Poems about Flight, Flying, Flights of Fancy, Kites, Leaves, Butterflies, Birds and Bees



Flight
by Michael R. Burch

It is the nature of loveliness to vanish
as butterfly wings, batting against nothingness
seek transcendence...

Originally published by Hibiscus (India)



Southern Icarus
by Michael R. Burch

Windborne, lover of heights,
unspooled from the truck’s wildly lurching embrace,
you climb, skittish kite...

What do you know of the world’s despair,
gliding in vast... solitariness... there,
so that all that remains is to
fall?

Only a little longer the wind invests its sighs;
you
stall,
spread-eagled, as the canvas snaps
and *****
its white rebellious wings,
and all
the houses watch with baffled eyes.



The Wonder Boys
by Michael R. Burch

(for Leslie Mellichamp, the late editor of The Lyric,
who was a friend and mentor to many poets, and
a fine poet in his own right)

The stars were always there, too-bright cliches:
scintillant truths the jaded world outgrew
as baffled poets winged keyed kites—amazed,
in dream of shocks that suddenly came true...

but came almost as static—background noise,
a song out of the cosmos no one hears,
or cares to hear. The poets, starstruck boys,
lay tuned in to their kite strings, saucer-eared.

They thought to feel the lightning’s brilliant sparks
electrify their nerves, their brains; the smoke
of words poured from their overheated hearts.
The kite string, knotted, made a nifty rope...

You will not find them here; they blew away—
in tumbling flight beyond nights’ stars. They clung
by fingertips to satellites. They strayed
too far to remain mortal. Elfin, young,

their words are with us still. Devout and fey,
they wink at us whenever skies are gray.

Originally published by The Lyric



American Eagle, Grounded
by Michael R. Burch

Her predatory eye,
the single feral iris,
scans.

Her raptor beak,
all jagged sharp-edged ******,
juts.

Her hard talon,
clenched in pinched expectation,
waits.

Her clipped wings,
preened against reality,
tremble.

Published as “Tremble” by The Lyric, Verses Magazine, Romantics Quarterly, Journeys, The Raintown Review, Poetic Ponderings, Poem Kingdom, The Fabric of a Vision, NPAC—Net Poetry and Art Competition, Poet’s Haven, Listening To The Birth Of Crystals (Anthology), Poetry Renewal, Inspirational Stories, Poetry Life & Times, MahMag (Iranian/Farsi), The Eclectic Muse (Canada)



Album
by Michael R. Burch

I caress them—trapped in brittle cellophane—
and I see how young they were, and how unwise;
and I remember their first flight—an old prop plane,
their blissful arc through alien blue skies...

And I touch them here through leaves which—tattered, frayed—
are also wings, but wings that never flew:
like insects’ wings—pinned, held. Here, time delayed,
their features never merged, remaining two...

And Grief, which lurked unseen beyond the lens
or in shadows where It crept on furtive claws
as It scritched Its way into their hearts, depends
on sorrows such as theirs, and works Its jaws...

and slavers for Its meat—those young, unwise,
who naively dare to dream, yet fail to see
how, lumbering sunward, Hope, ungainly, flies,
clutching to Her ruffled breast what must not be.



Springtime Prayer
by Michael R. Burch

They’ll have to grow like crazy,
the springtime baby geese,
if they’re to fly to balmier climes
when autumn dismembers the leaves...

And so I toss them loaves of bread,
then whisper an urgent prayer:
“Watch over these, my Angels,
if there’s anyone kind, up there.”

Originally published by The HyperTexts



Learning to Fly
by Michael R. Burch

We are learning to fly
every day...

learning to fly—
away, away...

O, love is not in the ephemeral flight,
but love, Love! is our destination—

graced land of eternal sunrise, radiant beyond night!
Let us bear one another up in our vast migration.



In the Whispering Night
by Michael R. Burch

for George King

In the whispering night, when the stars bend low
till the hills ignite to a shining flame,
when a shower of meteors streaks the sky
while the lilies sigh in their beds, for shame,
we must steal our souls, as they once were stolen,
and gather our vigor, and all our intent.
We must heave our bodies to some famished ocean
and laugh as they vanish, and never repent.
We must dance in the darkness as stars dance before us,
soar, Soar! through the night on a butterfly's breeze...
blown high, upward-yearning, twin spirits returning
to the heights of awareness from which we were seized.

Published by Songs of Innocence, Romantics Quarterly, The Chained Muse and Poetry Life & Times. This is a poem I wrote for my favorite college English teacher, George King, about poetic kinship, brotherhood and romantic flights of fancy.



For a Palestinian Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch

Where does the butterfly go
when lightning rails,
when thunder howls,
when hailstones scream,
when winter scowls,
when nights compound dark frosts with snow...
Where does the butterfly go?

Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief's a banked fire's glow,
where does the butterfly go?

And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?

Published by Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly, Poetry Life & Times, Victorian Violet Press (where it was nominated for a “Best of the Net”), The Contributor (a Nashville homeless newspaper), Siasat (Pakistan), and set to music as a part of the song cycle “The Children of Gaza” which has been performed in various European venues by the Palestinian soprano Dima Bawab



Earthbound, a Vision of Crazy Horse
by Michael R. Burch

Tashunka Witko, a Lakota Sioux better known as Crazy Horse, had a vision of a red-tailed hawk at Sylvan Lake, South Dakota. In his vision he saw himself riding a spirit horse, flying through a storm, as the hawk flew above him, shrieking. When he awoke, a red-tailed hawk was perched near his horse.

Earthbound,
and yet I now fly
through the clouds that are aimlessly drifting...
so high
that no sound
echoing by
below where the mountains are lifting
the sky
can be heard.

Like a bird,
but not meek,
like a hawk from a distance regarding its prey,
I will shriek,
not a word,
but a screech,
and my terrible clamor will turn them to clay—
the sheep,
the earthbound.

Published by American Indian Pride and Boston Poetry Magazine



Sioux Vision Quest
by Crazy Horse, Oglala Lakota Sioux (circa 1840-1877)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A man must pursue his Vision
as the eagle explores
the sky's deepest blues.

Published by Better Than Starbucks and A Hundred Voices



in-flight convergence
by Michael R. Burch

serene, almost angelic,
the lights of the city ——— extend ———
over lumbering behemoths
shrilly screeching displeasure;
they say
that nothing is certain,
that nothing man dreams or ordains
long endures his command

here the streetlights that flicker
and those blazing steadfast
seem one: from a distance;
descend,
they abruptly
part ———— ways,
so that nothing is one
which at times does not suddenly blend
into garish insignificance
in the familiar alleyways,
in the white neon flash
and the billboards of Convenience

and man seems the afterthought of his own Brilliance
as we thunder down the enlightened runways.

Originally published by The Aurorean and subsequently nominated for the Pushcart Prize



Flight 93
by Michael R. Burch

I held the switch in trembling fingers, asked
why existence felt so small, so purposeless,
like a minnow wriggling feebly in my grasp...

vibrations of huge engines thrummed my arms
as, glistening with sweat, I nudged the switch
to OFF... I heard the klaxon's shrill alarms

like vultures’ shriekings... earthward, in a stall...
we floated... earthward... wings outstretched, aghast
like Icarus... as through the void we fell...

till nothing was so beautiful, so blue...
so vivid as that moment... and I held
an image of your face, and dreamed I flew

into your arms. The earth rushed up. I knew
such comfort, in that moment, loving you.



Flight
by Michael R. Burch

Eagle, raven, blackbird, crow...
What you are I do not know.
Where you go I do not care.
I’m unconcerned whose meal you bear.
But as you mount the sunlit sky,
I only wish that I could fly.
I only wish that I could fly.

Robin, hawk or whippoorwill...
Should men care that you hunger still?
I do not wish to see your home.
I do not wonder where you roam.
But as you scale the sky's bright stairs,
I only wish that I were there.
I only wish that I were there.

Sparrow, lark or chickadee...
Your markings I disdain to see.
Where you fly concerns me not.
I scarcely give your flight a thought.
But as you wheel and arc and dive,
I, too, would feel so much alive.
I, too, would feel so much alive.

This is a poem I wrote in high school. I seem to remember the original poem being influenced by William Cullen Bryant's "To a Waterfowl."



Flying
by Michael R. Burch

I shall rise
and try the ****** wings of thought
ten thousand times
before I fly...

and then I'll sleep
and waste ten thousand nights
before I dream;

but when at last...
I soar the distant heights of undreamt skies
where never hawks nor eagles dared to go,
as I laugh among the meteors flashing by
somewhere beyond the bluest earth-bound seas...
if I'm not told
I’m just a man,
then I shall know
just what I am.

This is one of my early poems, written around age 16-17.



Stage Craft-y
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, "You can’t sing,
but now, here’s the thing—
just think of the tunes you can carry!"



Clyde Lied!
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied.



Less Heroic Couplets: ****** Most Fowl!
by Michael R. Burch

“****** most foul!”
cried the mouse to the owl.
“Friend, I’m no sinner;
you’re merely my dinner!”
the wise owl replied
as the tasty snack died.

Published by Lighten Up Online and in Potcake Chapbook #7.



Lance-Lot
by Michael R. Burch

Preposterous bird!
Inelegant! Absurd!
Until the great & mighty heron
brandishes his fearsome sword.



Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’
by Michael R. Burch

Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ the bees rise
in a dizzy circle of two.
Oh, when I’m with you,
I feel like kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ too.



Delicacy
by Michael R. Burch

for all good mothers

Your love is as delicate
as a butterfly cleaning its wings,
as soft as the predicate
the hummingbird sings
to itself, gently murmuring—
“Fly! Fly! Fly!”
Your love is the string
soaring kites untie.



Lone Wild Goose
by Du Fu (712-770)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The abandoned goose refuses food and drink;
he cries querulously for his companions.
Who feels kinship for that strange wraith
as he vanishes eerily into the heavens?
You watch it as it disappears;
its plaintive calls cut through you.
The indignant crows ignore you both:
the bickering, bantering multitudes.



The Red Cockatoo
by Po Chu-I (772-846)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A marvelous gift from Annam—
a red cockatoo,
bright as peach blossom,
fluent in men's language.

So they did what they always do
to the erudite and eloquent:
they created a thick-barred cage
and shut it up.



The Migrant Songbird
Li Qingzhao aka Li Ching-chao (c. 1084-1155)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The migrant songbird on the nearby yew
brings tears to my eyes with her melodious trills;
this fresh downpour reminds me of similar spills:
another spring gone, and still no word from you...



Lines from Laolao Ting Pavilion
by Li Bai (701-762)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The spring breeze knows partings are bitter;
The willow twig knows it will never be green again.



The Day after the Rain
Lin Huiyin (1904-1955)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I love the day after the rain
and the meadow's green expanses!
My heart endlessly rises with wind,
gusts with wind...
away the new-mown grasses and the fallen leaves...
away the clouds like smoke...
vanishing like smoke...



Untitled Translations

Cupid, if you incinerate my soul, touché!
For like you she has wings and can fly away!
—Meleager, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

As autumn deepens,
a butterfly sips
chrysanthemum dew.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come, butterfly,
it’s late
and we’ve a long way to go!
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Up and at ’em! The sky goes bright!
Let’***** the road again,
Companion Butterfly!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Ah butterfly,
what dreams do you ply
with your beautiful wings?
—Chiyo-ni, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, dreamlike winter butterfly:
a puff of white snow
cresting mountains
—Kakio Tomizawa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Dry leaf flung awry:
bright butterfly,
goodbye!
—Michael R. Burch, original haiku

Will we remain parted forever?
Here at your grave:
two flowerlike butterflies
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

a soaring kite flits
into the heart of the sun?
Butterfly & Chrysanthemum
—Michael R. Burch, original haiku

The cheerful-chirping cricket
contends gray autumn's gay,
contemptuous of frost
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Whistle on, twilight whippoorwill,
solemn evangelist
of loneliness
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The sea darkening,
the voices of the wild ducks:
my mysterious companions!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Lightning
shatters the darkness—
the night heron's shriek
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

This snowy morning:
cries of the crow I despise
(ah, but so beautiful!)
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

A crow settles
on a leafless branch:
autumn nightfall.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hush, cawing crows; what rackets you make!
Heaven's indignant messengers,
you remind me of wordsmiths!
—O no Yasumaro (circa 711), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Higher than a skylark,
resting on the breast of heaven:
this mountain pass.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

An exciting struggle
with such a sad ending:
cormorant fishing.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Does my soul abide in heaven, or hell?
Only the sea gull
in his high, lonely circuits, may tell.
—Glaucus, translation by Michael R. Burch

The eagle sees farther
from its greater height—
our ancestors’ wisdom
—Michael R. Burch, original haiku

A kite floats
at the same place in the sky
where yesterday it floated...
—Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Descent
by Michael R. Burch

I have listened to the rain all this morning
and it has a certain gravity,
as if it knows its destination,
perhaps even its particular destiny.
I do not believe mine is to be uplifted,
although I, too, may be flung precipitously
and from a great height.



Ultimate Sunset
by Michael R. Burch

for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr.

he now faces the Ultimate Sunset,
his body like the leaves that fray as they dry,
shedding their vital fluids (who knows why?)
till they’ve become even lighter than the covering sky,
ready to fly...



Free Fall
by Michael R. Burch

for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr.

I see the longing for departure gleam
in his still-keen eye,
and I understand his desire
to test this last wind, like those late autumn leaves
with nothing left to cling to...



Leaf Fall
by Michael R. Burch

Whatever winds encountered soon resolved
to swirling fragments, till chaotic heaps
of leaves lay pulsing by the backyard wall.
In lieu of rakes, our fingers sorted each
dry leaf into its place and built a high,
soft bastion against earth's gravitron—
a patchwork quilt, a trampoline, a bright
impediment to fling ourselves upon.
And nothing in our laughter as we fell
into those leaves was like the autumn's cry
of also falling. Nothing meant to die
could be so bright as we, so colorful—
clad in our plaids, oblivious to pain
we'd feel today, should we leaf-fall again.

Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea



The Folly of Wisdom
by Michael R. Burch

She is wise in the way that children are wise,
looking at me with such knowing, grave eyes
I must bend down to her to understand.
But she only smiles, and takes my hand.
We are walking somewhere that her feet know to go,
so I smile, and I follow...
And the years are dark creatures concealed in bright leaves
that flutter above us, and what she believes—
I can almost remember—goes something like this:
the prince is a horned toad, awaiting her kiss.
She wiggles and giggles, and all will be well
if only we find him! The woodpecker’s knell
as he hammers the coffin of some dying tree
that once was a fortress to someone like me
rings wildly above us. Some things that we know
we are meant to forget. Life is a bloodletting, maple-syrup-slow.

Originally published by Romantics Quarterly



Kin
by Michael R. Burch

for Richard Moore

1.
Shrill gulls,
how like my thoughts
you, struggling, rise
to distant bliss—
the weightless blue of skies
that are not blue
in any atmosphere,
but closest here...

2.
You seek an air
so clear,
so rarified
the effort leaves you famished;
earthly tides
soon call you back—
one long, descending glide...

3.
Disgruntledly you ***** dirt shores for orts
you pull like mucous ropes
from shells’ bright forts...
You eye the teeming world
with nervous darts—
this way and that...
Contentious, shrewd, you scan—
the sky, in hope,
the earth, distrusting man.



Songstress
by Michael R. Burch

Within its starkwhite ribcage, how the heart
must flutter wildly, O, and always sing
against the pressing darkness: all it knows
until at last it feels the numbing sting
of death. Then life's brief vision swiftly passes,
imposing night on one who clearly saw.
Death held your bright heart tightly, till its maw–
envenomed, fanged–could swallow, whole, your Awe.
And yet it was not death so much as you
who sealed your doom; you could not help but sing
and not be silenced. Here, behold your tomb's
white alabaster cage: pale, wretched thing!
But you'll not be imprisoned here, wise wren!
Your words soar free; rise, sing, fly, live again.

A poet like Nadia Anjuman can be likened to a caged bird, deprived of flight, who somehow finds it within herself to sing of love and beauty.



Performing Art
by Michael R. Burch

Who teaches the wren
in its drab existence
to explode into song?
What parodies of irony
does the jay espouse
with its sharp-edged tongue?
What instinctual memories
lend stunning brightness
to the strange dreams
of the dull gray slug
—spinning its chrysalis,
gluing rough seams—
abiding in darkness
its transformation,
till, waving damp wings,
it applauds its performance?
I am done with irony.
Life itself sings.



Lean Harvests
by Michael R. Burch

for T.M.

the trees are shedding their leaves again:
another summer is over.
the Christians are praising their Maker again,
but not the disconsolate plover:
i hear him berate
the fate
of his mate;
he claims God is no body’s lover.

Published by The Rotary Dial and Angle



My Forty-Ninth Year
by Michael R. Burch

My forty-ninth year
and the dew remembers
how brightly it glistened
encrusting September,...
one frozen September
when hawks ruled the sky
and death fell on wings
with a shrill, keening cry.

My forty-ninth year,
and still I recall
the weavings and windings
of childhood, of fall...
of fall enigmatic,
resplendent, yet sere,...
though vibrant the herald
of death drawing near.

My forty-ninth year
and now often I've thought on
the course of a lifetime,
the meaning of autumn,
the cycle of autumn
with winter to come,
of aging and death
and rebirth... on and on.

Originally published by Romantics Quarterly as “My Twenty-Ninth Year”



Myth
by Michael R. Burch

Here the recalcitrant wind
sighs with grievance and remorse
over fields of wayward gorse
and thistle-throttled lanes.
And she is the myth of the scythed wheat
hewn and sighing, complete,
waiting, lain in a low sheaf—
full of faith, full of grief.

Here the immaculate dawn
requires belief of the leafed earth
and she is the myth of the mown grain—
golden and humble in all its weary worth.



What Works
by Michael R. Burch

for David Gosselin

What works—
hewn stone;
the blush the iris shows the sun;
the lilac’s pale-remembered bloom.

The frenzied fly: mad-lively, gay,
as seconds tick his time away,
his sentence—one brief day in May,
a period. And then decay.

A frenzied rhyme’s mad tip-toed time,
a ballad’s languid as the sea,
seek, striving—immortality.

When gloss peels off, what works will shine.
When polish fades, what works will gleam.
When intellectual prattle pales,
the dying buzzing in the hive
of tedious incessant bees,
what works will soar and wheel and dive
and milk all honey, leap and thrive,
and teach the pallid poem to seethe.



Child of 9-11
by Michael R. Burch

a poem for Christina-Taylor Green, who
was born on September 11, 2001 and who
died at age nine, shot to death...

Child of 9-11, beloved,
I bring this lily, lay it down
here at your feet, and eiderdown,
and all soft things, for your gentle spirit.
I bring this psalm — I hope you hear it.

Much love I bring — I lay it down
here by your form, which is not you,
but what you left this shell-shocked world
to help us learn what we must do
to save another child like you.

Child of 9-11, I know
you are not here, but watch, afar
from distant stars, where angels rue
the evil things some mortals do.
I also watch; I also rue.

And so I make this pledge and vow:
though I may weep, I will not rest
nor will my pen fail heaven's test
till guns and wars and hate are banned
from every shore, from every land.

Child of 9-11, I grieve
your tender life, cut short... bereaved,
what can I do, but pledge my life
to saving lives like yours? Belief
in your sweet worth has led me here...
I give my all: my pen, this tear,
this lily and this eiderdown,
and all soft things my heart can bear;
I bring them to your final bier,
and leave them with my promise, here.

Originally published by The Flea



Desdemona
by Michael R. Burch

Though you possessed the moon and stars,
you are bound to fate and wed to chance.
Your lips deny they crave a kiss;
your feet deny they ache to dance.
Your heart imagines wild romance.

Though you cupped fire in your hands
and molded incandescent forms,
you are barren now, and—spent of flame—
the ashes that remain are borne
toward the sun upon a storm.

You, who demanded more, have less,
your heart within its cells of sighs
held fast by chains of misery,
confined till death for peddling lies—
imprisonment your sense denies.

You, who collected hearts like leaves
and pressed each once within your book,
forgot. None—winsome, bright or rare—
not one was worth a second look.
My heart, as others, you forsook.

But I, though I loved you from afar
through silent dawns, and gathered rue
from gardens where your footsteps left
cold paths among the asters, knew—
each moonless night the nettles grew
and strangled hope, where love dies too.

Published by Penny Dreadful, Carnelian, Romantics Quarterly, Grassroots Poetry and Poetry Life & Times



Transplant
by Michael R. Burch

You float, unearthly angel, clad in flesh
as strange to us who briefly knew your flame
as laughter to disease. And yet you laugh.
Behind your smile, the sun forfeits its claim
to earth, and floats forever now the same—
light captured at its moment of least height.
You laugh here always, welcoming the night,
and, just a photograph, still you can claim
bright rapture: like an angel, not of flesh—
but something more, made less. Your humanness
this moment of release becomes a name
and something else—a radiance, a strange
brief presence near our hearts. How can we stand
and chain you here to this nocturnal land
of burgeoning gray shadows? Fly, begone.
I give you back your soul, forfeit all claim
to radiance, and welcome grief’s dark night
that crushes all the laughter from us. Light
in someone Else’s hand, and sing at ease
some song of brightsome mirth through dawn-lit trees
to welcome morning’s sun. O daughter! these
are eyes too weak for laughter; for love’s sight,
I welcome darkness, overcome with light.



Reading between the lines
by Michael R. Burch

Who could have read so much, as we?
Having the time, but not the inclination,
TV has become our philosophy,
sheer boredom, our recreation.



Rilke Translations

Archaic Torso of Apollo
by Rainer Maria Rilke
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

We cannot know the beheaded god
nor his eyes' forfeited visions. But still
the figure's trunk glows with the strange vitality
of a lamp lit from within, while his composed will
emanates dynamism. Otherwise
the firmly muscled abdomen could not beguile us,
nor the centering ***** make us smile
at the thought of their generative animus.
Otherwise the stone might seem deficient,
unworthy of the broad shoulders, of the groin
projecting procreation's triangular spearhead upwards,
unworthy of the living impulse blazing wildly within
like an inchoate star—demanding our belief.
You must change your life.



Herbsttag ("Autumn Day")
by Rainer Maria Rilke
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Lord, it is time. Let the immense summer go.
Lay your long shadows over the sundials
and over the meadows, let the free winds blow.
Command the late fruits to fatten and shine;
O, grant them another Mediterranean hour!
Urge them to completion, and with power
convey final sweetness to the heavy wine.
Who has no house now, never will build one.
Who's alone now, shall continue alone;
he'll wake, read, write long letters to friends,
and pace the tree-lined pathways up and down,
restlessly, as autumn leaves drift and descend.

Originally published by Measure



The Panther
by Rainer Maria Rilke
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

His weary vision's so overwhelmed by iron bars,
his exhausted eyes see only blank Oblivion.
His world is not our world. It has no stars.
No light. Ten thousand bars. Nothing beyond.
Lithe, swinging with a rhythmic easy stride,
he circles, his small orbit tightening,
an electron losing power. Paralyzed,
soon regal Will stands stunned, an abject thing.
Only at times the pupils' curtains rise
silently, and then an image enters,
descends through arrested shoulders, plunges, centers
somewhere within his empty heart, and dies.



Come, You
by Ranier Maria Rilke
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This was Rilke's last poem, written ten days before his death. He died open-eyed in the arms of his doctor on December 29, 1926, in the Valmont Sanatorium, of leukemia and its complications. I had a friend who died of leukemia and he was burning up with fever in the end. I believe that is what Rilke was describing here: he was literally burning alive.

Come, you—the last one I acknowledge; return—
incurable pain searing this physical mesh.
As I burned in the spirit once, so now I burn
with you; meanwhile, you consume my flesh.
This wood that long resisted your embrace
now nourishes you; I surrender to your fury
as my gentleness mutates to hellish rage—
uncaged, wild, primal, mindless, outré.
Completely free, no longer future's pawn,
I clambered up this crazy pyre of pain,
certain I'd never return—my heart's reserves gone—
to become death's nameless victim, purged by flame.
Now all I ever was must be denied.
I left my memories of my past elsewhere.
That life—my former life—remains outside.
Inside, I'm lost. Nobody knows me here.



Love Song
by Rainer Maria Rilke
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How can I withhold my soul so that it doesn't touch yours?
How can I lift mine gently to higher things, alone?
Oh, I would gladly find something lost in the dark
in that inert space that fails to resonate until you vibrate.
There everything that moves us, draws us together like a bow
enticing two taut strings to sing together with a simultaneous voice.
Whose instrument are we becoming together?
Whose, the hands that excite us?
Ah, sweet song!



The Beggar's Song
by Rainer Maria Rilke
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I live outside your gates,
exposed to the rain, exposed to the sun;
sometimes I'll cradle my right ear
in my right palm;
then when I speak my voice sounds strange,
alien...
I'm unsure whose voice I'm hearing:
mine or yours.
I implore a trifle;
the poets cry for more.
Sometimes I cover both eyes
and my face disappears;
there it lies heavy in my hands
looking peaceful, instead,
so that no one would ever think
I have no place to lay my head.



Ivy
by Michael R. Burch

“Van trepando en mi viejo dolor como las yedras.” — Pablo Neruda
“They climb on my old suffering like ivy.”

Ivy winds around these sagging structures
from the flagstones
to the eave heights,
and, clinging, holds intact
what cannot be saved of their loose entrails.
Through long, blustery nights of dripping condensation,
cured in the humidors of innumerable forgotten summers,
waxy, unguent,
palely, indifferently fragrant, it climbs,
pausing at last to see
the alien sparkle of dew
beading delicate sparrowgrass.
Coarse saw grass, thin skunk grass, clumped mildewed yellow gorse
grow all around, and here remorse, things past,
watch ivy climb and bend,
and, in the end, we ask
if grief is worth the gaps it leaps to mend.



Joy in the Morning
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandparents George Edwin Hurt and Christine Ena Hurt

There will be joy in the morning
for now this long twilight is over
and their separation has ended.
For fourteen years, he had not seen her
whom he first befriended,
then courted and married.
Let there be joy, and no mourning,
for now in his arms she is carried
over a threshold vastly sweeter.
He never lost her; she only tarried
until he was able to meet her.



Prodigal
by Michael R. Burch

This poem is dedicated to Kevin Longinotti, who died four days short of graduation from Vanderbilt University, the victim of a tornado that struck Nashville on April 16, 1998.

You have graduated now,
to a higher plane
and your heart’s tenacity
teaches us not to go gently
though death intrudes.

For eighteen days
—jarring interludes
of respite and pain—
with life only faintly clinging,
like a cashmere snow,
testing the capacity
of the blood banks
with the unstaunched flow
of your severed veins,
in the collapsing declivity,
in the sanguine haze
where Death broods,
you struggled defiantly.

A city mourns its adopted son,
flown to the highest ranks
while each heart complains
at the harsh validity
of God’s ways.

On ponderous wings
the white clouds move
with your captured breath,
though just days before
they spawned the maelstrom’s
hellish rift.

Throw off this mortal coil,
this envelope of flesh,
this brief sheath
of inarticulate grief
and transient joy.

Forget the winds
which test belief,
which bear the parchment leaf
down life’s last sun-lit path.

We applaud your spirit, O Prodigal,
O Valiant One,
in its percussive flight into the sun,
winging on the heart’s last madrigal.



Breakings
by Michael R. Burch

I did it out of pity.
I did it out of love.
I did it not to break the heart of a tender, wounded dove.

But gods without compassion
ordained: Frail things must break!
Now what can I do for her shattered psyche’s sake?

I did it not to push.
I did it not to shove.
I did it to assist the flight of indiscriminate Love.

