I.
Rose scented candles stand lit in an alcove of rotten hope,
Beneath a portrait of the war taken love.
Curtains gone threadbare and tattered cover the front.
News from the front:
There are no good farewells.
- alcove to hearts and garters -
No hints of the past of warnth linger anymore.
The chill on the floor gets colder by the day.
The smile on the photograph weeps.
No letters home?
The ghost should be taken away
From the woman's false hope and vigil,
Taken away to be loved in a peaceful place,
Away from war and work and toil,
To a place where the fabrics are soft and new
Where rose scented candles have never been.
The memory of his smile needs to heal inside her,
As does the gas dealt the earth by the strife;
The world bleeds, mortally wounded,
And dust settles on the pictures.
 

II.
Perched above the crimson flicker,
In your craggy home covered by dense visions.
A sea of hungry flames spreads out.
They lick at your mind,
They lick at the rocks on which you roost
Just out of reach,
A scarlet vastness of eager throats
Parched on the island of always regret,
Cracked in an ocean of pain,
Pain from the flames of too much.
Nothing will save so scarlet purge,
Lick and flaming purge.
 

III.
Or a life, a mother's arms to come,
struggle bane of eager blind hope,
deaf and dumb struggle like the sacrifical lamb,
a gift for the giving,
make the sacrifice now,
A drop for the past, a drop of your blood,
A river for the present of your blood and mine,
An ocean for the future that none can provide,
In the eyrie there is no surrender,
Only victory until the sun draws nigh,
In the eyrie ever living full,
And living hard to die,
In dying gaze beyond the pale
Of ignorant ilk and silky lies,
To see the candle of truth and forever,
Forver with no goodbyes.
Tell me, would you like to share
The stars with my blank stare?
 

IV.
Dear child
do you see me
as a father and a lover?
Is this tower we created
A monument to truth and greatness to come
Or a ruin to envy and deceit?

The flower knows more of the earth than does the breeze,
And more, the flower girl muses.
She hides inside during the rain.
Those who would pluck her blooms are turned away.
She is saved from the fate of the wildflower.

Over dusty roads and winding paths,
The sun suffers all from above.
The heat of that long summer day
Reflected from the dull, lustrous leaves
Into the eyes of the flower girl.
She bent over so that she might pluck as well.
The blossom clung to the earth tenaciously,
To its warm home in the sunlight.
The girl sings sweetly of the fellow who stole her heart.
She blushes at the thought of lace,
And form the smell of the petals from
The tower of the plant's blossom.
Do you see me as a father and a lover dear child?

V.
Of puppeteers and invisible strings:
Body bound spirit with divine wrappings.
Snip the lines and break the chains if you can.
Time is the earthbound spirit's scourge,
Not enough time to escape the seam
Into which it has been sewn.
Slip into timelessness,
Out of the grip steel hunger has on your heart.
Several seconds of true release,
Not everlasting, a short respite,
Nonetheless a soul's surcease,
Like a freight train pulling to a stop,
Climbing a ladder and reaching the top.
When the spirit can grow no more it must fly.
Fly fallen angel, your war torn wings have healed,
Take a short flight on the morning breeze
To dispel your fright, then return with ease.
The puppet master calls
And the winged one falls,
The breeze suddenly ceases to flow,
Time has returned you know,
With it hunger's grip like steel,
Your heart in tow,
Forced to witness this savagery.

VI.
The ocean rose up,
A torrent heard by one and all.
It cast a leviathan up from the depths.
The lord of the marine
Beneath the deep green
Allowed not a soul to bear witness.
The tides and the selfish moon see
But have no voice to speak
Or cry for help beneath the red night sky.
You drown.
Small bubbles escape your lips
Until bloated you float up
At still red noon,
Your drinking cup broken.
The chalice of sublime absolutes uttered a rebuke.
Not bound by earthen morality
The wisdom drank your memories
And left your corpse to bleach
On blackened lava beaches.
Lost somewhere in submerged grottos
Is a knowledge far too vast
For any human mind to span,
A playground of titanic amusements,
No place for the likes of man.
 

VII.
The girl told herself something as a confession:
The dust never settles where a witchy mind meddles.
It got warmer as she stripped to her stockings,
And into a chair lightly settled.
The gloved hand of her fate keeps her as its favorite;
Her appointed time of attention draws near,
Teasing her with animal aggression.

The clock on the mantle grew bored and struck twelve,
The maiden held captive in that hour
By the charm of the ticktock in the depths where she delved,
Trapped by the erotic sublime.
Under the covers the gloved hand of fate
Ran fingers lightly over her belly,
Silk woven with knowledge spanning centuries.
Her admiration grew ripe,
She the witness to age old memories,
In the bed where she adjourned to watch
The tide of her innocence travel far out to see.
 

