times and times

the king got angry
as if he could overlap their gods
he would destroy his godhead so nearly

they made a great hole
gathering every wood from all parts
putting it and burned

the tongues of fire were so hight
so the birds were flying over it
could fell into it

from the heat of it
he would be thrown at the first moment

they made a great catapult
they put him at it
and threw at the heart

of the fire which worshipped its God
and believed in its godhead
it waited for the orders

the great angel came
his face filled with fear
fearing of fire to burn the only truth

walking over that land
,'' do you need any help"
the angel asked

the prophet answered,"
from you, that is no demand
and I thank you from my heart

from my God, he knows what I face
and he will save any hurts"
the fire was ordered,"

to be safe on that closest
prophet
the people waited a lot

the prophet got saved
the fire burned its ties
he was saved as well as his clothes

the only truth is the God
say it at times
save us, us

dear highness
dear truth
my God