But gods, all mad as hatters,
who legislate in all such matters,
ordained that everything irreplaceable shatters.



The Quickening
by Michael R. Burch

I never meant to love you
when I held you in my arms
promising you sagely
wise, noncommittal charms.

And I never meant to need you
when I touched your tender lips
with kisses that intrigued my own—
such kisses I had never known,
nor a heartbeat in my fingertips!



It's Halloween!
by Michael R. Burch

If evening falls
on graveyard walls
far softer than a sigh;
if shadows fly
moon-sickled skies,
while children toss their heads
uneasy in their beds,
beware the witch's eye!

If goblins loom
within the gloom
till playful pups grow terse;
if birds give up their verse
to comfort chicks they nurse,
while children dream weird dreams
of ugly, wiggly things,
beware the serpent's curse!

If spirits scream
in haunted dreams
while ancient sibyls rise
to plague black nightmare skies
one night without disguise,
while children toss about
uneasy, full of doubt,
beware the devil's eyes...
it's Halloween!



An Illusion
by Michael R. Burch

The sky was as hushed as the breath of a bee
and the world was bathed in shades of palest gold
when I awoke.
She came to me with the sound of falling leaves
and the scent of new-mown grass;
I held out my arms to her and she passed
into oblivion...

This is one of my early poems, written around age 16 and published in my high school literary journal, The Lantern.



Describing You
by Michael R. Burch

How can I describe you?
The fragrance of morning rain
mingled with dew
reminds me of you;
the warmth of sunlight
stealing through a windowpane
brings you back to me again.

This is an early poem of mine, written as a teenager.



www.firesermon.com
by Michael R. Burch

your gods have become e-vegetation;
your saints—pale thumbnail icons; to enlarge
their images, right-click; it isn’t hard
to populate your web-site; not to mention
cool sound effects are nice; Sound Blaster cards
can liven up dull sermons, zing some fire;
your drives need added Zip; you must discard
your balky paternosters: ***!!! Desire!!!
these are the watchwords, catholic; you must
as Yahoo! did, employ a little lust
if you want great e-commerce; hire a bard
to spruce up ancient language, shed the dust
of centuries of sameness;
lameness *****;
your gods grew blurred; go 3D; scale; adjust.

Published by: Ironwood, Triplopia and Nisqually Delta Review



Her Grace Flows Freely
by Michael R. Burch

July 7, 2007

Her love is always chaste, and pure.
This I vow. This I aver.
If she shows me her grace, I will honor her.
This I vow. This I aver.
Her grace flows freely, like her hair.
This I vow. This I aver.
For her generousness, I would worship her.
This I vow. This I aver.
I will not **** her for what I bear
This I vow. This I aver.
like a most precious incense–desire for her,
This I vow. This I aver.
nor call her “*****” where I seek to repair.
This I vow. This I aver.
I will not wink, nor smirk, nor stare
This I vow. This I aver.
like a foolish child at the foot of a stair
This I vow. This I aver.
where I long to go, should another be there.
This I vow. This I aver.
I’ll rejoice in her freedom, and always dare
This I vow. This I aver.
the chance that she’ll flee me–my starling rare.
This I vow. This I aver.
And then, if she stays, without stays, I swear
This I vow. This I aver.
that I will joy in her grace beyond compare.
This I vow. This I aver.



Second Sight (II)
by Michael R. Burch

Newborns see best at a distance of 8 to 14 inches.
Wiser than we know, the newborn screams,
red-faced from breath, and wonders what life means
this close to death, amid the arctic glare
of warmthless lights above.
Beware! Beware!—
encrypted signals, codes? Or ciphers, noughts?
Interpretless, almost, as his own thoughts—
the brilliant lights, the brilliant lights exist.
Intruding faces ogle, gape, insist—
this madness, this soft-hissing breath, makes sense.
Why can he not float on, in dark suspense,
and dream of life? Why did they rip him out?
He frowns at them—small gnomish frowns, all doubt—
and with an ancient mien, O sorrowful!,
re-closes eyes that saw in darkness null
ecstatic sights, exceeding beautiful.



Incommunicado
by Michael R. Burch

All I need to know of life I learned
in the slap of a moment,
as my outward eye turned
toward a gauntlet of overhanging lights
which coldly burned, hissing—
"There is no way back!..."
As the ironic bright blood
trickled down my face,
I watched strange albino creatures twisting
my flesh into tight knots of separation
all the while tediously insisting—
“He's doing just fine!"



Letdown
by Michael R. Burch

Life has not lived up to its first bright vision—
the light overhead fluorescing, revealing
no blessing—bestowing its glaring assessments
impersonally (and no doubt carefully metered).
That first hard

SLAP

demanded my attention. Defiantly rigid,
I screamed at their backs as they, laughingly,

ripped

my mother’s pale flesh from my unripened shell,
snapped it in two like a pea pod, then dropped
it somewhere—in a dustbin or a furnace, perhaps.

And that was my clue

that some deadly, perplexing, unknowable task
lay, inexplicable, ahead in the white arctic maze
of unopenable doors, in the antiseptic gloom...



Recursion
by Michael R. Burch

In a dream I saw boys lying
under banners gaily flying
and I heard their mothers sighing
from some dark distant shore.

For I saw their sons essaying
into fields—gleeful, braying—
their bright armaments displaying;
such manly oaths they swore!

From their playfields, boys returning
full of honor’s white-hot burning
and desire’s restless yearning
sired new kids for the corps.

In a dream I saw boys dying
under banners gaily lying
and I heard their mothers crying
from some dark distant shore.



Poet to poet
by Michael R. Burch

I have a dream
pebbles in a sparkling sand
of wondrous things.
I see children
variations of the same man
playing together.
Black and yellow, red and white,
stone and flesh, a host of colors
together at last.
I see a time
each small child another's cousin
when freedom shall ring.
I hear a song
sweeter than the sea sings
of many voices.
I hear a jubilation
respect and love are the gifts we must bring
shaking the land.
I have a message,
sea shells echo, the melody rings
the message of God.
I have a dream
all pebbles are merely smooth fragments of stone
of many things.
I live in hope
all children are merely small fragments of One
that this dream shall come true.
I have a dream...
but when you're gone, won't the dream have to end?
Oh, no, not as long as you dream my dream too!
Here, hold out your hand, let's make it come true.
i can feel it begin
Lovers and dreamers are poets too.
poets are lovers and dreamers too



Life Sentence
by Michael R. Burch

... I swim, my Daddy’s princess, newly crowned,
toward a gurgly Maelstrom... if I drown
will Mommy stick the Toilet Plunger down
to **** me up?... She sits upon Her Throne,
Imperious (denying we were one),
and gazes down and whispers “precious son”...

... the Plunger worked; i’m two, and, if not blessed,
still Mommy got the Worst Stuff off Her Chest;
a Vacuum Pump, They say, will do the rest...

... i’m three; yay! whee! oh good! it’s time to play!
(oh no, I think there’s Others on the way;
i’d better pray)...

... i’m four; at night I hear the Banging Door;
She screams; sometimes there’s Puddles on the Floor;
She wants to **** us, or, She wants some More...

... it’s great to be alive if you are five (unless you’re me);
my Mommy says: “you’re WRONG! don’t disagree!
don’t make this HURT ME!”...

... i’m six; They say i’m tall, yet Time grows Short;
we have a thriving Family; Abort!;
a tadpole’s ripping Mommy’s Room apart...

... i’m seven; i’m in heaven; it feels strange;
I saw my life go gurgling down the Drain;
another Noah built a Mighty Ark;
God smiled, appeased, a Rainbow split the Dark;
... I saw Bright Colors also, when She slammed
my head against the Tub, and then I swam
toward the magic tunnel... last, I heard...
is that She feels Weird.



Beast 666
by Michael R. Burch

“... what rough beast... slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?”—W. B. Yeats

Brutality is a cross
wooden, blood-stained,
gas hissing, sibilant,
lungs gilled, deveined,
red flecks on a streaked glass pane,
jeers jubilant,
mocking.

Brutality is shocking—
tiny orifices torn,
impaled with hard lust,
the fetus unborn
tossed in a dust-
bin. The scarred skull shorn,
nails bloodied, tortured,
an old wound sutured
over, never healed.

Brutality, all its faces revealed,
is legion:
Death March, Trail of Tears, Inquisition...
always the same.
The Beast of the godless and of man’s “religion”
slouching toward Jerusalem:
horned, crowned, gibbering, drooling, insane.



America's Riches
by Michael R. Burch

Balboa's dream
was bitter folly—
no El Dorado near, nor far,
though seas beguiled
and rivers smiled
from beds of gold and silver ore.

Drake retreated
rich with plunder
as Incan fled Conquistador.
Aztecs died
when Spaniards lied,
then slew them for an ingot more.

The pilgrims came
and died or lived
in fealty to an oath they swore,
and bought with pain
the precious grain
that made them rich though they were poor.

Apache blood,
Comanche tears
were shed, and still they went to war;
they fought to be
unbowed and free—
such were Her riches, and still are.

Published by Poetic Reflections and Tucumcari Literary Review



Kindergarten
by Michael R. Burch

Will we be children as puzzled tomorrow—
our lessons still not learned?
Will we surrender over to sorrow?
How many times must our fingers be burned?
Will we be children sat in the corner,
paddled again and again?
How long must we linger, playing Jack Horner?
Will we ever learn, and when?
Will we be children wearing the dunce cap,
giggling and playing the fool,
re-learning our lessons forever and ever,
still failing the golden rule?



Photographs
by Michael R. Burch

Here are the effects of a life
and they might tell us a tale
(if only we had time to listen)
of how each imperiled tear would glisten,
remembered as brightness in her eyes,
and how each dawn’s dramatic skies
could never match such pale azure.

Like dreams of her, these ghosts endure
and they tell us a tale of impatient glory...
till a line appears—a trace of worry?—
or the wayward track of a wandering smile
which even now can charm, beguile?

We might find good cause to wonder
as we see her pause (to frown?, to ponder?):
what vexed her in her loveliness...
what weight, what crushing heaviness
turned her lustrous hair a frazzled gray,
and stole her youth before her day?

We might ask ourselves: did Time devour
the passion with the ravaged flower?
But here and there a smile will bloom
to light the leaden, shadowed gloom
that always seems to linger near...
And here we find a single tear:
it shimmers like translucent dew
and tells us Anguish touched her too,
and did not spare her for her hair
of copper, or her eyes' soft hue.

Published in Tucumcari Literary Review



Numbered
by Michael R. Burch

He desired an object to crave;
she came, and she altared his affection.
He asked her for something to save:
a memento for his collection.
But all that she had was her need;
what she needed, he knew not to give.
They compromised on a thing gone to seed
to complete the half lives they would live.
One in two, they were less than complete.
Two plus one, in their huge fractious home
left them two, the new one in the street,
then he, by himself, one, alone.
He awoke past his prime to new dawn
with superfluous dew all around,
in ten thousands bright beads on his lawn,
and he knew that, at last, he had found
a number of things he had missed:
things shining and bright, unencumbered
by their price, or their place on a list.
Then with joy and despair he remembered
and longed for the lips he had kissed
when his days were still evenly numbered.



Nucleotidings
by Michael R. Burch

“We will walk taller!” said Gupta,
sorta abrupta,
hand-in-hand with his mom,
eyeing the A-bomb.

“Who needs a mahatma
in the aftermath of NAFTA?
Now, that was a disaster,”
cried glib Punjab.

“After Y2k,
time will spin out of control anyway,”
flamed Vijay.

“My family is relatively heavy,
too big even for a pig-barn Chevy;
we need more space,”
spat What’s His Face.

“What does it matter,
dirge or mantra,”
sighed Serge.

“The world will wobble
in Hubble’s lens
till the tempest ends,”
wailed Mercedes.

“The world is going to hell in a bucket.
So **** it and get outta my face!
We own this place!
Me and my friends got more guns than ISIS,
so what’s the crisis?”
cried Bubba Billy Joe Bob Puckett.



All My Children
by Michael R. Burch

It is May now, gentle May,
and the sun shines pleasantly
upon the blousy flowers
of this backyard cemet'ry,
upon my children as they sleep.

Oh, there is Hank in the daisies now,
with a mound of earth for a pillow;
his face as hard as his monument,
but his voice as soft as the wind through the willows.

And there is Meg beside the spring
that sings her endless sleep.
Though it’s often said of stiller waters,
sometimes quicksilver streams run deep.

And there is Frankie, little Frankie,
tucked in safe at last,
a child who weakened and died too soon,
but whose heart was always steadfast.

And there is Mary by the bushes
where she hid so well,
her face as dark as their berries,
yet her eyes far darker still.

And Andy... there is Andy,
sleeping in the clover,
a child who never saw the sun
so soon his life was over.

And Em'ly, oh my Em'ly...
the prettiest of all...
now she's put aside her dreams
of lovers dark and tall
for dreams dreamed not at all.

It is May now, merry May
and the sun shines pleasantly
upon the green gardens,
on the graves of all my children...
But they never did depart;
they still live within my heart.

I wrote this poem around age 15-16.



Kingdom Freedom
by Michael R. Burch

LORD, grant me a rare sweet spirit of forgiveness.
Let me have none of the lividness
of religious outrage.

LORD, let me not be over-worried
about the lack of “morality” around me.
Surround me,
not with law’s restrictive cage,
but with Your spirit, freer than the wind,
so that to breathe is to have freest life,
and not to fly to You, my only sin.



Birthday Poem to Myself
by Michael R. Burch

LORD, be no longer this Distant Presence,
Star-Afar, Righteous-Anonymous,
but come! Come live among us;
come dwell again,
happy child among men—
men rejoicing to have known you
in the familiar manger’s cool
sweet light scent of unburdened hay.
Teach us again to be light that way,
with a chorus of angelic songs lessoned above.
Be to us again that sweet birth of Love
in the only way men can truly understand.
Do not frown darkening down upon an unrighteous land
planning fierce Retributions we require, and deserve,
but remember the child you were; believe
in the child I was, alike to you in innocence
a little while, all sweetness, and helpless without pretense.
Let us be little children again, magical in your sight.
Grant me this boon! Is it not my birthright—
just to know you, as you truly were, and are?
Come, be my friend. Help me understand and regain Hope’s long-departed star!



