Religions persist on personal prohibition, it puts all the blame onto you for someone else's sinful personification.

 Ideological love is how they live but there's no restriction on perdition of a mythological god above. I'd rather be the son of perdition than the folly of lambs.

Too exhausted to audition for a man of clay puppeted by people who belive in the same puppet that once traversed their lands.

To die and be locked in the Land of silence, Land of desolation,  a World in December, Purgatory is sounding better and better.

Do any of my words make sense?
Living a life in constant defense
Scared to let the walls break
Scared that all people want is to take
I put pages of my mind on display
See who comes out to play
To tear or to read
This warning I hope they heed;

I’m fragile, despite my walls
I’ve recovered from my falls
All I want is to be myself
Not let that rot, sit on a shelf
Indeed, I can be a little dark
But at least I’ve got a spark
Breaking way to a raging fire
Of care and desire
To live my life
And hope that it be not alone
‘Tis dim on my own

Can’t you see it in my eyes?
The truth, there it lies
Awaiting for a gentle soul
To dive into the rabbit hole
And aid me in climbing out of its depths

Yes, all is well
A well puppeted shell
Internally, all is numb
Emotions down to but a crumb
For reasons unsure
Some thought ‘twas a cure
But all is rather obscure
When all is teetering on the edge
Longing for some kind of knowledge

Then, on occasion
It returns
In an immeasurable quantity
A crack in the stone dam
Then come the surging waters;
Is this who I am?

Feeling nothing for hours
Then suddenly it devours
My very being
As though from blind to seeing
All once more returning
Then greatly yearning
Reminded of patience
Finally, content
For one must be patient
Best not to come riding in
Like a knight upon a horse
Claiming a grand win
Oh, but of course

Is something not missing?
A faint ring,
Ring ringing in the ear
Faintly one does hear;
A calling
Memory of one falling
Caught by none other than the one hearing

A tease
Putting at ease
Hope burning bright as a November fire
Keeping one warm
Fueling a wishful desire
To embrace what chance may provide
Still, one must hide
Behind the bark of a mighty pine
Before approaching that wonder of thine

True, a mortal heart does sing
Key placed in the palms
Of one singing sweet psalms
O, what a sacred thing
The key to a mortal heart
Coveted at the hands of a work of art

Forests visible in those gateways
Where a dazzling soul doth roam
Seemingly floating in its gentle essence
A blessed, pure home
When one is in its presence

Planes the hue of Florida sands
The edges of a vast ocean
Such tender hands
Crafting, weaving words upon parchment
Placed to lure out emotion
A symphony of words
Yet all are lost
When hands meet

A tree has roots, in a mortal’s case ‘tis feet
That travel distances near and far
Look up, make a wish upon a star
As they carry said mortal across the material plane
To greet one so meek
Trembling ever so slight, scarcely able to utter a squeak

Is this truly a mortal
Standing before one so small
Or an angel in disguise?

Voices brought out
Then such is in momentary drought
Like the push and pull of an ocean wave
Words come out in a strangely familiar flux
Until there is a slight disturbance

A time limit is presented
Such a short time remained
A comment made regarding such;
“O, how those that raise us
Shan’t rule us forever.”
Says one

In a surprising and subtle reply,
From the - angel? - ;
“Indeed, I am sure they can’t,”
“And surely shan’t rule me forever.”
Delivering such words with the sweetest expressions
A reassuring smile and the most gentle of eyes
Igniting a brilliantly burning flame of hope

O, how one needed not linger
But linger one had;
Turning between the calling authority and the angel,
Finally turning to the angel
For a sweet moments embrace
Lasting for several heartbeats
Wrapped in the tranquilizing wings of an angel

Slowly slipping away
Uttering a farewell
Yearning to stay
Indeed, bidding adieu was a taste of hell
For the one who fell
For an angel

As the distance grew ever greater between one and the angel
‘Twas as though there was the tugging of a string
One of scarlet red
Bound is the heart and head
Of one so small
And an angel so fair

As one rests a scattered mind
What interesting things dream-walkers would find
The meek one, in a flowing gown of blue
Gently tamed mane of darkest brown hue
Skin of dampened sand
Gateways of rich soil with but a touch of emerald partially buried
Barely noticeable by any whom dare gaze
Into the eyes of one so pitiful

Dancing alone upon the stern of a grand ship
Under the roof of a painted white gazebo
Overlooking the vast sea below
With the sway of a hip
One slowly dancing doth call;

“Angel, o angel of mine,”
“Hear me now, and allow,”
“For my voice to reach those divine ears of thine.”

