Tag Archives: floating

It Is Written

Good afternoon, everyone. I’ve got a pretty cool little story today that I think you’ll love. Let me know what you think in the comments below. Without further ado…

Our Will Be Done

Penance? Penance. For a crime I did not commit. Why then? The sin of being born? Original and pervasive as it is throughout my bones, my nerves, my veins. Why is it I, he who requests to not be named, that must suffer the transgressions of others?

For there in their brilliance and shine is it done. The light. Seen through these eyes of mine, filtered through a red haze. Have you ever been so angry? Have you ever felt this rage?

Thy will be done, Lord. It is You, that one who hath wrought such pain and suffering. One who hath shown such endless indignation in the face of your children who, tired of your inaction, sought the help and the praise of other Gods. Perhaps, ones who might listen. Perhaps, ones who might act.

This is a world succumbed to sin, though the fault lies not with its people, but the God who chose to abandon them. A God who decided that his children were no longer worth saving. We are already in a Hell created by indecision and thoughtlessness.

It is not I who will repent when the day is done, for these crimes are not mine. They are yours, Lord. It is not we who must repent for you, but you who must sacrifice for your children. Our will be done, lest you lose your place on your golden throne.

Nearly The End (Of Summer)

Good afternoon, friends and new visitors! It’s been a while since my last post, trust me, I know. I’ve been working on a few things that may make up for it once finished. We’ll see. I hope you all enjoy the poem today. It’s the first one I’ve written in a couple weeks now. Without further ado…

Broken Mind

Forsooth,

it is so

that one becomes

Mired.

Mired in muck and mud.

Choked and stifled

by the hands that reach

up through the silt and grime

to wrap themselves around a throat,

but for the first

and the last time.

Asphyxiated

by the rising tides

that seek to be the end

upon the coming of March’s ides.

So does it swell,

this sea,

and overtakes

all those who would dare to wade

in that from which all is made.

As murky waters fill my vision,

panic is roused from sleep

before I realize

that never before

have I been this deep.

I have already drowned,

but it will not stop,

for my heart beats,

and so does the gavel.

Rustling Leaves

Good morning, everyone. Today I’ve got a more narratively focused poem that I think you’ll like very much. It’s about a dream I had, something hard to place. Please enjoy.

Dreams of a Forgotten Place

I find myself in a forest,

the crunch of heavy footsteps rising up from fallen leaves.

I am searching,

following tracks in the muddy, refuse-laden path that lies before me.

I do not feel cold,

despite the wind howling and biting around.

Coming upon a small clearing,

painted by smears of red and gold,

there to the side stands an old television set

up on a cart,

something I remember from a memory once.

There is static as the wind has now stopped,

a single little note rests there at the cart’s base,

same as where the boot prints seem to stop and watch the screen for a moment.

The note only says, if I may trust my mind yet still,

“Not today. Come and find me.”

I’ve almost forgotten what I lost,

now not so sure if my quest’s purpose is for the faint imprint that remains

or for the finding of it again.

I see more footprints at the edge of the clearing, leading off into another winding path that slinks along beside low hills and abscising trees.

I know I will not find what I am looking for.

I only know I must carry on,

searching for that which I’ve forgotten.

I move to venture onwards,

my sight fading to black again with every step.

Much Ado About What To Do

Welcome back! My first post in July. A crazy month, it’s been. I have been busy at work and trying to center myself which of course are both massive time-sinks. I hope everyone has had a wonderful few weeks despite my absence from that little corner of your mind I usually occupy. Please enjoy the poem today! This one is a new favorite of mine.

A Real Boy

Falling through into the floor

and open there below, a door

that lies beneath the writhing ground

all atop the burial mound.

Inconceivable,

a child

never born

and never made

without a mother,

but some other.

It haunts and taunts,

lies and cries,

hears and speaks

as a child would,

as children do…

Eyes of glass

and flesh of polymer,

but listen as it speaks

for it opens the door that creaks.

Listen as its blood,

from the windows of its soul,

leaks.

Believe the truth.

The boy but says

those things which are his.

All those things

which have always been

and will always be

His.

Perhaps you’ll show him some compassion

as you listen to his story?

To know the things that you can know

as you sink down deeper and deeper below?

He only wants to help.

He does not know who you are!

…

Perhaps you are the monster in the dark?

Primordial Primogeniture

How simply does one become a god? To gain rightful omniscience and see the world for what it is? To know the world as it should be? I bring to you a story of a boy whose choice to become a man started with a devastatingly cold shower, one that kickstarted his dead heart and brought the warmth back to his chest. There is nothing but the light within him now.

Primogeniture

The cards are not so black and white

like pictures in a movie,

but blue and black and purple too

like fields of flowers,

oh so new.

The dice are set

upon a table.

As they roll,

stuck up on the gable

are seen so many heads

missing but a label.

Gamble, gamble, gamble, ramble…

A man so deeply cut

running through the bramble.

Proprietors chase

at fervent pace

only for so to

win, against you,

that race.

Pitter patter on the pond.

Rain drops

and dew drops

flit upon a single little palm frond.

Nearing the beach,

a god i so beseech,

to help me in my time of need.

I am ignored,

for it is time

for me to accede.

This firstborn son

becomes The Sun.