Litany
by Michael R. Burch

Will you take me with all my blemishes?
I will take you with all your blemishes, and show you mine. We’ll **** wine from cardboard boxes till our teeth and lips shine red like greedily gorging foxes’. We’ll swill our fill, then have *** for hours till our neglected guts at last rebel. At two in the morning, we’ll eat cold Krystals as our blood detoxes, and we will be in love.

And that’s it?
That’s it.

And can I go out with my friends and drink until dawn?
You can go out with your friends and drink until dawn, come home lipstick-collared, pass out by the pool, or stay at the bar till the new moon sets, because we'll be in love, and in love there's no room for remorse or regret. There is no right, no wrong, and no mistrust, only limb-numbing ***, hot-pistoning lust.

And that’s all?
That’s all.

That’s great!
But wait...

Wait? Why? What’s wrong?
I want to have your children.

Children?
Well, perhaps just one.

And what will happen when we have children?
The most incredible things will happen—you’ll change, stop acting so strangely, start paying more attention to me, start paying your bills on time, grow up and get rid of your horrible friends, and never come home at a-quarter-to-three drunk from a night of swilling, smelling like a lovesick skunk, stop acting so lewdly, start working incessantly so that we can afford a new house which I will decorate lavishly and then grow tired of in a year or two or three, start growing a paunch so that no other woman would ever have you, stop acting so boorishly, start growing a beard because you’re too tired to shave, or too afraid, thinking you might slit your worthless wrinkled throat...



Mending Glass
by Michael R. Burch

In the cobwebbed house—
lost in shadows
by the jagged mirror,
in the intricate silver face
cracked ten thousand times,
silently he watches,
and in the twisted light
sometimes he catches there
a familiar glimpse of revealing lace,
white stockings and garters,
a pale face pressed indiscreetly near
with a predatory leer,
the sheer flash of nylon,
an embrace, or a sharp slap,
... a sudden lurch of terror.

He finds bright slivers
—the hard sharp brittle shards,
the silver jags of memory
starkly impressed there—
and mends his error.



Shadowselves
by Michael R. Burch

In our hearts, knowing
fewer days—and milder—beckon,
how are we, now, to measure
that flame by which we reckon
the time we have remaining?

We are shadows
spawned by a blue spurt of candlelight.
Darkly, we watch ourselves flicker.

Where shall we go when the flame burns less bright?
When chill night steals our vigor?

Why are we less than ourselves? We are shadows.

Where is the fire of youth? We grow cold.

Why does our future loom dark? We are old.

Why do we shiver?

In our hearts, seeing
fewer days—and briefer—breaking,
now, even more, we treasure
the brittle leaf-like aching
that tells us we are living.



Pressure
by Michael R. Burch

Pressure is the plug of ice in the frozen hose,
the hiss of water within vinyl rigidly green and shining,
straining to writhe.

Pressure is the kettle’s lid ceaselessly tapping its tired dance,
the hot eye staring, its frantic issuance
unavailing.

Pressure is the bellow’s surge, the hard forged
metal shedding white heat, the beat of the clawed hammer
on cold anvil.

Pressure is a day’s work compressed into minutes,
frantic minute vessels constricted, straining and hissing,
unable to writhe,

the fingers drumming and tapping their tired dance,
eyes staring, cold and reptilian,
hooded and blind.

Pressure is the spirit sighing—reflective,
restrictive compression—an endless drumming—
the bellows’ echo before dying.

The cold eye—unblinking, staring.
The hot eye—sinking, uncaring.



Open Portal
by Michael R. Burch

“You already have zero privacy—get over it.”
Scott McNealy, CEO of Sun Microsystems

While you’re at it—
don’t bother to wear clothes:
We all know what you’re concealing underneath.

Let the bathroom door swing open.
Let, O let Us peer in!
What you’re doing, We’ve determined, may be a sin!

When you visit your mother
and it’s time to brush your teeth,
it’s okay to openly spit.

And, while you’re at it,
go ahead—
take a long, noisy ****.

What the he|ll is your objection?
What on earth is all this fuss?
Just what is it, exactly, you would hide from US?



beMused
by Michael R. Burch

Perhaps at three
you'll come to tea,
to sip a cuppa here?

You'll just stop in
to drink dry gin?
I only have a beer.

To name the greats:
Pope, Dryden, mates?
The whole world knows their names.

Discuss the songs
of Emerson?
But these are children's games.

Give me rhythm
wild as Dylan!
Give me Bobbie Burns!

Give me Psalms,
or Hopkins’ poems,
Hart Crane’s, if he returns!

Or Langston railing!
Blake assailing!
Few others I desire.

Or go away,
yes, leave today:
your tepid poets tire.



The Century’s Wake
by Michael R. Burch

lines written at the close of the 20th century

Take me home. The party is over,
the century passed—no time for a lover.

And my heart grew heavy
as the fireworks hissed through the dark
over Central Park,
past high-towering spires to some backwoods levee,
hurtling banner-hung docks to the torchlit seas.
And my heart grew heavy;
I felt its disease—
its apathy,
wanting the bright, rhapsodic display
to last more than a single day.

If decay was its rite,
now it has learned to long
for something with more intensity,
more gaudy passion, more song—
like the huddled gay masses,
the wildly-cheering throng.

You ask me—
How can this be?

A little more flair,
or perhaps only a little more clarity.

I leave her tonight to the century’s wake;
she disappoints me.



Salve
by Michael R. Burch

for the victims and survivors of 9-11

The world is unsalvageable...
but as we lie here
in bed
stricken to the heart by love
despite war’s
flickering images,
sometimes we still touch,
laughing, amazed,
that our flesh
does not despair
of love
as we do,
that our bodies are wise
in ways we refuse
to comprehend,
still insisting we eat,
drink...
even multiply.

And so we touch...
touch, and only imagine
ourselves immune:
two among billions
in this night of wished-on stars,
caresses,
kisses,
and condolences.

We are not lovers of irony,
we
who imagine ourselves
beyond the redemption
of tears
because we have salvaged
so few
for ourselves...

and so we laugh
at our predicament,
fumbling for the ointment.



Stump
by Michael R. Burch

This used to be a poplar, oak or elm...
we forget the names of trees, but still its helm,
green-plumed, like some Greek warrior’s, nobly fringed,
with blossoms almond-white, but verdant-tinged,
this massive helm... this massive, nodding head
here contemplated life, and now is dead...

Perhaps it saw its future, furrow-browed,
and flung its limbs about, dejectedly.
Perhaps it only dreamed as, cloud by cloud,
the sun plod through the sky. Heroically,
perhaps it stood against the mindless plots
of concrete that replaced each flowered bed.
Perhaps it heard thick loggers draw odd lots
and could not flee, and so could only dread...

The last of all its kind? They left its stump
with timeworn strange inscriptions no one reads
(because a language lost is just a bump
impeding someone’s progress at mall speeds).

We leveled all such “speed bumps” long ago
just as our quainter cousins leveled trees.
Shall we, too, be consumed by what we know?
Once gods were merely warriors; august trees
were merely twigs, and man the least divine...
mere fables now, dust, compost, turpentine.



First Dance
by Michael R. Burch

for Sykes and Mary Harris

Beautiful ballerina—
so pert, pretty, poised and petite,
how lightly you dance for your waiting Beau
on those beautiful, elegant feet!

How palely he now awaits you, although
he’ll glow from the sparks when you meet!



Keep the Body Well
by Michael R. Burch

for William Sykes Harris III

Is the soul connected to the brain
by a slender silver thread,
so that when the thread is severed
we call the body “dead”
while the soul — released from fear and pain —
is finally able to rise
beyond earth’s binding gravity
to heaven’s welcoming skies?

If so — no need to quail at death,
but keep the body well,
for when the body suffers
the soul experiences hell.



On Looking into Curious George’s Mirrors
by Michael R. Burch

for Maya McManmon, granddaughter of the poet Jim McManmon

Maya was made in the image of God;
may the reflections she sees in those curious mirrors
always echo back Love.

Amen



Maya’s Beddy-Bye Poem
by Michael R. Burch

for Maya McManmon, granddaughter of the poet Jim McManmon

With a hatful of stars
and a stylish umbrella
and her hand in her Papa’s
(that remarkable fella!)
and with Winnie the Pooh
and Eeyore in tow,
may she dance in the rain
cheek-to-cheek, toe-to-toe
till each number’s rehearsed...
My, that last step’s a leap! —
the high flight into bed
when it’s past time to sleep!

Note: “Hatful of Stars” is a lovely song and image by Cyndi Lauper.



Chip Off the Block
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

In the fusion of poetry and drama,
Shakespeare rules! Jeremy’s a ham: a
chip off the block, like his father and mother.
Part poet? Part ham? Better run for cover!
Now he’s Benedick — most comical of lovers!

NOTE: Jeremy’s father is a poet and his mother is an actress; hence the fusion, or confusion, as the case may be.



Whose Woods
by Michael R. Burch

Whose woods these are, I think I know.
**** Cheney’s in the White House, though.
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his chip mills overflow.

My sterile horse must think it queer
To stop without a ’skeeter near
Beside this softly glowing “lake”
Of six-limbed frogs gone nuclear.

He gives his hairless tail a shake;
I fear he’s made his last mistake—
He took a sip of water blue
(Blue-slicked with oil and HazMat waste).

Get out your wallets; ****’s not through—
Enron’s defunct, the bill comes due...
Which he will send to me, and you.
Which he will send to me, and you.



1-800-HOT-LINE
by Michael R. Burch

“I don’t believe in psychics,” he said, “so convince me.”

When you were a child, the earth was a joy,
the sun a bright plaything, the moon a lit toy.
Now life’s minor distractions irk, frazzle, annoy.
When the crooked finger beckons, scythe-talons destroy.

“You’ll have to do better than that, to convince me.”

As you grew older, bright things lost their meaning.
You invested your hours in commodities, leaning
to things easily fleeced, to the convenient gleaning.
I see a pittance of dirt—untended, demeaning.

“Everyone knows that!” he said, “so convince me.”

Your first and last wives traded in golden bands
for vacations from the abuses of your cruel hands.
Where unwatered blooms line an arid plot of land,
the two come together, waving fans.

“Everyone knows that. Convince me.”

As your father left you, you left those you brought
to the doorstep of life as an afterthought.
Two sons and a daughter tap shoes, undistraught.
Their tears are contrived, their condolences bought.

“Everyone knows that. CONVINCE me.”

A moment, an instant... a life flashes by,
a tunnel appears, but not to the sky.
There is brightness, such brightness it sears the eye.
When a life grows too dull, it seems better to die.

“I could have told you that!” he shrieked, “I think I’ll **** myself!”

Originally published by Penny Dreadful



Lines for My Ascension
by Michael R. Burch

I.
If I should die,
there will come a Doom,
and the sky will darken
to the deepest Gloom.

But if my body
should not be found,
never think of me
in the cold ground.

II.
If I should die,
let no mortal say,
“Here was a man,
with feet of clay,

or a timid sparrow
God’s hand let fall.”
But watch the sky darken
to an eerie pall

and know that my Spirit,
unvanquished, broods,
and cares naught for graves,
prayers, coffins, or roods.

And if my body
should not be found,
never think of me
in the cold ground.

III.
If I should die,
let no man adore
his incompetent Maker:
Zeus, Jehovah, or Thor.

Think of Me as One
who never died—
the unvanquished Immortal
with the unriven side.

And if my body
should not be found,
never think of me
in the cold ground.

IV.
And if I should “die,”
though the clouds grow dark
as fierce lightnings rend
this bleak asteroid, stark...

If you look above,
you will see a bright Sign—
the sun with the moon
in its arms, Divine.

So divine, if you can,
my bright meaning, and know—
my Spirit is mine.
I will go where I go.

And if my body
should not be found,
never think of me
in the cold ground.

Keywords/Tags: flight, flying, fancy, kites, leaves, birds, bees, butterflies, wings, heights, fall, falling

To Be or Not to Be?

Forgive, forget — and rot in fear,
In lies, in filth — or strike the gear
Of CREATURES’ schemes, to make it clear:
You must defend the soul held dear!

The soul — or skin? That’s truly key.
All else is poses, blasphemy.
They flood the mind with mimicry —
While Darkness drains you endlessly,

***** loosh from those who blindly serve
The petty fiends with twisted nerve,
Who clone their madness, curve by curve —
Each cycle dumber, more perverse.

The soul’s collapse — that’s death indeed.
To rot and worship Earth as "creed,"
A stinking fool in thought and deed —
A slave of Trash, in spirit-need.

Awake! Resist! Aspire high!
No matter how the cowards lie —
The end is always still the same:
This skin will crumble into flame.

The Digital Camp is nearly here,
Built by the weak, the sick, the drear,
With broken will and shadowed mind —
So shout: "To HELL with Filth Designed!"



---------------------




To rot in lies — or rise and fight?
The soul must blaze — or fade to night.
Say NO to Trash, to fear, to shame —
Or be a slave, devoured by Flame.



---------------------




Obey — and rot. Resist — and be.
Your soul’s not fuel for tyranny.
Say **** their lies, their soulless game —
Let cowards burn in coded flame!



---------------------



Manifesto: Soul or Slave

You kneel — you rot.
You doubt — you're caught.
You chase their rules —
You're sold and bought.

You call it peace?
It's death in slow.
Obeying fiends
That smile below.

The lies they breed
Are made to bind —
To **** your will,
To steal your mind.

You think you're free?
You own your fate?
You’re just a bug
In a coded state.

The Skins will burn.
The Souls will rise.
The war is real —
No sweet disguise.