From the heavens doth enter the angel,
In a suite of raven black and deep ocean blue
Silken hair of earth with ends of gold
Wings unfurled, of purest white snow
In pale moonlight, a heavenly glow

Approaching one so small, one so unworthy of such wonder
In that moment, doubt is cast asunder
The angel taking the hands of one so small,
Whispering into an ear;

“‘Twas for me you did fall,”
“Just as ‘tis you I fell for,”
“Down from the heavens,”
“For not heaven,”
“Nor the Earth, nor hell,”
“Could ever keep us apart.”

Spun about like a ribbon in the hands of a dancer
A question with the perfect answer
Then taken back, mane just brushing the wood below
Gazing up into the gateways of the most heavenly fellow
Before being given heaven’s kiss
Delicate lips of an angel
Meet those of a human
Truly, could this
Not be a moment most blessed?

Arising to meet once more with entrancing eyes
To dance in the nights bliss
Fading gently into darkness
Then returning into the waking world
What a vision ‘twas..

Rising in the pale light morning brings
Wearing tokens of an angels affection
A warmth fills the heart
As ‘tis time to start
Such a peaceful day
To explore all it could be
Wishing to spend it with thee

Venturing through a valley of words
Searching for those best to utter
To whisper to an angel
As ones words are none compared
To those smooth as butter
Parting from the lips of the angel
In the start having repaired
A once damaged heart
Now pulsing, beating for the healer

Hoping, yearning to see the angel once more
Attempting to craft a plan
A day, not near yet not too far
This wonder is of lore

Perhaps 5 weeks after the last
The day remaining the same as the one past
If such is possible, of which one pleas it be
Let one catch a moment with thee
One day, as the angel did once say
Maybe things shall be okay
Open the curtains, shine a little light
Then, hopefully together, take flight
Into a world of their design.

- Jay M
May 13th, 2020

Frankly, this feeling of vulnerability and weakness is so very consuming.

The undeniable fact that my heart is puppeted by those gossamer wisps of daydreams and
of course,
you
remains etched in my skin.

I cannot quite
let you go
because that would
simply
mean
I will let me go too.

and the gentle  desert song
reaching out and thru

with visions of a spendor and grace
unto

our abandoned  boys and girls
  fed  with visions of war
and hate

....
.....

the road is long
there is no turning back

there is no going forward
there is only abuse

of every sacred song
every sung

----

the desert heat beneath the holy sun
the  mild  desert fresh scented air

the poison of war that is everywhere


-------

the gentle people
and the hate

a simple marriage
forced by "the kings"

powerlessly puppeted
we repeat

what it is
we are told to say
---
---

somewhere...sometimes

maybe "here"
"today"

the sleeping people
will come awake

and maybe
it might be you

once again holy
once again true
--
--
and the gentle desert song
reaching out and thru

with visions of a spendor and grace
unto

our abandoned  boys and girls
  fed  with visions of war
and hate

....
.....

Now only the puppeted dawn awakens: The flakes that have cooled from the wounded sky are falling and wandering with the changing Time: Nature is still taking a blind spot while still betraying itself and has long sinned! The incessant carrot, broken skinned and cursing wound means no more people to accommodate! There is a petty envy of perpetuating disasters, pointing at each other: Just because the killer-simple blessing came unexpectedly from heaven! The heart: as a wounded pincushion, it still endures the vicissitudes of existence, and the grandiose Order itself believes: It has done everything it used to

imagined and what he designed as fun with vidor-satisfaction! Reality is still whining with its sufferings, - many people do not take part in futile struggles: with loudspeakers and ore sermons, pseudo-speakers reassure the non-existent: "We have done everything with human possibilities!" "Only the hopeful opportunity is overdue!" In recruiting words, trust has long since disappeared!

The brain is forced to listen, and convulsively forgets the gehenna flames of permanence! Human dignity descended into a castable **** — only a lack of eternal fidelity and trust — because we were afraid. We could maniacally dread the uncertain Tomorrow, in which the skeptics deliberately whispered: How can we not help? -

we received the trust and handshakes that remained in the fly with a thousand promises: In the depths of hearts, the shining patrol fire was seldom smoldered: Prickly, murderous daggers rumble on snowdrift battlefields - one cannot know, one cannot stand alone! Would you have lost the eclipse wick? Where did loyalty, the sure appearance of reality for each other, go? -

In the distance, an ever-fading echo is heard on the sufferer and the call for help - maybe no one is listening anymore! Even the last renegades returned to the mountains and show only wounded silence…