Apocalypse: the unanswered question (not)

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On this touchstone, torch lit night,
vast painted echoes, blue and bright,
are released in the Sun’s explosion of mistrust –

long apt to ignite… sending us back to dust…

 There is silence from the suffers of old,
who now come in from the dextrous cold,
forming porous, multiple, textured lines,
in hues of subtle forms and lies,

inside grand, coarse grained schist
that keeps us from burning warmth and myths,
and who hold this evil darkness over us –
ever at our resting souls.

Should we be so bold?
What does this all mean,
‘never to be cold?’
But, fiercely, we are armed still,
but, sadly, tis only with misery.

I must not wonder –
as I wonder most of all –
what the future,
and destiny
has in store for us all.

And I must not venture,
as I must not stray and fall.
Is this really
Heaven?
Has any of it been real at all?

Cherish

Murillo_immaculate_conception

Immaculada de Soul:  Murillo, Bartolomé Esteban

I speak low lest
my love evaporates
before e’en kissed
by your infant’s breath,
and beg before day’s
whispered hush
ascends to nightfall;
small child, look at me
one last time
before you crawl away as slow
as time roams vast.

Too soon tomorrow’s
branches, laced
with the chirps of sweet song,
will bow to cradle this dear life –
and since time nor death
show mercy –
warm arms, other than mine
shall hold him, and voyage with him
to a strange, beatific world,
where all will be waiting.

Daydream Believer

 

Daydream believer poem

My soul was flung to ‘heaven’,
a place which falls flat on is face.
My soul fell flat too before me,
pleading to get me out of this place.
In my death, I was not meant to live here,
my aim was not this mess of a place –
an imagination of some prophet before me
who stood standing there quite out of place.
Kindly lay me back down to die here,
when I’m gone, the earth will have what,
come what may.
While my mind is in tact
though my body might lack,
heaven is no place to me.
Bogie men and pixies don’t scare me,
lay me down where ‘angels’ don’t dare,
let me die as I am, human cycles
hell be damned; your voodoo won’t scare
or deny me.
We live and we die, own it.

… its called Biology

A Little Ditty

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Flaming hearts and dying embers
Burning coals from hell
Telling tales when love remembers
Turn cold from tears that swell

Trodden paths and countless journeys
Always meet dead ends
No pavements lined, save for illusion
Regardless we still wend

Dying smoke and smouldering ashes
Lay naked on our feet
A dearth of kindling adds more torment
We venture forth with deceit

my life as a piece of string

... from a silent space

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