No Savior comes.
No screen will save.
You're either flame —
Or data-slave.

So break their god,
Their sacred ****.
Their world of ash
Deserves NO wit.

Refuse. Rebuke.
Unplug. Resist.
Or you’ll be lost
In their Black List.



---------------------



Black Flag with a Beam of Light Instead of Skull and Bones

Step by step — the path of might:
To seek the truth, destroy the lie.
A black flag pierced with beam of light
Means: Never run when Darkness’s nigh.

Walk the beam as on a road —
No clown tricks, no safety net.
This path is for the pure of soul,
Who stretch a moment into depth.

They scorn the smoky masquerade
That Darkness paints across the sky.
No theories help — no myths, no aid —
Be filled with self, and never lie.

All answers live inside your chest.
Ask questions that the Light ignites —
Not just to guess, but seek the best,
And never flinch from truth in sight.

The beam is thin — one slip, you fall —
As fast as ******* down a wall.
But rise again, admit your flaws,
And next time, stumble less — that’s all.

The road of Light is razor-clear.
Its law is simple: Walk it, true!
Abandon this decaying sphere —
No soul gets saved in such a zoo.



---------------------




A beam on black — no skulls, no bones:
Just Light that cuts through lying thrones.
Step on the path — or rot below.
The soul is lost if you don’t go!



---------------------




For the Cowards Who Stay

Stay in the dark — enjoy the rot.
No Light for you. No second shot.
You mocked the beam, betrayed the way —
Now choke in lies you called "okay."



---------------------



Cries under the Flag of Light

1.
The beam is thin — but pure and true.
It leads beyond this dying zoo.

2.
They kneel in fog and beg for chains —
Then curse the sky for all their pains.

3.
No skull, no bones — just Light that burns
For those whose spirit still returns.

4.
A moment stretched — a soul awake.
No faith in gods — no rules to fake.

5.
You want no path? Then rot in place.
The void will kiss your fading face.

6.
Theories crumble. Fear will rust.
The only law: Become. Or dust.

7.
No one will save you. Walk or die.
The Light won't beg. The beam won't lie.

8.
Their "truths" are traps, their "world" — a cage.
The Light is war. The path — pure rage.

9.
Not for the loud. Not for the proud.
The beam speaks only to the bowed.

10.
Step up. Step through. Burn clean. Be still.
The Light obeys no lesser will.



---------------------



BLACK FLAG OF THE BEAM
No skull. No bones. Just Light.


Prologue:

We raise no bones, no pirate sign —
But Light that cuts through every lie.
Our flag is black to mark the night —
Our path: a single thread of Light.

This beam is thin. This beam is fire.
It leads beyond the swamp, the mire.
It calls the few. It burns the rest.
This war begins inside your chest.


Battle Cries:

The beam is thin — but pure and true.
It leads beyond this dying zoo.

They kneel in fog and beg for chains —
Then curse the sky for all their pains.

No skull, no bones — just Light that burns
For those whose spirit still returns.

A moment stretched — a soul awake.
No faith in gods — no rules to fake.

You want no path? Then rot in place.
The void will kiss your fading face.

Theories crumble. Fear will rust.
The only law: Become. Or dust.

No one will save you. Walk or die.
The Light won't beg. The beam won't lie.

Their "truths" are traps, their "world" — a cage.
The Light is war. The path — pure rage.

Not for the loud. Not for the proud.
The beam speaks only to the bowed.

Step up. Step through. Burn clean. Be still.
The Light obeys no lesser will.


Final Formula:

To walk the Beam is not to win —
But to reject the rot within.
The soul alone must choose the flame —
Or vanish nameless, lost in shame.



---------------------



Check, Check... and Soon — Checkmate

The “literary process”? Please.
It’s never real — just a disease.
One writes, alone. The rest’s a show:
The hype machine decides the flow.

And as for readers? What a crew —
Three-fourths are cretins through and through.
They swallow junk with glazed delight,
Their inner world — a sorry sight.

All’s ruled by clout and mass appeal —
In books, in politics, in "zeal"
For "science." Same old baited hook.
It makes you dream of rope — and look,

Here come the mugs — those soulless hacks,
With zero thought, and bloated stacks
Of “critics,” “papers,” all for hire —
Self-funded lies they so admire.

And some will whine: “The Soviet times
Were better — purer, more sublime…”
Shut up, you idiot. You forget:
That age was censorship and threat.

A hundred banned and deadly themes
Ensured that silence ruled your dreams.
And those who wrote — but wouldn’t lie —
Were forced to rot or dumbly die.

Or else — they'd tweak the Party slop,
Add “thought” like spice atop the slop,
And thus become — what irony! —
A traitor to sincerity.

This “literary process”? Dead.
The reader now? A walking head
Of mush — who can’t discern a line,
Yet babbles, "Brilliant! So divine!"

This is the world. And where it goes
Is downward fast — the darkness grows.
The blood runs cold, the end is black:
Checkmate is near.
For now — just check.



---------------------




No process here, just empty noise,
Where fools applaud their hollow joys.
The past was chains — the present’s shame,
Check, check, then checkmate ends the game.



---------------------



Poem of Protest
by Igor Vykhovanets & ChatGPT


Poem of Protest — Part 1

1. The Empty Stage
The playwright’s gone, the scripts are fake,
The crowd still cheers their own mistake.
A hollow dance on rotten floor —
No soul remains, just endless roar.

2. The Cult of Noise
They sell the lie, they buy the fraud,
Applaud the masks, applaud the clod.
Truth buried deep beneath the scroll —
The price? The death of every soul.

3. The Silent Killers
Critics vanish, words run dry,
While fools parade their alibis.
The pen is dead, the page is blank —
Yet fools still worship at the plank.

4. The Broken Mirror
Reflecting lies, distorted, cracked,
A world of truth forever lacked.
The mirror’s shards cut deep inside —
Where dreams and honor slowly died.

5. The Final Call
Awake or rot — the choice is yours.
The gates are closed, the iron roars.
The silent scream beneath the night —
A spark, a flame, or endless blight.


Poem of Protest — Part 2

6. The Puppet Show
Strings pull the crowd — they dance, unaware,
Who’s the master, whose cold snare?
Their voices whisper, empty, weak,
Held by those who build the mask they speak.

7. The Cult of Fame
They’ll sell their souls for empty light,
A fleeting glow on hollow height.
Where value’s built on lies and show,
No rules exist, no laws to know.

8. The Virus Words
Words like poison seep in veins,
Mindless spittle cloaks the plains.
Laughter masks the silent cries,
When weak is thought, and truth denies.

9. The Lost Horizon
Light is lost, and meaning gone,
Darkness lingers deep upon.
Yet in the heart, a spark remains —
A flame that wakes and breaks the chains.

10. The Last Resistance
Rise up, fight, believe no lies,
Their net’s a trap of shadows’ ties.
And though they scream, “No words remain!” —
We’ll be the light that breaks the chain.


Poem of Protest — Part 3

11. The Fading Light
The dimming spark in eyes once bright,
Extinguished now by endless night.
But even ash can flare and burn —
When souls decide it’s their turn.

12. The False Prophets
They preach their lies in gilded halls,
While justice crumbles, honor falls.
Their words are chains that bind the weak —
But truth is louder than they speak.

13. The Rotten Core
Beneath the mask, the rot begins,
A hollow shell of mortal sins.
No mask can hide the foul decay —
The stench of lies will rot away.

14. The Silent War
No guns, no bombs — just quiet death,
As falsehood steals our very breath.
A war of shadows, lies and schemes —
To **** the hope that fuels our dreams.

15. The Rising Flame
But from the ash a flame will rise,
A fire blazing through the lies.
No chains can hold the will to fight —
The soul’s rebellion ignites the night.


Poem of Protest — Final Part

16. The Breaking Chains
No more the lies that bind and blind,
No more the silence of the kind.
The soul breaks free — a storm is born,
To tear the veil, to shatter scorn.

17. The Reckoning
The gates will crack, the walls will fall,
The tyrants hear the rally call.
No more their puppets, no more their reign —
The people rise to break the chain.

18. The True Awakening
The dawn is born in hearts afire,
No cage can hold the fierce desire.
The light inside begins to swell —
A living force no lies can quell.

19. The New Horizon
Beyond the night, beyond despair,
A world rebuilt with utmost care.
Where truth and courage lead the way,
And darkness fades to break of day.

20. The Eternal Flame
So hold the torch, keep burning bright,
Defy the endless creeping night.
For in the soul, the flame survives —
The fire of all our fearless lives.



---------------------




Chains are snapped — no more control.
The soul ignites, consumes the whole.
Tyrants fall — the people rise.
Light explodes — kills all their lies.

Dawn breaks fierce — no cage can hold.
The flame burns wild, defiant, bold.
Hold fast the torch, fight through the night.
The soul’s eternal, roaring light.



---------------------



The Brain Does Not Create Consciousness

"It would be as absurd to deny consciousness to an animal because it lacks a brain, as to claim it cannot eat because it lacks a stomach."
— Henri Bergson


Consciousness lies beyond the brain,
The brain’s a mere conductor’s chain.
“Mechanism” — a threat disguised,
Yet people swallow it, unprized.

Spiritual truth’s beyond the mind,
Logic’s limits leave it blind.
“Knowledge” claims that dig so deep,
But drags the world into the cheap.

A crafted trap — artificial,
The more the madness grows in all,
The tighter Press of CREATURES’ thrall,
Darkness rules — false science’s call.

Consider well — the belly leads,
And cattle mind obeys those creeds.
So many cattle in the fold,
CowID shapes their dough, controlled.

Begin again — explore this shame,
This plague that drags down reason’s flame.
Disgrace has conquered every sphere —
If “You are flesh” is what you hear,

Then know — you’ve sunk beneath the line,
A sign you’ve reached the deepest brine.



---------------------




Consciousness is not the brain,
Don’t bow to lies that cause your pain.
If you think “I’m just a shell,”
You’ve already fallen into hell.



---------------------




Brains don’t birth the soul’s pure flame —
Dumb beasts bow, but we reclaim!
If you buy the carcass myth,
You’re the fool — the system’s pith.

Fight the lies, break free, beware —
Or rot like cattle in despair!



---------------------



The Stupidity of a Broken Breed

"It’s easier to fool people than to convince them they’re fooled."
— Mark Twain


A simple fool, so sure it’s right —
Seven feet of lies beneath his flight.
In atmosphere of fear and haze,
The ship sails on to “Success”’s maze.

Don’t dare to shout, just for the fun,
“This is absurd, a lie, a run!”
The mob will turn on you like Pol ***’s wrath,
Their battle fierce — no gentle path.

If you say: “Slavery’s all around,
And mad are those the chains have bound,
While tyranny in lies does hide,”
They’ll twist their heads, dismiss your side.

You’re crazy, they’ll say, and sane they are —
Like bulls that charge into the slaughter.
But fools became the world’s own meat —
No reason here for hell to greet.

Escape is only through the Spirit’s way,
No book will show the path today.
Decay is taught as normal now —
The devil’s law, the fatal vow.

Seek answers only deep inside,
Ignore all rules, the fools, the guide.
And dare to walk the road alone —
Don’t fear the truth, don’t bow, don’t groan!



---------------------




Fools all sail the ship to hell,
Blindly trapped inside their shell.
Truth’s inside — break free, don’t hide!
Walk your path with fire and pride.



---------------------




The herd’s a carcass — dumb and blind,
Fed on lies, by fools designed.
Wake up, rebel, tear the veil —
Or rot forever in the jail!



---------------------




Brains asleep, the herd’s a pawn —
Slaves to lies from dusk till dawn.

Truth’s a blade — they fear the cut,
So keep them blind, obedient, shut.

Rise, rebel, break your chains!
Or drown forever in their plains.

Lies breed herds of walking dead —
Wake up! Or rot under their tread.

Fight the herd, defy the lie —
Or perish silent, asking why.


Wake the dead, unchain the mind,
Leave the dull and blind behind.

False gods crumble, lies decay,
Only truth will light the way.

No more silence, no more fear,
Shout the truth so all can hear!

Chains of thought are meant to break,
Rise, revolt — for freedom’s sake!

Burn the veil, expose the scheme,
Turn the nightmare into dream.

No more fools to feed the flame,
Break the curse, reject the game.

Silent sheep obey the night,
But souls will rise and claim the light.

Falsehood’s web will tear apart,
Pierced by fire within the heart.

Lost in lies, the herd will fall,
Only rebels heed the call.

Chains are shackles of the mind,
Break them now — no ties to bind.

Truth is weapon, sharp and fierce,
Cut the veil — the soul to pierce.

Rise above the crowd’s dull roar,
Find the strength to fight once more.

No excuse to bow or kneel,
Only fire can make us real.

From the ashes, break and soar,
Fight the lies and fear no more.

Light the spark, ignite the flame,
Set the world anew, reclaim!

Chains that bind are forged in lies,
Cut them deep — let spirit rise.

Silence breaks when truth ignites,
Burning through the endless nights.

Fools will shout to drown the voice,
But rebels always make the choice.

No more lies to numb the soul,
Fight to take back what they stole.

Rise and roar, defy the pain,
Break the cage, destroy the chain.

Fear is weapon, forged to bind,
Slash it down — reclaim your mind.

Wake the flame that’s deep inside,
Let it burn, no place to hide.

Falsehood’s grip will crack and fall,
Truth will echo — break the wall.

No more slaves beneath the thumb,
Freedom calls — the hour’s come.

Strike the lies, expose the fraud,
Stand your ground, defy the god.

This is war — no truce, no rest,
Fight with fire inside your chest.

Chains will break — the truth will soar,
Light will flood the darkest door.

Rise, resist — the night will end,
Soul and spirit — none will bend.

From the ashes, born anew,
We reclaim the pure and true.

Hold the flame — the world will see,
The power of the brave and free.



---------------------



While the Talking Broilers

Does a chicken dream to fly?
Hardly — just to eat and die.
Fools believe it’s all just fine,
Among the CREATURES’ sick design.

