Calling on Angels
from celestial planes and Earth;
we must begin with ourselves.

We each must decide.
We all heed this call each day;
tested by action and word.




-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights

Taken on a journey along the
expeditious jugular vein of
this existence, at a moment's
notice, with nary a warning,
I am seldom privy to the exact
location or final destination
of my numerous and dizzying
stops on the many roads of
this life.

I can only hope and pray for
the obvious illumination of
all that I am meant to see,
the clarity of mind with which
to appreciate it all, and the
wisdom to understand and
then impart the riddles,
thereby extending the best
of myself forward into this
vast universe.

This is my wish...as I sail along
this journey.




-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights

Among the silent,
thunderous
halls of the mind,
there are pathways
one should seldom
roam, for, often,
the bitterest of
fruit grows between
the walls of an
intricate cognitive
labyrinth.

Still...
I walk the very
walkways that will
either lead me to
complete
self-destruction or
to enlightenment
and divinity.

I walk quietly,
tiptoeing around
certain memories,
so as not to awaken
them from their
slumber, and
incur their wrath.

I walk on glass
footsteps, as the
shards make their
way in through
broken arches,
in search of a place
to call home,
among the ruins of
a broken spirit
and a bludgeoned,
weeping heart.

Such is love and life
and the ever present
shadow of remembrance,
and still I walk,
leaving scarlet
footprints along
the way...

to remember
where I've been.





-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights

The wounds of war
are, often times, hidden
from the naked eye.

Inexperience blinds
ones’ visions,
and common ears
can’t hear the screams,
as shards of flesh
are ripped away
from their
natural setting,

and eyes that close,
yet, no longer see
what, to most,
looks like
‘reality’.

For, now, through
skewed perceptions,
can only envision
moments of hell;
moments that can’t
be UN-seen
or EVER
forgotten.

A soldier who leaves,
innocent, full of ideals,
and returns home,
borne again.

A new, dark creature
has emerged;
one who no longer
speaks or comprehends
the language
or world
of the civilian.

Only understood by
the brotherhood of
those who have also
looked into
the dismal ravages...

of WAR.

Sons and Daughters
of the homeland,
risking life, limb
and sanity,
in defense of
this democracy,
pledging allegiance
to their sacred flag
and way of life.

They have stories
to tell
of epic
human depravity;
they walk in
conscious nightmares
that most, back home,
would rather never know,
and pretend do not
truly exist.

WAR bears only
wounded fruit,
and the only ‘winners’
if one can call them such,
are merely those
left breathing;

those that managed
to **** more of THEM
than they killed
of US.

Those that live
through it and
manage to return,
arrive,
filled with true
knowledge
of, both, the best
and the horrifying
the human soul
can produce.

The stories of WAR
become a second skin
one cannot drink
or wash away.

All the while,
at home,
others walk right by,
showering thanks
‘for their service’,
wishing blessings
and throwing
festive (unwanted)
parades,

while ignoring
the crippled spirits
of the broken soldiers
saluting...

dressed, in their
very best.



~ by Mercurychyld
Copyrights