Factions of the past
Still here–
The many monsters,
Gods and Goddesses all,
Worshiped and created
By a thousand wars
Humanity fought
Against itself
And fights still
Against the poisons
Standing on the battlements
Within humanity’s own
Bloodied heart.
The year ends with heavy rains
As if to wash us all clean
Of the leavings and grime.
Now, standing with each year
For each foot of earth
Between us forever—
I gather to me
Broken pieces of colored glass
And think of—
Just after midnight,
An early morning
Long before dawn—
The third day of a new year six years ago,
You left in blinding, flooding rains.
If only on this third day
Of this new year—
I could open the earth
And roll a stone away,
Bringing you back from under
This six feet of earth.
But I have neither the strength
Nor the talent
For miracles great or small
When most days
There is not enough
Left over to become
A mosaic of brokenness.
Walk with me among the ruins
I will show you the points of interest–
Notice the weeds grown up
between the cracks of stone,
the chambers filled with mold,
the temple fallen, the altar cracked,
seeming to fold.
Imagine who may have walked here
once so long ago,
wracking havoc with fire
upon those who called this home.
The fires burning to spite
the cold winter rain.
Those who survived left
staring into winter’s
icy back eyes
in the heart of it all.
The languid time of evening
Comes in flames,
Searching horizons
In their lazy, twisting way
For truths and hearts.
Forever searching
For another flaming heart
To serve as a twin
As if that could be found
In such languid searching
In slowing time
Between sunset and sunrise,
Each a prize of flame,
never finding another flaming heart.
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Icy cold wind walks.
Blinding sunshine ironic,
Burning horizons,
Promises of warmth
Unfulfilled in morning’s cry
Of grey storm cloud’s tears,
And then nothing left
Of fires or dreams curling,
Blanketing round us.
Sleeplessness always told the story
Between the here and the now
The between and
What she thought a game
The tracks that led to nowhere
The last section of a living
Something not well lived
A swirl of memory
Piercing through knots
could not be undone
She had lived with no plan
With only a heart that failed
More than once
A heart she could not ever trust
A heart that spoke in religious tongues
She’d yet to understand
Its rhyme or reason for speaking
In lies and whispers,
For leading her astray,
For leading her to abandon her dreams and plans,
She would never know.
This was her last act, in her last years,
To strip herself of harlequin clothes.
As winter whispers
The longing starts
For warmer days
Of a warming spring
Leaking slowly
Into a sweltering summer.
As winter whispers
In pretense of knowing
Warmth and cheer
Of holidays it cannot contain
In its freezing coldness,
We are left untouched
For far too long—
Our souls grow grey
In these winter days
And leap at the hope
Contained in striking colors
Of Winter’s sunsets–
Only to have hope
Bashed, broken, bleeding
Against the frozen Winter
Ground. As Winter whispers,
Chuckling at our fragile humanity.
I tire
Slaying demons,
Not my thing.
I’ve chased
Misplaced
Braced
For the reckoning
Of evil deeds.
I’ve offered up my neck
To bring utter happiness
And still—
Nothing would do
Till cutting myself in half
To dig, dig, dig deeper,
Bury the self beneath the soil–
The dirt of need, want, desire
Lay it all to rest in the infertile
Grime, the level of your rule,
To be consumed by rot
Of prayers you pretend to answer,
But you are neither God nor Goddess,
Despite all your pretentiousness.
In this, this turning away,
I offer up prayers
To God and Goddess that truly be,
And I do lay down the sword
I used in battle with myself:
Thus, I become the warrior
I was meant to be.
Vanishing in the light of dawn,
Reflection slowly fading away–
Terrified at being lost,
Horrified at never being found
Discovering there was nothing
Left to be gained–
To be had,
Nothing left to want–
Left to desire.
Only time stood in the way
Of the time when a child
knows how to play.
A time so long ago,
Really, if a child ever knew
The luxury of play
Such is the childhood
Of a child who parents the parent–
The deficit of play
So in the return of a reflection,
To fading back into skin,
Gaining a discovery
Of the need, the desire
To play, to become at times,
The child who had never been
Allowed to be.
A dose of fetish. Good friends. An incomparable muse.
These are my inner thoughts, passions and inspirations.
An insight to a heart mind and soul.
An onion has many layers. So have I!
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