At the lowering of the flag,
and the rise of white,
let it not be mistaken for cowardice,
but may it be perceived as wisdom,
that my heart, a battleground
torn and riddled with blood and scorches
is now the blessed land of peace,
that all foes are in full retreat,
and the drums of victory loudly beat
and the shout of triumphal praise.

And at the going down of the bitter red Sun,
when flames smoulder, and hearts surrender,
I shall rest easy in the night, knowing, knowing
no more shots and thunder ring to my ears,
nor the tortured screams of twisted souls,
as the sun slowly sets in its ****** colour,
the fields of red and crimson,
are washed clean by truth.

Relief, the greatest sigh of relief,
that this land suppressed by fear
is liberated by an almighty host angelic
in all its glory, that with every rhythmic step
and every lyrical chant,
the enemy trembles and breaks,
no wait, they retreat.

And now, this scorched field of battle
bloodied and burnt, is restored by Christ
to beautiful fields of green and life,
trees, forest, Golden sunlight, skies of blue,
air of purity, and a life renewed, and improved,
rivers ebb and flow, trees creak and groan
as birds sing their songs, and the world is once
again alive and fully well,
this is my world,
this is my human soul.

Such a rare sight,
In the dead of the night,
When all is resting and nesting,
pushing past all the testing,
is the one delicate flower,
not a plant revolved around power,
but more faithful strength,
embracing the renewing love
of its father.
This flower,
the rarest sight,
gave off one thing,
one small thing,
that meant the entirety of the world,
one
single
tear,
for it was made alive,
healed,
restored,
by the fathers caring,
tender love.

Here is forever,
Because we are so duly noted,
As members of what
The layman calls Earth,
But the preacher calls “Kingdom.”
And I call Home.

Ferocity is something unfamiliar,
And yet,
So normal.
It’s not something I tend to access,
But when I do, I really seem to enjoy the startled look on your face.
I’m much more that you ever thought to ask about.

My philosophy is one of apathy.
But, Apathy is what we must destroy.
So, I take my shimmering blade to its throat,
And with one slice, Blood fountains.
How much more Beautiful can a being become?

You and I shall be warriors,
Set on the righteous path of
Holy Destruction.
“This land is the land of Shiva,
Greatest destroyer,
And Black Kali stands above him triumphant,
She is bathed in the blood of mortals,
And yet, I see past the red stains to the tormented heart,
Of a tender wolf. “

“A killer. But, never taught different.
Spilling the blood of the innocent,
But lacking the understanding
Of the sacredity of life. “

Breathe love, my darling.
Breathe love, and exhale deadly monoxide.

My religion says,
all this lively life is
precious,
not just the human kind.

It says,
there are no heavenly ups or hellish downs,
there's is,
and it's all around us.

It says,
there's not one way for love to love,
unless
it's without even this condition.

It says,
all we know is
so much less
than what we can imagine,

and it imagines
a universe of expanding beauty,
one or many
in a one that's universally beautiful

and never wasted,
not the tiniest bit of it,
even as we slip
away then back into it.

Wherever you start, there's a beginning,
it said,
beginning to lure me into its crystalline
blue, dotted
not by dots but by blurs of a deeper blue.
You knew
all along, as long as you could, it couldn't, you
couldn't, keep you
in the where there where you were. It did, not long,
but long
enough to learn. I followed it then, not wanting
to stop. Long,
it stopped and turned and smiled back at me, us,
a grin
tall at both ends. It wouldn't end till mine was just
beginning.

a soreness behind the eyes
eyelashes are made of metal
heavy metals
clack clack
blink
the metals attract each other
top and bottom
my eyelids are not strong enough
just give in
to the weight

Dark and beautiful.
Mesmerizing, the sounds of the earth that catch you sooner.
The bugs that sing to the night because air can't be taken from them.

My brow is furrowed. I don't know why. I'm not even thinking.
The emptiness is present
which doesn't seem possible.

The emptiness is present.

Bugs are crawling up my legs. Bugs are crawling in my ears.
The night is singing.
I'd like to live with the trees tonight. I'd like to grieve
and give solemn peace to the air
with the trees tonight.
I'd breathe every breath of my soul to the trees tonight.
And for once, I'd ask the clouds to completely cover the stars
as a sort of silent reverence for the ever-beating passion reverberating
through the silently clasped hands
of me, and the trees, tonight.

There is a mineshaft
in my chest -- my heart
scales down the lines,
dropping into my stomach
graceful, a trapeze artist
descending from above

There is a tranquility
here, a blinded heaven
scarring across my eyelids

This ghostly skin
shakes me awake,
screaming ripping
like paper between
the sheets, I am stuck
with a glue I never spilled

The lotus unfolding
back and forth, a
sick dance twisting
in front of me,
the memories in my
head convulsing
like they're trying to
restart my heart,

I always knew
the end would be
brighter
than the beginning,
the candlelight
of my birth
painting pictures
I'll never get to see

because this heart,
it weighs me down
a death I never felt
roaring in my chest --

And this waterfall
will never
reach
the pond.