We have a thousand poems for
Every one of your bombs.
With each act of bloodthirst
And slaughter, we respond with
The force of volumes on peace.

Heaven; a holier word than Hell.
One birth overshines a
Hundred deaths.
Cowards wound.
Heroes heal.

Poets create. You cause
A thousand tears with every bullet.
Well, we compose oceans of comfort
In your wake.
Our ink overpowers your lead.

We have a thousand poems
For every one of your bombs.
You are the bringers of death to
The flesh. We are the armour
Of the soul.

Writing.

Could you walk down the driveway one more time
To find me off to the side
On a bed of rose petal and blood
Cold dead hands
Carving patterns in my skin
With the fragments of my skull
I was halfway to hell under your hands
So why don't I just
Slip all the way, into a sweet unconsciousness
Where my stomach heaves and blood runs pure
Before I fell
Before I fell into your hell
Where the devil is in your eyes
And plays at your lips
Running down my spine
If this tight grip on my ****** hips is your love
Then hand me the gun,
Do me a favor
Ask your daddy for the bullets
Even though I've already got one
Place the cold metal against my temple
If this is your love,
Prove it to me
And pull the **** trigger

I see the flowers are blooming again
Bees are humming around
Beauty is now no more hidden
Nature plays its role silently

I touch, touch and feel again
I touch, touch the time
That fills my heart again

Butterflies are rounding me
Grasshoppers are playing through the garden
As if my memories play with my springtime

I touch, touch and feel again
I touch, touch the time
That fills my heart again

There is no pain no sorrow
As if I am playing with my pal
When I was a boy and mother
Waiting for me at the end of the tract

I touch, touch and feel again
I touch, touch the time
That fills my heart again

The three-legged stool
Wobbles, and I have sat
Waiting to be knocked
As one tumbles a tall
Statue and proclaims
Freedom from tyranny.
Me, a demi-god,
That fed manna
For your desert sojourn
On wind-swept dunes,
Following car tracks
And the fore-prints of
Your elders.

Lift the ****** veil,
Smile at your betrothed,
Seal it with a ring.
Masters are butterflies pinned
To corkboard,
With translucent harlequin colors.
These high towers,
And stools,
Give One
Insightful perspectives.
The Monarchs
Have left for Mexico.

They're screaming,
They're calling your name.
They're coming,
Hide from your shame.
They're closer now,
Run while you still can.
Hide from the sounds,
They see you from where you stand.
It's too late,
There is no escape.