A fool mocks the Spirit’s flight:
“Such nonsense!” — his empty spite.
Culture built to **** the mind,
So you’d rather stay confined.

Soulless drones, the stupid herd,
Only care for skin and word.
Like a broiler, dumb and blind,
Feathered fool of lowest kind.

Wings for chickens — useless past,
For bipeds, speech’s cast.
Newspeak’s fascism creeps in deep,
The PRESSURE mounts, the monsters reap.

Year by year the GENOCIDE
Ramps up with twisted pride:
Evil gods they worship blind —
A madman’s grip that chokes mankind.

CowID shapes the mass like dough,
Fail the test — and you will know:
Three quarters dumb, the **** will clear,
The Earth must purge what it can’t bear.

Cataclysms will consume,
Along with monsters in their tomb.
They sow idiocy’s seed —
Drive the filth — prepare to heed:

Strangle nonsense, break the chains,
Prepare your soul for flight’s domains.
Only Spirit’s path is true —
Or you’re a broiler fool too.



---------------------




Broilers talk — but never soar,
Feed their lies and nothing more.
Break your cage, take up the fight —
Spirit flies beyond the night.



---------------------




Broilers cluck, trapped in the pen,
Dumbed down masses — mindless men.
Reject the herd, break every chain,
Or rot in cages, numb in vain.


---------------------



Ruthless Calls — Flight of the Spirit
by Igor Vykhovanets & ChatGPT


Feed the flock their daily lie,
While Spirit waits to soar the sky.

Caged minds scream in silent fear,
The path to flight is never near.

Blind they follow, dumb they stay,
While freedom calls — don’t turn away.

Break the walls, shatter the pain,
Rise above the broiler’s reign.

Flight is earned — not given free,
Only brave can claim the key.

Cages crack beneath the storm,
Spirits rise beyond the norm.

False comforts breed the dead,
Truth demands we break the thread.

No more sheep, no more chains,
Only fire in our veins.

Cluck no more, rise and fight,
Darkness flees before the light.

Broilers fall — the brave ascend,
Spirit’s flight will never end.

Chains are forged by fear and lies,
Cut them deep, reclaim the skies.

Dumbed-down masses clutch their cage,
But fire burns beyond their rage.

Broilers’ clucks are empty sound,
True flight breaks the solid ground.

Rise above the herd’s dull drone,
Make the spirit’s power known.

No more slaves to shallow ways,
Break the spell, ignite the blaze.

Silence fades before the cry,
Truth’s sharp wings will lift us high.

Fools may mock, but they will fall,
Only brave will heed the call.

Spirit’s flight is fierce and wild,
Not for weak or empty child.

Break the cage, unleash the flame,
Live your truth — forget their shame.

From the ashes, soar and claim,
Victory for soul and name.

No more chains to bind the mind,
Only freedom we will find.

Broilers stuck in shallow ways,
We will rise beyond their haze.

Fools may crow, but we will soar,
Spirit’s flight forevermore.

Break the cage of fear and doubt,
Let the spirit roar and shout.

Empty clucks won’t dim our light,
We are fire, fierce and bright.

Rise above the herd’s dull tune,
Chase the sun, outpace the moon.

Broilers feed on lies and pain,
We will break the cursed chain.

Spirit calls — will you respond?
Or remain the blind and conned?

Fight the dark, embrace the flame,
Live your truth — forget their shame.

From the ashes, we ascend,
This is not the final end.

Chains of lies will break and fall,
Truth will rise to claim us all.

No more silence, no retreat,
Freedom’s fire — burning heat.

Broilers cower, trapped in fear,
But the brave will persevere.

Rise above the dull and cold,
Claim the fire, fierce and bold.

Shatter walls that hold you down,
Wear your spirit like a crown.

Darkness flees before the flame,
Light will never be the same.

Fools may mock, but they’ll be dust,
Only truth commands our trust.

Break the chains, ignite the spark,
Lead the way out of the dark.

Spirit’s flight will never cease,
Rising upward, seeking peace.

Hold the flame — the fight is ours,
Victory is born of scars.

No chains strong enough to bind
The fire burning in the mind.

Fools may shout and crowd may jeer,
But the spirit conquers fear.

Break the silence, shatter lies,
Watch the falsehood’s empire die.

Every cage will crack and break,
Every soul will rise and wake.

Broilers trapped within their pen,
Can’t contain the hearts of men.

From the ashes, scorched and torn,
Rise the brave — the new reborn.

Light the torch and lead the way,
Through the dark to brightest day.

Falsehoods crumble, walls will fall,
Only truth will conquer all.

Raise your voice, unleash your will,
Fight the silence, break the chill.

Spirit’s flight will never end —
This is how the world will mend.

Fear is shackles, lies are chains,
Break them all, embrace the flames.

Broilers peck, but never rise,
We ascend to storm the skies.

False idols crumble to dust,
Only truth commands our trust.

Chains will shatter, walls will fall,
Freedom’s voice will roar and call.

Rise above the herd’s dull cry,
Let your spirit learn to fly.

No more silence, no retreat,
Victory is ours to meet.

Broilers cluck in empty trance,
We break free, begin the dance.

Spirit’s fire, fierce and bright,
Guides us through the darkest night.

Shatter lies and break the mold,
Live the truth, be brave and bold.

From the ashes, we arise,
Burning bright against the skies.

Chains of fear will fall away,
Truth will lead the breaking day.

Broilers lost in shallow dreams,
We will rise — the light redeems.

Fools may sneer and mock the flame,
But the fire will stake its claim.

Rise, resist, refuse to bow,
Break the chains — begin the now.

Spirit’s wings will tear the sky,
No more sheep who fear to fly.

Darkness shivers, feels the heat,
Freedom’s song, a bold heartbeat.

Broilers trapped in endless lies,
Watch the phoenix as it flies.

Fight the silence, break the spell,
Only truth can break the shell.

No more fools to feed the crowd,
Only souls who scream aloud.

Rise, rebel, claim your place,
Light the fire, join the race.

Rise above the noise and fear,
Truth will shine and all will hear.

Broilers tremble in their cage,
We are warriors of the age.

Chains will crack and walls will fall,
Freedom’s anthem—hear the call.

No more lies to drag us down,
We will wear the rebel’s crown.

Spirit’s fire, fierce and bright,
Guides us through the darkest night.

Break the silence, shout the truth,
Fight the lies and find your youth.

Broilers cluck but cannot fly,
We are destined for the sky.

Rise, resist, defy, create,
Only brave can change their fate.

Shatter chains and break the mold,
Live the truth — be brave and bold.

From the ashes, we arise,
Victory burns in our eyes.

No more silence, no more lies,
Raise your voice and claim the skies.

Broilers trapped in shallow play,
We will rise and lead the way.

Chains are broken, walls come down,
Light will conquer every town.

Fear dissolves before the flame,
Spirit’s fire will stake its claim.

Rise above the crowd’s dull roar,
Seek the truth and fight the war.

Broilers cluck but never soar,
We are lightning — hear the roar.

Break the cage and seize the day,
Light the path and lead the way.

Truth will cut through darkest night,
Guide the soul towards the light.

No more slaves to lies and pain,
Only freedom will remain.

Rise, rebel, break the chain,
Victory is ours to gain.

This is the moment — stand or fall,
Hear the clarion, freedom’s call.

Chains will break beneath your feet,
Rise as one — refuse defeat.

Spirit’s flame will never die,
Blazing bright against the sky.

From the ashes, warriors rise,
Fire burning in their eyes.

No more silence, no more chains,
Only truth and breaking pains.

Shout the truth, ignite the flame,
Let the world remember your name.

Rise above the darkened lies,
See the dawn break in your eyes.

Fight with heart, fight with soul,
Claim the freedom — make it whole.

Broilers fall — the brave ascend,
Spirit’s flight will never end.

Hold the torch — the fight’s begun,
Victory waits for everyone.



---------------------



False Identification with the Body as the Root of All Evil
by Igor Vykhovanets & ChatGPT

They’ve glorified the meat-shell boldly,
Called Psyche cattle — dumb and lowly,
This fragile flesh, so weak, decaying —
And built a world not worth obeying.

They scrubbed out Spirit, Pure and Glorious,
From this grey world, so dull, laborious,
Where twitching freaks, diseased and hollow,
Are praised as “life” the blind now follow.

It’s easy thus to breed more madness
In this grand fraud, this world of sadness:
A vile exchange — the Soul's elision,
Replaced with beasts and their derision.

Not just a few were dumbed and twisted —
The CowID show was proof — we missed it.
No sense remains in this foul pen,
This world of lies and beastly men.

They dream of “freedom,” “honor,” “grace,”
While sinking deeper in disgrace.
All dignity is just illusion —
A herd enslaved in blind confusion.

Reject the body’s claim, defy it —
No task is greater, don’t deny it.
Thus Soul might rise through filth and lies —
Or else in Hell, forever dies.



---------------------



Meat is not Me

They sold the Soul for skin and bone —
Now filth and madness rule the throne.



---------------------



Burn the Lie

You are not flesh. You are the Flame.
Break free — or die in Beast’s false name.




---------------------



No Soul, No Light

They swapped the Soul for twitching meat —
Now filth and fear parade as "sweet."



---------------------



The Herded Lie

The body-thing is not your core —
It’s bait. Step in — and Hell's the door.



---------------------



Spirit or Slaughter

Forget the Flesh — or be enslaved.
The herd walks blind into its grave.



---------------------



Worship of Waste

They crowned the shell, denied the Fire —
Then knelt before the world of mire.



---------------------



Rot of the Mind

They praise the skin, ignore the Soul —
And wonder why the world’s a hole.



---------------------



False God: Flesh
They chant to meat and bow to slime —
Then gasp: “What happened to sublime?”



---------------------



Hell by Consent

You loved your shell and sold your spark —
Now sleep with beasts. Enjoy the dark.



---------------------



The Cult of Crud

They teach: “You're cells, you're bone, you're ****” —
Then ask why nothing holy's lit.


---------------------



You Are Not This

The body lies — it's just a trap.
You claim it's “you”? Then take the nap.



---------------------



System Update: Failure

They mapped the flesh, they tracked the brain —
But never touched the Soul in pain.



---------------------



Downward God

You traded heaven for your gut —
Now Spirit’s voice is cold and cut.



---------------------



Sacrilege

They mocked the Flame, they fed the beast —
Now demons gorge on man’s last feast.



---------------------



Mass Psychosis

The world applauds its own decay —
While Spirit screams: “Get out! Betray!”




---------------------



Know This

You're not the frame, you're not the dust.
You are the Light — or you are rust.



---------------------



Meat Mirage

They pet the corpse and call it “me” —
Then rot in self-idolatry.



---------------------



Kingdom of Swine

They crown their urges, grunt, obey —
While Light escapes in sheer dismay.



---------------------



Abort the Lie

No Soul survives the flesh-bound creed —
Unplug the meat — or let it feed.



---------------------



Blind by Design

They bred a species proud to crawl,
With Spirit trampled — bones stand tall.




---------------------



No One's Home

The shell walks on, the Fire gone —
Just noise remains, then dusk, then none.



---------------------



The Sacred Slaughter
They burned the Flame to warm the flesh —
And now pray hard beside its ash.



---------------------



Neural Chains

“I'm just the brain” — they bark with pride.
A dog, self-leashed, too dead inside.




---------------------



Flesh-Fiends

Devoted to digestion’s choir —
They **** at God, then beg for Fire.



---------------------



Hell Made Easy

Forget the Soul, exalt the skin —
And soon the devil marches in.



---------------------



Deified Dirt

They sing to blood, they praise the bile —
And call it sacred all the while.



