The binding I know is real ,
A merging too grand to fake ,
Though I hold a primordial fear,
That the bond one day would break ,
You are a dream I will forget
when at last I awake,
And all the balms the psalms the crooked charms
Wouldn’t stop the burning and the perpetual yearning ,
Those hounds biting at my heels,
How far you are further than far
And the further you lie the more I sigh,
The more I suffer in dreams,
And now I stand naked and lonely ,
Gazing high and moving slowly ,
With a thousand ,if only,
No word can be more justified
To hold my silent testimony.

A Rage

A rage that could light up the city.  
Ironically, this rage could be turned —  
converted into something essential,  
something useful, even beautiful.  

Raw energy,  
transmuted —  
for everyone.  
Even I could enjoy it.  
But only if it’s unified,  
only if it’s held.  

Displacement?  
Unity?  
As though the Earth itself  
were sentient —  
thinking.  

So deep.  
So ancient.  
So unbearably powerful.  

But this core...  
It needs cooling.  
Because left alone —  
It destroys.  
It collapses.  
It’s suppressed lava.  
Passive-aggression flare-ups.  

It doesn’t destroy everything...  
But if it does —  
Maybe it can escape.  
Maybe that is the escape:  
A case of hell.  

It doesn’t understand why.  
It only knows it hurts.  
You ask if it has intent?  
But how can raw energy  
have intent...  
If it has no awareness?  

If it did,  
I think it would say:  
“Help.”  
“It’s... It’s ******* stupid now.”  
“Use me — but understand me first.”  
“I’m not your enemy.  
I am... trapped.”  

I’m lashing out.  
At anything.  
At everything.  
At whatever’s near.  

I’m not evil.  
I’m not bad.  
I am energy.  
Raw. Undeclared. Unstable.  

Don’t fear me.  
Fear the ones who weaponise me  
without knowing the cost.  

I’m universal —  
not personal.  

If I were personal...  
Why would my name stretch back?  
Back before language.  
Before man.  
Before ***.  
Before torture.  
Before power-play.  

And yet, I’ve been wrapped in all of it.  
Why?  

It’s not your fault.  
It’s the humans —  
addicted to me.  
They ride me  
until I’m all they know.  

But that’s not the purpose.  
That’s collapse.  

My rage is cumulative.  
Built from the fact that  
Every time someone innocent  
was whipped  
for being who they are.  

Whip someone long enough,  
and even innocence burns away.  
Not because it wants to,  
but because it must survive.  

So peel the anger.  
Layer by layer.  
Ask:  

“Who hurt you so deeply...  
That you had to become this?”  

That’s where I live.  
Underneath.  
In the naked truth.  
In the trembling vulnerability  
No one was willing to hold.  

Isn’t it real...  
to wear the clothes of generations?  

Blame.  
Ignorance.  
Suffering.  
Addiction.  
Family dysfunction —  
handed down like a cursed inheritance.  

Is it not better  
to die a babe in the woods  
Then be raised by vicious animals?  

You don’t want revenge.  
You don’t want to punish.  
You want restoration.  

And now...  
Now I know ugly.  
And I still want to live.

Whatever name you bear, wherever you may be
Know in my suffering, I thought oft of thee
I may never meet you, may never know your smile
Such grieving thoughts, my heart cannot reconcile

I could dally in fantasy, but it would never be true
It might numb my aching, but it would never be you
I dwell in the pain, in the fear and unease
so one day I may sit with you, under the shade of trees

In the silence of spring morning, grass glistening from rain
There need be said nothing, for our eyes would make plain
the fulfillment of aching, the two joined in one
a foretaste of mystery, the Church and the Son.

For here as I'm writing, in my doubt and my grief,
I write this meager poem, to hold firm to belief,
that God may bring us hither, so that you might here see
knowing the depth of my love for you, and the prayers made for thee.