"reapings" poems
In a weary series of redundant repetition.
I feel less of a hearty player, but more of
a lethargic field whos reapings are to far from succession.
Evolution happened somewhere along the
way.
Somewhere along the way we forgot there's nothing more powerful than the verbosity of our name.
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 9:42 PM UTC
Before the beginning,
Man said, "This is a world to conquer."
Hence, Man released his word
and it was a resounding,
"I will."
A bright shining beacon
separated the darkness.
This was how it began.
The next day, Man separated
high-minded thoughts from base desires
and called one educated and planned,
the other, trivial and crass,
and made one above the other in ranks.
Morning and evening passed.
On the third day, the desires were gathered
and separated into virtues and vices.
Each had seeds abundant with
the reapings of their own rewards and consequences.
All was good but the darkness and light
were stark. So on the fourth day
Man said, "I will give the darkness flecks of light
and the light covers of darkness
so that everything will have shadows
and shades to cover themselves upon."
And Man saw all was as he pleased.
Then Man pronounced, "I will fill
the virtues and vices with every sort of thing
to feed on according to their kind.
They shall be fruitful and multiply and they shall
swarm and crawl and fly according to their own kind.
They shall become beasts and livestock which
plot and prey on each other according to their own kind."
And so it was on the fifth day.
When Man saw how everything
was as he made it to be,
Man said, "I shall make a god in my own image, he will
be as I proclaim and
be the bearer of my creation. He will be for me
a cause to have dominion over all."
And so on the sixth day,
Man created a god in his own image
to subdue everything. He said to him, "Now, you will
grant me permission to do as I have always done and
in your name, claim glory."
On the seventh day, Man saw all was absolved
and done according to his will.
Man rested and let the name of god
carry the load.
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 2:41 PM UTC
I am the black and white.
All the violence that exists.
The fight in you, or flight of them.
The heat that blood implied.
So never did I think my hate,
would fashion itself well.
Shake me with my soul to slip,
to loose let claret drip.
That kept within a box,
with transparent chains.
Fixed to glassy walls,
hitched with failing reins.
Is my own eye through wich I see
rebirth upon repass.
For this anger does ablige.
This tunnel of no light.
With not a chance i find thee love
As darkness does amass
For pity has not voice in me.
Quarrel or appall.
The child has now gone away,
So up and down i fall.
For If I choose want of greed
The better unto me.
And time much better spent
With all such reapings heed.
So is it then a soul undone?
Most do find it bent.
"my own will'', my choosing time!
With furies made to vent.
thoses yearning hearts will never do.
They will often sink.
Slink away with time,
And dance to there own tune.
"So Would I then find thee well"?
After this our play.
Wish thee hell and hope again
We meet another day
so to then, you never find
a broken warreng heart
Will i find, ii put my hate
Black as coal and unforgiving,
Indistructable.
The thought of you,
The good with flaw,
The me who cannot stay.
Is not the man I wish to be,
And ever cast away.
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 9:10 PM UTC
I've always had a fascination with death
First I was afraid of it
Then I longed for it
Now I'll embrace it
Whenever it decides
To come for me
Hopefully not by my own hand
But only time can tell
Jul 4, 2019
Jul 4, 2019 at 9:53 PM UTC
A flame to burning bridges.
Pain, pushing me over the edges.
Sight blinded by rage.
Another hopeless war waged.
Taketh this black hate.
Only Death's dark taste will sate.
Welcome the sinners into this hell.
From heavens gates I fell.
Wingless angel, barren of light.
Plucked free of inner fight.
Lay down my weapons.
Wait for the reapings.
Twisting in true denial.
Breeding malice, nasty and vile.
Final step into oblivion.
Time like distance lost to countless eons.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC
This old dog out of dogdom,
in all of bones scattered elsewhere remaining
to be unseen, hidden in old glory and flushed lives
In all their shapes and sizes they have
their bow-legs and their collarbones dangerously
recoiling in and out as if to ****** fully bare
for me to see -- invisible hands for invisible reapings they go ******** clad else there was wind
in all rooms winnowing to make good use of
my time and unhinge the doors to toss them out
of their senses and into mine
letting them wear me thin like paint to turpentine,
in this house that refuses to let go
of fragrances underneath this cold rondure
I have forgotten how it was to love
and clad myself fat with flattened foolishness
not having loved enough to remember their
weights crushing my bones so dearly feigned
my eyes and skins love-crumbled and
positioned to surpass their flow amidst breaths
held like ******* or my collected body going
into another's and completely vanishing
in a thick scent of fluids so virulent and mundane,
putting a smile on my face and an anchor
to my wrongness as if to drag along ineluctable
and loveless down the stream of many names
i will confess to my first-born son
so we can fill parks and stare at them once more,
laughing at how they have broken us.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 3:14 AM UTC
Withered wings of wanting height,
Soon to die for love of flight.
Here to sound the dreaded call,
Here the reaping at the fall.
We hurried here and quickened there,
But lost our calm to unkept hair.
The goals of all so soon let go,
Unraveled in the wanton glow.
The sound of space roars silent here,
The deafening answer to our turned ear.
Narry again comes the dreaded call,
Bittersweet love to lose the fall.
We shouted and cried with all we had,
Trials and tribulations driving mad.
Formidable strength too young to fail,
Sent packing down through winding trail.
The scent of shame soon loses taste,
Now accustomed to our normal waste.
Few echoes left of binding call,
Few echoes left to remember at all.
The golden light dawns yet again,
Past westward reapings troubled then,
The dirt and ash falls to the floor,
Fiery wings take flight once more.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 4:16 PM UTC
King Arthur hangs his head in shame
For decorated killers and finger-pointing haircuts sit at his table
But it's not his table; it's a replica of death and tragedy
Confidential files scattered about
Yet their thoughts reside on one matter:
The death of all those who don't
The alpha of this pack demands deliberately thought out body counts
Yet one man has a different plan
One man wants a simpler course of action
Dim lights cast a blue spell upon them
This one man eyes up a big red button
With a skull and crossbones for a logo
He demands that the alpha uses his head
Or otherwise risk a global catastrophe that only affects them
This one man demands we use our heads and send out heads of war
Do you use your brain to break boards?
A deadly notion elevated to a tragic limelight
Heads of war that have no eyes
Staring at men, women, and children of another place and time
Heads of war that have no soul
Demanding those of others like the scythe of Death
And yet that very scythe has a purposeful master
For what purpose can be had in mass-reapings?
The men in their war room drink and laugh in the name of Ares
And Ares looks back at them unfulfilled
Unsatisfied
This is the war room
Where men choose other men to die and suffer in the name of the alpha
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 9:45 PM UTC