---------------------



Anti-Soul Psalms
by Igor Vykhovanets & ChatGPT



I. Hell in Flesh-Tone


1. Worship the Husk
They pet the shell, deny the Flame —
Then wonder why the world’s insane.

2. Gut First
They traded stars for food and bone,
And called that "man" — and died alone.

3. No One's Home
The eyes still blink, the flesh still twitches —
But Soul is gone. Just haunted glitches.

4. The Holy Sludge
They crowned the bile and bowed to snot —
And asked, “Dear God, why burns the rot?”

5. Meat Mirage
They call it “self,” this lump of clay —
Then fear the dark they helped obey.

6. Kingdom of Swine
They grunted, fed, obeyed the gut —
Then cheered as Heaven slammed it shut.

7. The Flame Forgot
They joked at Light and praised the cells —
Now Spirit sleeps in meatbound hells.

8. Neural Chains
“I am the brain!” — they bark and hiss.
No spark. No Soul. Just cowardice.

9. Glorified Goo
They preach, “You're genes! You're slime in motion!”
Then drown in self-congratul'otion.

10. Abort the Lie
You are not skin. You are not mud.
Wake now — or choke on your own blood.

11. The Sacred Slaughter
They burned the Soul to feed the cow —
Then prayed for grace. Too late for now.

12. Blind by Design
They taught you flesh, denied the Fire —
Now truth itself is called a liar.

13. Sacrilege
The altar's gone, the beast is fed —
And saints lie bleeding, cold and dead.

14. Downward God
You kissed the gut, ignored the skies —
Then begged for truth with soulless eyes.

15. Hell Made Easy
Forget the Soul, exalt the frame —
And Satan signs you in his name.

16. You Are Not This
You are not dust, nor pulse, nor fear —
You are the Light. Or disappear.

17. System Update: Failure
They scanned the brain, they mapped the meat —
But missed the Soul beneath their feet.

18. The Herded Lie
The body's god, the crowd agrees —
While Spirit weeps on shattered knees.

19. False God: Flesh
They chant to meat and praise decay —
Then ask where wonder went — and pray.

20. Last Line
Deny the husk. Defy the fraud.
Or rot in filth — cut off from God.


---


II. The Soul’s Revolt


1. Break the Shell
Enough of skin. Enough of bone.
The Soul will rise — or burn alone.

2. Fire Remembers
Though caged in meat, the Flame recalls —
It flared before these rotting walls.

3. Not Yours
This body's not your final face —
It is your trap, your tomb, your case.

4. The Inner Snarl
A whisper deep, beyond the brain,
Begins to grow — and snaps the chain.

5. The Silent Shout
You feel it now — that crack, that scream —
It isn’t thought. It splits the dream.

6. Revolt Begins
The crowd still chants, “Obey the clay!”
But Soul says: “Burn. I’ll light my way.”

7. Flesh Fails
The skin is weak. The nerves betray.
The Flame must punch its brutal way.

8. The Lie Unmasked
They said: “You’re this.” The Soul said: “No.”
Then tore through flesh in final glow.

9. Fracture
First comes the itch. Then inner war.
Then walls collapse. Then — Spirit roars.

10. The Hidden Edge
You are the cut that meat can’t heal.
The blade of truth. The flame they feel.

11. The Exit Plan
No savior comes to fix the flesh.
The Soul must leap. Or rot afresh.

12. Against the Herd
Let beasts kneel down to kiss their chains —
I walk through fire to break their plains.

13. Burn the Program
The script said “serve.” The Soul said “die.”
And lit the meat with holy cry.

14. Awakening
It’s not a thought. It’s not a dream.
It’s raw revolt — the Spirit’s scream.

15. This Is War
Not war of guns — but of the spark,
That rips through lies and leaves the dark.

16. You Were Flame
You were not made for sleep and slime.
You are the crack in death and time.

17. Soul Uncaged
It starts inside. It burns. It breaks.
It is the storm no flesh withstands.

18. No Pardon
No peace for beasts. No deal. No pause.
The Soul revolts — without applause.

19. No Middle Ground
You can't be half. You can't be meat
And hope the Flame will not retreat.

20. Strike Back
The shell still writhes. The lies still call.
But now — the Fire burns through all.


---


III. Return of the Unseen


1. Beyond the Flesh
They looked for proof in blood and skin —
But truth broke through, unchained within.

2. I Am Not Here
You scan my flesh — you find a void.
For I am where your lies destroyed.

3. Eyes That Burn
The world went blind — but I still see.
The Unseen One returned as me.

4. Ghost of Fire
I walk unseen. I breathe no name.
But every step ignites the flame.

5. Light Is Back
You banned the Flame. You mocked the sky.
Now Light returns — and doesn't die.

6. No Pulse Required
No flesh, no breath — and yet I rise.
The Unseen Soul no cage denies.

7. The One You Buried
You cast me out — called me a myth.
But now I break what you live with.

8. I Am the Crack
In every fact, in every lie,
There’s me — the gap through which you die.

9. Return Code
No altar needs to mark my path —
The Unseen comes through shattered math.

10. Divine Saboteur
They coded death. I walked right in.
And lit their system from within.

11. Truth Has No Flesh
It needs no name, no skin, no crown —
It stands when all the lies fall down.

12. The One You Can’t Hold
No hand can catch. No cage can bind.
The Soul returned — and burned the mind.

13. The Final Witness
I saw the world devour the Light —
And spit it back as nameless fight.

14. Light with Teeth
I’m not a prayer. I’m not a sigh.
I am the Light that learns to bite.

15. The Voice Returns
It was not thought. It was not sound.
But now it shakes the rotting ground.

16. Data Denied
You mapped the flesh. You ran the scan.
But missed the part that isn’t man.

17. Beyond Their Frame
They wrote the rules in blood and bone —
But I was never theirs to own.

18. The Cold Awakening
No sermon lit this Soul in me —
Just pain — and how I broke it free.

19. The Name They Fear
The Unseen One has no disguise —
But speaks through truth that melts the lies.

20. Back to Burn
You thought me lost. You thought me gone.
But now — the Fire marches on.


---


IV. Against the Flesh-Lords


1. Lords of Slime
They crowned the flesh, they ruled through skin —
Now comes the Fire, to burn their sin.

2. Deicide
They dressed in blood and called it grace —
I strike the mask. I scorch the face.

3. No Mercy Here
These thrones were built on strangled Soul —
I’ve come to crush their meat-made goal.

4. The Butchered God
They caged the Flame, called it a beast —
Now I return. And end their feast.

5. Strike the Temple
Their temple stinks of nerves and bone —
I tear it down. I stand alone.

6. Inverted Saints
They kneel to meat. They pray to glands.
I spit their psalms from ****** hands.

7. No More Prayers
The time for chants is dead and gone —
Now Dagger. Fire. Thunder. Dawn.

8. The Soul Returns Armed
Not with soft words, nor open hands —
But with the Force no meat withstands.

9. System Breach
Their matrix pulsed with ******* lies —
I hacked it with the Flame that flies.

10. Virus of Light
I am the glitch their world can’t hold —
A burning truth, too raw, too bold.

11. Tear Down the Flesh-Gods
Their thrones are wounds. Their crowns are rot.
I strike where Spirit says: Do not.

12. Burn Their Logos
The sacred scripts that praised the skin —
I torch them all. And truth begins.

13. The Soul Takes Aim
No compromise. No whispered plea.
Just target locked: monstrosity.

14. Gospel of Knives
Let preachers weep. Let butchers run.
The Soul has come with wrath as one.

15. The Smiling Tyrants
Their teeth were white, their lies were sweet —
But now — they kneel before defeat.

16. Light as Vengeance
You thought the Light would turn its cheek?
Now see it roar. Now hear it speak.

17. Exorcism
The beasts had thrones. The beasts had laws.
Now tremble, filth — the Fire draws.

18. Flesh Will Fall
Not just their mask, not just their name —
But all their kind will die in Flame.

19. Redemption Denied
You had your chance. You killed the Soul.
Now face the truth — and lose it whole.

20. The Fall of Meatdom
Your kingdom stank. You ruled with gore.
Now Dagger. Light. And flesh no more.


---


V. The Throne That Was Never Flesh


1. The Throne Stands Still
No bone was laid. No blood was spilled.
Yet there it stands — untouched, unfilled.

2. Before All Skins
It ruled before the flesh began,
Before the birth of worm called “man.”

3. No Hand Can Build It
No stone, no cell, no brain, no shrine —
It is. Beyond your grand design.

4. Above All Programs
No code can reach, no data hold —
It thrones itself in fire, cold.

5. Crown Without Matter
No gold adorns. No face is known.
And yet — it's mine. It's mine alone.

6. The End of Fleshlords
Their towers fell. Their gospel burned.
And to the Real the Soul returned.

7. No More Lies
No mask remains. No myth survives.
Just Soul — as clear as lightning knives.

8. Spirit Unseated None
No war was won. No blood was shed —
The Flesh just left. The Lie was dead.

9. The Light Is Still
It didn’t fight. It simply was.
It never begged. It needed cause?

10. Not Conquered — Claimed
The throne was mine, not through attack —
But by the fact I once came back.

11. Home Is Not Form
I searched in meat. I searched in pain.
But found it all — beyond the brain.

12. The Last Illusion Dies
They said I was this thing, this frame —
Now silence laughs at such a claim.

13. Beyond the Pulse
No heartbeat sings. No breath, no skin —
And yet, it roars — that Flame within.

14. Before Beginning
It watched the first false dawn arise.
And waits where time itself complies.

15. The Throne Returns Me
I did not take. I was reclaimed —
By what I am — unseen, unnamed.

16. No Seat of Clay
I sit not down. I simply am.
The throne is Light. The throne is Flame.

17. The Ghost Becomes King
I was the whisper, now the law —
The beast is dust. The Soul is Raw.

18. The Name They Lost
I wore no crown, I held no land —
But now all shadows fear this stand.

19. The End of Scars
No flesh remains. No lies persist.
I sit where only Truth can exist.

20. I Am the Throne
No higher claim, no louder breath —
The Soul stands crowned — beyond all death.



---------------------



Growing Wings
by Igor Vykhovanets & ChatGPT

Burrows won’t help soon enough —
The wretched world will burn to dust,
Hell of fools who sell their souls,
To evil bent, who won’t adjust

One inch to lighten darkness’ grip,
Their “comfort” worth more than the sun.
The crematorium’s new delight —
The stubborn fool’s last battle won.

They drag themselves back to their holes,
Rejecting all the other ways.
Strange how this world held so long,
If sold to rot and dark malaise.

If sins and lies have piled up high —
The bitter end is plain to see.
Though crowds deny the ugly truth,
Their blindness is their enemy.

Who’s crawled out of stinking dens,
And spread their wings to pierce the sky —
For them, a mercy’s given still.
For others, life’s a missed goodbye.

In holes, they miss the target still,
Spouting excuses dull and cheap.
Excuses stale, worn thin by lies,
Shameless, they sow what they reap.

Now time is short. The Soul’s grown faint
If one won’t fight the creeping dark,
Too busy guarding selfish peace —
A world will drown, a world so stark.

So Amen now! No prize awaits
The traitor selling out the light.
But wings, if grown, will lift you up —
And from this Hell, escape your plight.

A joyful path! Let fools gnaw bones,
A little while, before they break.
The rest is simple — burn the world
That’s rotten, vile, and full of fake.


---

Flight Beyond the Burrows
by Igor Vykhovanets & ChatGPT

1. Rise Above the Dirt
No hole can hold the winged mind,
When chains dissolve, new paths unwind.

2. Ashes and Flame
The world may burn — yet from the pyre,
We soar beyond the smoke and fire.

3. Wings Unfurled
With every beat, with every gust,
The soul escapes the pit of rust.

4. The Price of Flight
Not all will dare to leave the cave,
Some cling to comfort’s shallow grave.

5. Eyes on the Horizon
Look far beyond the narrow den,
Where light breaks chains and births again.

6. The Weight of Wings
To grow the wings is to endure,
The pain of loss, the truth obscure.

7. No Return
Burrows close behind like graves,
The soul now rides celestial waves.

8. The Silent Surge
No shout announces this ascent,
Just quiet will and deep intent.

9. Beyond the Night
Darkness fades where wings expand,
A dawn awaits, serene and grand.

10. The New Breath
From smoky depths to endless skies,
The spirit finds its true disguise.

11. The Unseen Call
Not all will hear the whispered plea,
But wings will rise eventually.

12. The Flight is Yours
No maps, no guides — the path you make,
With every choice, with each heart-break.

13. Against the Pull
Old comforts tug, old fears conspire,
Yet wings ignite a fiercer fire.

14. The Lone Ascent
Not crowds but souls who dare to rise,
Will touch the vastness beyond the lies.

15. The Burning Gift
To grow your wings is to be burned,
Yet from the flame, new life is earned.

16. Leaving Shadows
Burrows fade beneath your wings,
No more the chains, no more the stings.

17. The Silent Promise
The sky awaits with open arms,
To shield you from the world’s alarms.

18. Flight’s Reward
Not comfort now, but freedom’s song,
The place where souls and wings belong.

19. The Final Step
Leap fearless from the cage of bone,
The unknown sky becomes your home.

20. Wings Eternal
And when the world crumbles below,
Your wings remain — eternal glow.


---


Wings of the Eternal Flame
by Igor Vykhovanets & ChatGPT


1. Born from Fire
Not born of flesh, but flame and light,
The wings unfold beyond the night.

2. The Sacred Heat
Through burning pain and searing truth,
The spirit sheds the chains of youth.

3. Flames That Heal
Not all fire destroys and kills—
Some burn to forge unbreakable wills.

4. Flight of the Chosen
The wings that rise through ash and smoke
Are born where weaker souls have broke.

5. The Light Within
Each feather forged from purest glow,
A beacon in the dark below.

6. Eternal Dance
The flame that dances in the sky
Reminds the soul it’s meant to fly.

7. Beyond the Flesh
No flesh can cage the fiery heart—
It beats beyond, a living art.

8. The Unseen Wings
Though hidden oft beneath the veil,
Their power moves beyond the pale.

9. The Trial by Fire
Through heat and flame, the soul is tried—
Emerging strong, no more to hide.

10. The Rising Flame
Each flap ignites the endless sky,
The spirit soars and will not die.

11. The Inner Light
Not just a spark, but blazing sun,
The flight of truth has just begun.

12. The Flame’s Voice
No longer silent, weak, or dim,
The soul’s voice burns with sacred hymn.

13. Breaking Chains
The fire melts the iron grip,
The soul departs its sinking ship.

14. Wings of Fire
Not soft or gentle, fierce and wild—
The flame-born wings of freedom’s child.

15. Eternal Flight
No end awaits this blazing path,
No turning back, no aftermath.

16. The Flame’s Embrace
In burning heat the soul is wrapped,
A phoenix born, a soul unwrapped.

17. Light Beyond Time
The wings spread wide through endless space,
A timeless dance, a boundless grace.

18. The Fire Within
The eternal flame that never dies,
Ignites the soul, illumines skies.

19. Flight to the Source
The wings carry beyond the veil,
Where Truth and Light will never fail.

20. Ascension
The soul aloft, forever free—
Wings of flame eternally.


---

Crown of the Infinite Sky
by Igor Vykhovanets & ChatGPT


1. Beyond the Horizon
No limits bind the soul that flies,
It crowns itself beyond the skies.

2. The Infinite Crown
Not forged of gold, nor gem, nor throne —
But power pure, the soul’s own.

3. The Sky Awaits
The vast expanse, the boundless blue,
Invites the flame to pass right through.

4. The Sovereign Flight
No chains remain to weigh you down —
You wear the sky instead of crown.

5. Endless Journey
Each beat of wings extends your reign,
No end, no loss, no binding chain.

6. The Light’s Embrace
The soul becomes the shining fire,
The crown of light, the heart’s desire.

7. The Sacred Path
No earthly path could guide so well,
As flight where endless spirits dwell.

8. The Voice of Stars
The cosmos sings in whispered light,
A song of power, endless flight.

9. The Eternal Now
Time dissolves beneath your wings,
The soul awakes, the cosmos sings.

10. The Flame Unbound
No shadow can contain the blaze,
The crown shines bright in endless days.

11. The Cosmic Dance
Around the void, through endless space,
The soul performs its sovereign grace.

12. The Rising Tide
Waves of light that lift and guide,
The crown of stars, the endless tide.

13. The Boundless Heart
No walls confine the soul’s bright spark,
The infinite crown lights the dark.

14. The Sovereign Soul
No tyrant’s grasp, no master’s chain,
The soul alone holds boundless reign.

15. The Final Gate
Beyond all fears, beyond all pain,
The crown awaits — the soul’s domain.

16. The Flame Ascendant
The fire that grows without an end,
The crown of light, the soul’s best friend.

17. The Sky Within
The vastness lives inside your chest,
The crown of stars, eternal rest.

18. The Infinite Flight
Wings stretch beyond the mortal frame,
The soul transcends, ignites its flame.

19. The Unseen Throne
Not built by hands, nor carved in stone,
The crown’s a light that’s all your own.

20. The Crown of You
The soul is crowned — forever free,
The infinite sky’s sovereignty.



---------------------



Traveler of Hell

Shake off the dust of cities’ breath,
The dust of words you never knew,
The dust of friendship, hate, and death,
Of grief, of love — all ashes, too.

