Today I was tired
And we picked the wrong time to argue
And I did what I do best, silence
Not to punished you
But I don’t want to hurt you with my anger
Be patient please, wait until I’m ready to open myself again

Affixed to the Lee–Enfield,
this blade, this trigger point,
stricken by ambush,
enters the melee
along the false edge,
cuts to the core,
like sympathizers of
William of Orange.

There are no daggers
apart from war,
just an ocean of
death and defeat,
its water,
its ever rising water,
swallows us whole.

Zeus and Hades Dispute the Soul of Man

Upon Olympus’ storm-crowned throne,
Zeus spoke in thunder, wrathful tone:
“Let me shape them, bold and bright,
With minds like flame and hearts of light.
They’ll build with stone, they’ll climb the skies,
Their dreams as vast as eagles rise.”

From shadowed halls and molten floor,
Rose Hades, Lord of Death and War:
“You give them fire, but I give fate.
Each heartbeat ticks toward my gate.
You build them high, but I make whole.
What good is man without his soul?”

“They are not yours!” the thunder cried,
“They breathe beneath the open sky!
Let them rejoice in song and feast,
Let love and war be theirs at least!”

Hades laughed, in low despair:
“And yet, they whisper me in prayer.
You give them hope, I give them truth
The mirror time holds up to youth.
Their gods may lie, their hearts may roam,
But every man comes crawling home.”

“They shall defy you!” Zeus proclaimed,
“With temples, towers, songs unnamed!
They’ll name me Father, King of Kings,
Their lives uplifted on my wings!”

“But when the wine runs dry,” said he,
“They’ll find their way from gods to me.
Let them rise but not forget
Their roots are born in ash and debt.
For what you raise, I shall receive
The last to hold them as they leave.”

And so the world was born of strife
Between the spark and end of life.
One gave will, the other doom,
And Man walked bravely toward his tomb.

With dreams from Zeus and dusk from shades,
A creature of both light… and grave.

Smell the rain and watch the sky
This is what i give you
Touch the skin and taste the lips
This is what i have given you
The sand is warm and so are you
Swirl in the water that lick the shores

I have no light to guide you
So make your way by strife
I have nothing else to give you
But an ending life

Never ask why daylight dies
Why the herds head for higher ground
Never ask why i thought you to lie
And to hurt the one you love
Never ask why the night is cold
And why the wind tears in your soul
Never ask why there must be an end

These are the days of struggling
These are the days when you breathe and dream
These are the days of never turning back
What lies behind you is only black
These are the wounds i bleed from
This mortal coil drains me so weak
These are the last words of wisdom
I'll ever speak

**** this dude more so than all others

First, he brushes into me while walking

Secondhand reaction, I say sorry to his fault

Imagine the feeling she felt to find a wall in
the city. Pretend seeing this blockade: to wake up
and find your sense of self so rudely split
and blood blocked up by barriers of grit
and stone. Immured and trapped. The promenade
has now been pieced apart by guns and guards.
Though even this sensation wasn’t new –
to have her body broken into two –
this construct ripped a rift she could not pass,
with blades of sharp and rusty August grass.
Graffitied cracks through which poor souls have tried          to escape,
but none outrun the trauma of the past.

His hands seemed almost bizarre on the fork.
How can something so large handle something so small?
Did my mother's hand fit into his at all?
I wondered as he chewed up the dead pork.

"It does not taste right." He says as he takes another bite.
The blood is foaming from his open mouth.
"It is half-cooked and still fresh; the animal still tries.
to outrun his flesh. It is hard to bite and dry."

He tries to say as he swallows, even as it rots
He keeps just eating more. Then he slams the fork.
chants curses that would put a priest inside the morgue
I listen to him call God as I ponder about loving

In the black and white pictures, it existed.
where my mother's eyes still smiled
where her movements were not rehearsed
where she didn't have to keep the glass half full so it wouldn't burst

I see her in my reflection: a sad-eyed girl.
with a table filled with savory and sweet
But Mother, do we share this quiet rage when we eat?
You wish you could replace his head on the plate?

Mother, are you a good actress?
Do you keep knives under your dress?
Does your mind create images?
Where you pay off all the witnesses.

"Will you ever feed me something other than your tears?"
He shouts as he slams his fists.
and his hands make sounds
as loud as war bombs

We learned when to be quiet.
when to soak up all the silence
But, Mother, in your mind, is he still the head of the table?
Or just a head on the plate?

She is a sculptor, carefully molding
And just as precisely, she is folding.
Digs through the earth in search of sapphire eyes
Rips the wheat for hair, just like she desires.
When it finally speaks, the voice is weak.
"Breathe life in me; feelings are what I seek."
Oh, how perfect her strangest creation!
Broken fragments of imagination.

"You’re my blank page, I can fill with stories."
"The low whisper to hush all my worries"
First, she teaches it to dance, then how to
Sing, shows the color of the sky is blue.
Secondly, she shows the earth and the dead.
Rotting in the ground below, blood is red.
Also, color of love: never worry.
Learn to appreciate all the beauty.

On the third day, it longs to be free now.
Searching the dark, it was shown for a way out.
It screams, "I don’t belong to anyone."
"I am free as birds that fly toward dawn."
"I made you, showed you the world; stay faithful.
There’s no breaking free; don’t be ungrateful."
Now it sneaks out at night through the back door.
Freedom and chains are falling to the floor.

She is like flowing rivers, tracing maps.
can even travel seven continents
sculpts her own path with wood and bleeding hands
knows that there are harmless and harmful plants
She wants to stick her hand in them to feel.
thinks it would be nice after it to heal
Still now the blood drops, the footsteps grow strong.
She is forced back into her hole by bond.

For a sculptor loves its creation dearly.
just wants to tweak and work on it daily
Shall the potter be regarded as the clay too?
In her road for discovery, did she grow?
Can she let go of what she created?
Or clip its wings and lock all the cages?
My dear sculptor, let it go; let her roam.
She might just be the future's next grindstone.

As God, doubtful of her own creation
What if what her hand makes can conquer nations?
Does it not deserve to sculpt just as she?
To shake like earthquakes, scream like a banshee.
Let her go, let her go, it echoes now.
She stands back, no longer a sculptor but a guide.
The chisel drops from her shaking hand.
as the marble moves and bows her head.