your vision, your voice
When you become the first thing
You truly feared
You become self-aware
For the very first time
When the mirror finally snaps back at you
Like that one time when ur neighbor’s cat bit you
And you didn’t quite know why
You finally understand why
For the very first time
Wake up
Remember the
Portal in my closet
Walk inside it, and become a
pneuma.
The pain
Was draconian
But I managed through all
The searing pain of the portal.
Success.
I walked
Right through the door
And found myself back in
The same old room… but different.
Somehow.
I looked
Around my room
And saw an orb floating
Upon my bed, just hovering.
It moved.
It told
Me to go sleep
Upon the bed beneath
It. so I got into my bed and
Slept long.
Woke up.
Remember the
Portal in my closet
Walk inside it, and become a
Pneuma
I’ve heard that dreams are symbols
That represent our future.
Yet, are they not the shackles
That keep us in this stupor?
Perhaps, I’ve been too easily swayed
By the lies that swept me up.
I wonder if the cards I played
Were stopped far too abrupt.
For once I dreamt I was stuck
Falling down a deep, dark hole.
I fell for eternity, ‘til I struck
A realization: I had no control.
For now, I wish I could go back
To that time when I was innocent.
It’s hard to imagine how I lack
That perfect, perfect innocence.
Maybe if I worked to death,
I would find what I was looking for.
But now, I’d rather take a breath
Than find solace ’hind a door.
There is a tree
Outside my window
That scratches
On my walls.
My father says
It must come down
Before it breaks
And splinters.
But this tree is
Young and wild,
And not at risk
Of dying.
So why must we
Cut it down?
It has so much
To live for.
I’ve seen the
Squirrels who
Sleep in its branches,
And the bugs who
Feast on its leaves.
I’ve seen the ants
Who crawl along
Its bark and the birds
Who eat its seeds.
So what of the life
It lives?
Is such a thing
Enough to keep
This tree from dying?
I wouldn’t know,
Since all I know
Is how to keep from
Crying.
Its bark is strong,
Unlike its bite,
Though maybe it
Doesn’t have one.
But the birds and bugs
Might stay and fight
To protect its fate.
Maybe that’s its
Blessing.
It has the breath
Of all who live
In or around
The tree.
If I can see
Its mind and body,
Maybe I can
Be another
Of its protectors,
And I can
Change its fate.
What is the light beyond death?
Is death without purpose?
Without death, the hell that we fear so would rise above the crust.
The light beyond the void gives us hope; without, we would crumble under the great sadness of living
Are the perverted and depraved hearts of the world worth the mercy of thy lord?
The great clemency that has stretched upon our land did not choose who bore and who did not; for if he did, the free will we abuse so, would run through our fingertips.
Is being gracious and caring just for the prospect of the lord’s goodness just?
True virtue is made by knowing sin, but choosing to help another.
The book that was corrupted by centuries of man truly un-touched by sin?
Ay, worshipers of the sinful book have misplaced their respect for the lord, he loves all.
Tell me, if true virtue is helping without knowing, then why must we know, and not know?
The ones without a spoiled center know this light, even if it wasn’t him.
For we worship a face that is featureless.
We do not truly know him, but we do know goodness. So we must continue this worship, not for a chance at his charity, but because the virtue in our hearts demands so.
They walk in silent accord
Their soft linen touching the tall, tangling turf.
A face of brewing solidarity and eyes of piercing bright lights
Their ensemble weaved with careful seams and timeless dreams.
The hand clock of their life slowly ticks, ticks, ticks
The nuit blanche has been their tyme
Their clock clicking up and down in spite of
The phantoms that surround them.
Djinns, genies, and magicians come like moths to a light,
Yet all the words and rhymes
Bells and chimes
Hollow words and simple lies
Even if the lord told them a secret
The soft words of heavenly David’s key
And where to take it
They would still stand
Aloof and bored in the grass
Unable to feel the dainty mockery
Of the nostalgic past.
For they come when the present seems to run
They come when all forget
When death seems to drag its feet
And when the angel wings seem not to lift.
Kronos, Kairos, Ananke, and Janus
The names of the beast that many used to define it.
They don’t go by time
They don’t know who is alive
All they’ve done before
And all they’ll do again
Is take all and none
That is deemed to be fit.
Yes, a puppet floating on magic strings
A creature with none left to bleed
A casket walking
A cadaver dapper
A carcass laggard
As they dangle the keys
Of the endlessness which seems
To go on for
Every person knows whom
The thing this creature looms
Even the trees hang as tombs
Revering the work it does till noon.
Never does fortunes seem on its mind
Is it not life that it reaps from you or mine
To the first man and smallest leaf
Yield the same results as it drags from the cemetery.
Clock’s, clunky, clever, comely, corporeal capture concentration.
They tout their tactful, timely turns, twisted to
Serve some soulful speaker savant such so
That even the lands stand in solemn servitude.
Even the creature seems hypnotized
Mesmerized
Downsized to a caged beast
Willingly stuck in the honey pot
A fly drowning in cider.
For them, solitude was their friend
And now, another meant something to them
Even if this person tightens the leash
And force them to feast
On the bones of the innocent, unwitting in the least.
A deity, now stuck
For Eternity
Being short is hemmed jeans
letting your short legs fill out
the dragging inseam
Being tall is using the dressing room chair
To see if you can see
your ankles
Being tall is mens shoes
women’s shoe size shortages
Don’t apply to you
Being tall is
“Can you reach that?”
“You should model”
“Do you play basketball?”
“You’ve grown since I last saw you”
Being tall is being called a ‘fast walker’
When your cadence isn’t anything special
At six you reached the green on the line
and free range at six flags
Knuckles white,
From gripping the ride-seat’s handles
So you wouldn’t slip out
Being tall is growing pains
Being short is lowering bike chair
Being tall is bruises,
Your kneecaps bang the handles
Being tall is deserving the exit row
If you need help getting your bag
From the overhead compartment
You aren’t worthy of that leg room
Being tall is high heels being
Unheardof
Being tall is seeing the world different
from above
People see you different
Being tall comes with an inauspicious presence.
Which I have learned to appreciate.
The Rose
The rose
In my backyard
Is a maze of
Silky petals
Swirling together
To form a spiral like shape
Untouchable
I will never hold it
In my hand.
The steam is
The opposite of soft
It is as if the rose
Has built up a wall
Of protective thorns
To hide something more
Beautiful and precious
Like a treasure buried
Beneath the sand
Like the moon hidden
Behind clouds.
A careless thought
Would be inclined
To pick it up,
To ruin it’s beautie
To let it wither on the table
Forgotten and alone.
A rose blooms in winter
For some reason
I do not know why
But it did
And I am not hear
To question it
Only to witness it
And that I have done.
I got to meet it at the
Edge of the snow,
Where the wolves howl,
I got to meet it at the
Edge of the flames,
Where the air tightens,
I got to meet it at the
Edge of the light,
Where the tunnel ends,
I got to meet it,
And that was enough.
I sit atop a tower
It’s made of sorrow and misery
There are no rails
It’s an easy jump
About three stories tall
Wouldn’t die
It’d hurt
But I’d be able to break the base
Watch it fall
Build a new tower
One made of happiness and excitement
Ten stories tall
One I don’t want to jump off of
One where the fall would hurt more than being there
Though inevitably
People exist to tear towers down
Be it good or bad
Help or harm
Love or hate
There’s no such thing as an indestructible tower