Foamy fingers
Credulously claw their way
Up the sand
Under a twinkling canvas.
Each surge of strength is
Met by an almost
Equal decline.
But by the aid of the moon,
The maiden's embrace
Stalks, grain by grain
Over the sand towards
The arms of her lover.
Whispers grow into
Hoarse cries of determination
And the world stops
To watch her
In all of her courage.
She stretches...
Reaches...
With the last ounce
Of her strength,
She lurches forward
To hold the land
In her arms.
Nature freezes in captivation
To behold an instant
Wholesomely vain and beautiful
And temporary
In their union
And an instant later,
Those same foamy fingers
Let slip the land
They fought so hard
To embrace,
Retreating back to their
Domain of chaos
And the cries of the ocean
Fade back to whispers
Before the sun can
Expose the lovers' encounter,
But not before I let
Her lullaby sing me
To peace.

I listen to the pulse of my beating heart.
It's a feeling I might never forget.
Hell, I use it as an alarm clock.
I wake up and tie my shoes at night.
And when I walk down the city blocks,
I use it as a warning call.

The dim street lights can be deceiving.

"You want light? I'll flicker and cut out
to make your night adventure a bit more eerie".

It's as if someone is floating above me,
lighting a cigarette with a dying lighter,
and once the flame is gone
I am dark. No shadow to follow me anymore.

It's hard to walk alone with a kickdrum heart.

Great
Leader
Broken
Pitiful
Loner

All...



Me.

Long ******* day
Short night
They say there aren’t enough hours in a day
I don’t think they are right
Darkness can shroud me in its
suffocating void for many
blue moons and I would still loathe the light
For the day brings headaches,
annoyances, a disgust for humans,
and the familiar, which I wish to leave behind
The light is a blaring reminder of the opportunities
I have not seized, the automatons that drive the streets,
and in the grand scheme of things, this life
I am too frail and meek
The night provides peace from
the overwhelming sun-inspired activities
that I don’t have the strength to sustain
I feed from the void, tasting the insane,
satisfying nothing but a harrowed
mind with empty thoughts
I am hungry for the night

I turn my gaze towards the void,
And stare into the deep abyss,
To meet the blackened eyes within,
The invite of damnation's kiss.

I speak into great beyond,
And share the thoughts in my control,
To voice the words I've never said,
The secrets of a tortured soul.

I step back from the edge of fate,
And give thanks for the love I feel,
To walk the ever winding road.
The path to where my heart can heal.

I have a vision of hope
For all  souls that yearn and are never sated
Those led astray by the world's misgivings
In the prime of their lives
I have the panacea

For all that despair
Who've watched their conscience stollen from them,
Their minds programmed negatively
With sadistic teachings

Leaving them craving for wealth and power
And then they can shed all the blood
till they fulfill their desire
I have a formula

I have a dream for change
To start the  conversation
Write the poem that will break  barriers
Unify all humanity
And begin transformation

Remind a brother of his mate
Living in the gutter
Turn all daggers into kitchen knives
And security budget to relief budget

Come join me on my revelatory path
We can achieve equality for all
We can cease all wars
Morality is engraved in everyone

Every person has some light in him
They might be murderous
A nightwalker's nightmare
But there is hope

We can turn on the lightswitches in their hearts
With love
Everyone lets give it a whirl today...
Love is all

There are those who pray to the moon!
Does one pray to the moon as
an orbiting rock held in place by gravity,
or does one pray to the light reflected by it?
Or, to the gravitational pull the moon exerts
on the ocean or on our hearts?
That is, does prayer of this kind happen
when the night is moonless, black, and lonely,
or not?
I would guess not.
But the question persists:
what is it that imbues the moon
with its quasi-divine qualities?
Is it merely the faith of the Seeker,
the Nightwalker, or the Primalist?
Or is it that the moon is,
essentially, a mirror
of our own light,
our own darkness,
our own loneliness and
our own divinity?
Certainly, it summons us,
on a deep, soul level,
such as it draws up water
from many fathoms bellow.
And so, it goes...

In all of this,
the questions linger,
the darkness abides,
the mystery takes hold.

A vast a glorious temple
At its center, a black altar lay,
A ghastly visage,
Nightmare of brighter souls’ dismay,
-
Say your last and come to me,
I will give your life meaning.
So lost were you, that in the end,
Your body I found for its flesh to rend.
-
The Gods have everlasting hunger,
Appeasement must be ingratiated,
They tremble the earth, bloodthirsty,
The Cathedral must be saturated.
-
I vow to stain this ebony room crimson,
If even it takes me all night long,
The Elders speak in muffled whispers,
I swear I will tear through the throng.
-
The Rite, The Sacrifice upon us,
I’ve found the perfect one,
A filthy nightwalker unites us,
Our own ***** Of Babylon.
Clenching both hands about the hilt,
My ritualistic blade awakens,
So wary I am of the evil dagger,
That I hope it is not mistaken,
Down and out, I must cut sternum and sinew apart,
Through the ribs, out the spout, I must acquire her putrid heart,
Her eyes dug out, cornea like cones,
I could stay upon her forever, sleeping to sounds of breaking bones,
I will leave her eagled and free
Until she cannot seem to bleed,
I will lead the sacrosanct
Lobotomy of her sacrifice
There no hope, no other recant,
But to hope you make it to Paradise.
Until every hole on her body swells,
I will conduct for my Gods this Hell.