You tune out the dark void
because of calm symbols
You wont stand still for me
without many letters
preventing a smoothing of space
After their denials are unwound
taking me clearheaded
against arctic wrath
doors thrown shut
catching clear hate inside
prevent the fish from spitting it out
and stand still against concealment
thick quilts fall away from them
hate a solid barrier

Listening to that satiated home
for eternity

Without the rudeness of permanant dawn
They sigh from their purified hearts
Without any of our waking anchors of the evening
Against the science of flawed carbon dioxide 
They hover off of wild doubts of still air
Their minds more than lead planes in clear skies
Floating beside the Poirot
Outside that transparent declaration of ngyzma they are more than kings
Relieved without the weightlessness of drought
Those stiff torsos more than deny they are not unjust automatons 
Without a rough march of hope
The birds pass by naked to admire and denounce them
And they remember our cruelty 
But it is a disgusting screen, an obfuscation 
Robust in their certain church of ingratitude
But still here was a window, shutters, ears
And they Cannot walk completed to that chamber 
And sink without waves out of shadowed churches of the body
Where nothing is impossible, where everyone is impossible 
Here they are not free beside the temples of their torpor
And the entertainment either wakefulness this withdraws them without its awakening
They have ceased destroying, no longer withdrawing downward
To darkened definitive forms of trunks
Their plastic against the most hideous of toes

The sun just kicked a hole in the clouds
to look me in the face,
as hail like sea salt pelts my windshield.

Please!
Stop killing yourselves
and leaving dead bodies
lying all over my drawings.
They are already pitiful enough,
and your corpses pull focus.

I would place my hand on your breast
dig my fingers into your flesh
and pull the taint out of your chest.
 But, magic's a gift I don't possess.

True Magic
belongs to greater men than me.
I cannot even conjure a simple cantrip.
If I had a bottle or lamp
I'd rub it for you.
But, I have so few possessions,
and I don't think any of them are magical
If a song could invoke or enchant
I would play all day for you,
but I fear it would be wasted energy.
All I have to give to you is prayer.
and prayer is just surrogate magic,
and it doesn't always work.
But, its better than nothing.
And the truth is, it has worked before.

I see you there,
with your hands
clamped around your ears.
Your eyes chained
to your walls of distraction
you mutter and babble
trying to drown out the screams.
I tell you true, it will not stop,
because the howl is in you.
It is your own spirit wailing,
and it will not end
until you reclaim your savagery.
Then you can start living again
the way you were born to live,
and deny the fiction
you were cast into.
Open your mouth,
check under your tongue
the key to your shackles
has always been there.
Unlock yourself from the lie,
 step outside into the sun
and sing louder than the gale,
until the birds stop and listen.
Or shout at the sky
until you feel human again.

Or, you can sit in the dark,
hide from the rays,
forfeit the day,
and submit to decay.

Smash all the lanterns
burn all the books
Pawn all the keepsakes
cut up all the paintings
Rip up all the ribbons
chop down the kissing tree
Bury all the skeletons
knock down the cottage

Leave nothing behind
when you turn your back
and wipe the dust from your feet.