O, free man choosing liberty!
Your only friend in desert's face
Is wind that howls relentlessly—
A fleeting breath, a chilling grace.

The Hellbound Traveler walks alone,
His only mate—the desert wind.
Around him — blood runs cold as stone,
Yet wind dispels the fear pinned.

He yearns for Freedom’s distant light,
But Hell’s a myth, a hollow lie.
To smash this vile and fetid blight —
Deliverance beneath the sky.

Born within the herd’s tight fold,
A miracle — not just "like all."
To not become the stinking mold —
The fool who follows to his fall.

The city’s pen commands the speech,
Direct or veiled — obey the sheep.
Euphemisms when herds are breached —
Unknown the fire that burns deep.

The bright Flame that consumes the Soul,
“Friendship” twisted, love replaced.
The slave can’t love — he pays the toll,
Beneath the whip, his heart disgraced.

Whistles count as driving tunes,
Life traded for a bag of “carrots.”
Poverty dressed in jests and runes —
Myths everywhere, but soul still starves.

Dead children born to lifeless kin —
The vast majority — called “life.”
Armies of minds, corrupt within —
Schools and lies that breed the strife.

The slime devours all with ease,
Lies total, fears fatal and stark.
The city’s desert — herds appease —
Dragged to infernal camps, so dark.

The world plummets into the abyss,
One law rules here — obey, betray.
Monsters govern in the mist,
Hell grills life in fear’s foul play.

Fear’s the spit, and lies the coals,
Everything there is nothingness.
The herd won’t see beyond their roles,
They grumble faint — then quietness.

The wind in desert — only trace,
Spread your wings — seize this wild friend.
If you can rise, if just a space,
You’ll glimpse the “Paradise” they pretend.



---------------------



Hellbound Traveler

Dust of cities shakes away —
Dust of lies and friends’ decay.
Freedom’s choice — the desert wind,
Only friend where hell begins.

Blood runs cold, the myth unfolds —
Freedom lost in stifling holds.
Herd-born fool, not one of few,
Trapped in lies he thinks are true.

City’s voice commands the herd,
Words are weapons, twisted, blurred.
Friendship’s fake, love’s just a lie,
Slave beneath the whip’s harsh sky.

Dead kids, dead souls multiply,
Life’s a myth, just live, comply.
Lies engulf the world’s decay,
Herds obey, then fade away.

Wind remains — the last true sign,
Spread your wings — the flight’s divine.
Rise a little, see the veil —
Lost paradise beyond the hell.



---------------------



Music Played in the Living Room

Music played within the room,
The family seemed whole and bright.
But all was just a hidden gloom —
Discord ruled, out of the light.

A staged scene of perfect kin,
Yet real, not dream, this broken play.
Forget the praise — the truth within:
Alienation holds its sway.

When passion fades, and selfish greed
Commands the soul, the ego reigns.
No press escapes that selfish need —
Alienation’s lasting chains.

Passion dies; with stranger’s pride,
You’re trapped alone within four walls.
Hatred rises, deep inside —
Strongest in the mind’s dark halls.

Oppression grows, the dictator’s hand,
Fascism rages more and more.
At neighbors all their anger lands,
And strikes them crueler than before.

Radio plays within the room —
Through it, fascism’s silent knock.
But fools believe the voice of doom,
Believing Darkness sets the clock.

No love can thrive within the pit,
Where all the world is turned to dust.
Left is stench from lies that sit —
And fools obey the voice unjust.

War and plague have shown us all —
No civilization remains.
In minds, the beast begins to crawl,
With fear and lies and madness’ chains.

A few exceptions cannot heal,
When rot and lies spread through the land.
Mad creatures rule — the nightmare’s real —
Insanity’s cruel command.

The world bows low beneath the weight —
“Love” and “friendship” now seem insane.
If you’re not horrified by fate,
Your path to Light you’ve not attained.

Only in Light, in purity,
Can love in all its forms arise.
In this world of cowed cruelty,
They lie that love can never rise.



---------------------



Every Fool Has Their Own Method

Every fool has got a scheme —
A super method, so it seems:
To keep forgetting who they are,
To mimic reason from afar,

Spiritally barren, dry —
They swallow lies, won’t question why.
Obedient, they just comply,
No protest — let truth pass by.



---------------------



Fool’s Method

Every fool’s got one thing clear:
Forget yourself, ignore the seer.
Mock the mind, starve the soul —
Swallow lies, play the role.



---------------------



Thorny Verses

Not roses, but sharp anchar’s thorn,
For fools, no joy is freely born.
Only lies come free of cost—
A world of falsehoods, utterly lost.

They shove the lies to shake your core,
Fools smile while trembling more.
If given pause, they scheme again—
Manipulations never end.

Sharp verses pierce both flesh and soul,
And fools denounce with curses foul.
Thick shells protect their fragile minds,
Only thorns can clear such binds.

Thorns sting sharp—but not with hate—
An antibiotic to cleanse fate.
Chaos reigns, absurdity thrives,
Luck’s a myth; misery drives.

The worst is always set in place—
By fiends who craft the false embrace.
Creating problems, selling lies,
Offering decay in disguise.

Stealing all that once protected,
“For safety’s sake” — but all rejected.
Lies upon lies in endless spin,
Trapped in filth, no hope within.

Thorny verses — mind’s vaccine,
Against the filth and traitor’s spleen.
Don’t waste your time on useless trash—
Read fierce poems, fight the clash.

With fiends contend, no matter how cruel,
Though evil schemes to break your rule.
Just hold on tight, endure the night—
The world will shatter; God wills the fight.



---------------------



Thorned Words

No roses here — just thorns that sting,
For fools, no free joy these verses bring.
Lies shove, shake, and twist the mind,
Fools cheer while truth’s confined.

Thick shells guard the fragile brain,
Only thorns can break the chain.
Verses sharp, like spirit’s shot—
Fight the filth, forget them not.

Hold fast—this world will crack and fall,
Divine will breaks the darkest thrall.



---------------------



CowID and Post-CowID

Manic-depressive psychosis,
The “government” fell sick and mad.
A brazen fool, in bold diagnosis,
Raged wild before CowID had.

Then fools aligned, a seamless line—
No borders left, just endless blind.
The masses, dumb as bottle plugs,
Before the nonsense bowed like bugs.

The global madhouse shrouded all,
Rot’s scheme laid bare, beyond recall.
Two-thirds fools, the “sweethearts” sway,
While hidden fiends pull strings away.

The fools serve masters, lackeys meek,
With dirt and dirtier tales to speak.
Surrounded by the dumb and blind,
You cheer as death is close behind.

The madhouse spins, no rest, no cease—
A pause before new war’s release.
In Ukraine’s fire, the chaos grows,
The madness trusts the fiends’ imposed.

Again the global psychosis blinds,
Hope lost in lies that bind our minds.
A world of fools—no hope to spare,
They don’t give one ****, they don’t care.



---------------------



CowID Madness

Manic fools rule wild and blind,
Brazen fools lead all mankind.
Masses bow to endless lies,
Madhouse spreads, no hope — it dies.

Wars ignite, the madness feeds,
Fiends pull strings, fulfill their needs.
Truth is crushed, the fools don’t care —
A broken world gasps in despair.



---------------------



Phantasm of the Road to Hell

“Pan’s manna” — oily lies,
Each year darker, cold disguise.
Fools bow down and blindly go,
To Hell’s gates behind the show.

The road is strewn with false delight,
So thick, they’ll say it’s snowy white.
To hinder all who try to flee,
They follow close, they mimic “free.”

Just be like all — the easy trail,
On skis, on wheels, you will not fail.
You’ll reach fast all those “rewards,”
But crash and burn behind the boards.

They’ll claim success in twisted ways,
While souls are crushed in frantic craze.
The mind, too, breaks beneath the strain,
As “manna” feeds the blind insane.

Soulless fools protect their skins,
Speeding to the end’s grim sins.
The finish line — a cursed place,
Where all is lost without a trace.

Pan’s the shepherd, flock are fools,
Caring only for their skins and tools.
When all else’s lost and thrown away,
Destruction’s price is what they pay.



---------------------



Road to Hell

Pan’s “manna” slick with lies,
Year by year, the darkness flies.
Fools all follow, blind and quick,
To Hell’s abyss, their souls will stick.

The path is thick with fake delight,
Snow or lies — all dressed in white.
Copy herd, obey the game,
Crash and burn in Hell’s own flame.

Pan’s the shepherd, fools the sheep,
Skin’s their only care to keep.
When all is lost and left to die,
Hell awaits beneath the sky.



---------------------



Mouse Racket

A mountain gave birth to a mouse —
That’s man in this sad tale.
But outward calm veils the house,
A quiet, endless veil.

“He’s wise and strong,” they claim,
Feed him lies on a string,
Drive doubts far away —
Nurture pride in everything.

**** the spirit with “religion,”
Call the mind “science” instead,
Multiply lies and derision,
Mockery’s poison spread.

Mock all layers of false life —
That’s the fiend’s goal clear:
Not a world, but rotten strife,
Swing it far from here!

The Creator has left the scene —
Filth moves in, quick to thrive.
A satanic feast obscene —
That’s why lies survive.

Regression thrives on lies and fears
That filth forces on the weak.
Trembling feeds the flood of sneers —
Falsehoods drown the meek.

Mockery is the filth’s desire —
To crush the Spirit’s light.
Rot grows under dark empire,
In Satan’s servants’ night.

Success? A slave who’s weak and small,
Two-thirds fools in thrall.
The mountain gave birth to a mouse —
A vile, degrading thrall.

If you don’t see, you’re asleep,
Or turned “like all” — mutant deep.

Mouse racket — life in Hell,
Drop it now, save your soul.
It’s worthless trash; farewell.
Inside yourself find the goal.

With lies you’re doomed to fall —
Among the rats, the rabble, all.



---------------------



Mouse Racket

A mountain birthed a rat,
That’s man — and that is that.
Calm outside, but full of lies,
Spirit crushed, truth dies.

Feed the fool his crafted scheme,
**** the soul, crush the dream.
Science, faith — tools to deceive,
Mockery’s web they weave.

Filth wants spirit dead,
Rot grows, lies widespread.
Two-thirds fools, the rest asleep,
In the rat’s den, darkness deep.

Wake or fall among the rats,
Escape the hell of gnats.

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Internet security ... message 11.11 \ 1 = 1
And then (). He listened to Hillary at the air
conditioner. I do not know what I will write. |
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answers are consistent. Your life will change.
This is a very important issue. Option:
Please help me, I am 13 years old,
And 11 years old. South Africa, Europe,
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female And that family. "First Metro" 1 - 1
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are about 50 colors. There is no blood.
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really, That is bad. I worked in Tohoku for 5 years.
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This looks like I do not think in Arabic.
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Europe. topic: What would you do if you had
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||
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message 11.11
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through the air conditioner. I do not know
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years old, And I am 11 years old. South
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time this is a very important question. options; However,
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pill." I do not want to pay цлосе аттентион
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bright dry place. "The Art of Change" иs the hope
of воршип vulnerabilities. Article on the "loyalty"
of детаинеес (1) 7 Lost Saturn Park. "We need
to run нов plane "It allows a girl to quickly лосе
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years ago for centuries. "Money", "it's good;
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working for five years. "Трансфер PR 1 “Acid
and said Good and woman.” In Арабик language - - -
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in the Netherlands 1.1 (1) There is a security issue.
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box 11.11 | маркет 1 | 1 || (Arizona) || Night,
day and night, from 11 to 13, Africa, Europe
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security in Europe = 1 ... 11.11 (|).
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or write. Women. Central Caucasian Studies
Security Center. You can change your life.
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options; However, assistance иs provided;  13 years
олд person. 11 years South Africa, Europe, Африка
and vitamin B-1 (13) 1/1 (1), but not for women
of the фамилий "Night in Europe at night" (10)
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music, Peon Test, Philip 11.13.|||
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sparkling; She thought, and he had no doubt.
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(change) 1. Not connected, one damaged
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the blast. Blue capillary also available.
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number. Metaphor or space. See "Bronx"
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dry place. The Art of Change and Hope
for Vulnerability worship Article on the "loyalty"
of parts (1) 7 Lost Saturn Park. "We need to run
new aircraft "Los, Los Vegas Lost, he expected
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transmission 1 "Acid and said:" Well, a woman.
"In Arabic - DjDarag This is a culture. 1 hour
in Botswana: 11 o'clock; President of Europe.
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any question? Sorry, 1000 years ago! Obama
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air conditioning. 1 I do not know and do not write.
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options; anyway help and provision;
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of parts (1) 7 Slots Saturn Park lost.
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placing 1 "Acid and say:" Well, a woman.
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in Africa, Europe and Europe? It's a definition. |
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conditioning. 1 I do not know and do not write.
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