VIII.
For this condemned:
Disrapaier no tolor
Van kier te sunt
Ana tene noctur
Soloso tam volo
Volo mat truzoso
Truzo mat tolor
Disrapaier tolor no
Nas triumpho, tritulvo
Tan ceila canta
Na ceila caan
Sunt kiered vansa
Disra veila vansa no.
 

IX.
Chakras Rising
Will:
The planets followed me here
Lowered:
The shame of a person held dear
Hearts and stars to light my path
Voice:
A reason to fill the whole.
Thee, view, to see as you are,
All will know.
The crown:
Follow my questioning hands,
This will be remembered tomorrow.

X.
Dry out all your dripping misconceptions.
We tried to take heaven screaming back to the depths.
Tried and true, no release exists.
The savior won't come back again,
Down from his mountain to this abyss.
To watch him plummet would spell victory,
While this wait is agonizing like defeat.
Yes, says the bitter sage
Woken in the hour of peril.
The departure for home winds
Through lands dry of water
Dried from the flames of chaos' approach.
It is an anxious notion that dreams come true,
Already the wind burns cold,
A silent liaison for the wearer of the crown of thorns,
backed into a corner bleeding
At the finale of the fight.
 

XI.
I breathe the same air as you do, dear star,
Do you know?
Take this news far from care
And return to the land of selfish glow.
I will tell you a story
In very soft tones to hold onto
You and your comforting arms.
I take this time from your life.
If I gave you mine would you
Want it or even care?
 

XII.
Never shed tears that will be final, of choice,
Never shed a lifetime in anticipation of a new skin.
Old songs are just as good as the new
You can see promised before you, but will never get,
After the final cut.
Why exchange heaven for a hell of broken tunes?
Let the tears flow and care will wipe them away,
But never make them final by choice,
Or force them out like nervous laughter.
Hope instead for the wind to blow an easy course.
 

XIII.
On the Beatings in Panama:
Violence appears when the disguises decay.
Down in the valleys they wound and kill
Blood for blood, unnatural swill,
They reward good time with a plot of gorund
To fill with shattered bones.
Only through violence can the victory be won,
But no one will find it attractive.
The cacophony of clashing arms foreign lands
Makes good talk over finely aged wine,
A product of nature, work and time,
Unlike the crimson which too has stained
The earth while tears washed the dust away.
Nothing will come to stop the tides of war,
But prayers may grant divorce form hard lands.
Tomorrow the sun will shine again,
But today the chill won't go away.
 

XIV.
The chaos...
     (can you hear it?)
It infests the walls
comfortable and at home
     ("Chaos is just in your mind," she said)
Welcome to the sounds of all your life
the hushed breathing of a crazy song
 

XV.
I do not forget
The course of gold through bloodlines.
While other people,
Often not even real, come and go,
Here I stay so that all will know
What kindness means over time.
"Your heartbeat is a living rhyme," she said,
"I can see how your kindness is shown."
 

XVI.
I have scaled the wall.
On the other side I found myself with no place to hide,
Not enough room to run and no wings to fly,
My only friends the wind and sky,
No lover
     cry like the eagles
     born to the struggle called freedom
why not be ensnared just once (bitter, I ask) ?
want not, waste not, find nothing...
the sun holds no one close, but the rays caress
solve this riddle listening angel
one can ask for a solution
without asking to be given eternity
 

XVII.
The earth looks after me
When I crawl on the grass,
A baby on the inside.
The earth looks after the children
Because they all come home in the end,
Praise the lord and never leave,
Never leave again.

I scream
You cry
The cars in the street roll by.
I think they want me to surrender.
"Come quietly, please."
Did anyone hear me,
Or was the scream on the inside?
I refuse.
 

XVIII.
My cups ran to dominion,
Always the home of a queen, in my opinion.
The Princess of Cups greets me with warmth.
She knows that I have not come to harm them.
     I hear no voices inside the palace,
     Though all of my hearing goes on.
     Cups broken by over persistence,
     Hollowed till all the love is gone
     I am empty down to my marrow
All wine can be drunk,
All blood can be spilled.

The wands and the staves
So tried and true to the advocates of fresh power
Avail me not at all, I rave,
The study of them give the mouth a taste so sour
I scoff at the idea in the morning.
An aerie of broken winged mourners
Cast out their doubts and fly,
Lessen my lonely sojourn,
The time of rebirth is nigh.

The sword never cuts the careful bearer,
And the vile can't even see the blade.
It flays deeper than steel.

Certainly all flesh heals.
The bite of certainty
With ego blemishes memory.
When the crowns come round
On the wheel covered by the cross of roses,
The wounds will just be old weals.
In this struggle metal never met neighboring flesh,
Only words cut through the armor and mesh.

The hierophant has flown his hell,
The fool has an idea no longer.
Here I thrive as words and time
Bestow my soul with cherished inspiration,
No one seeks me
And there is no one to find.
The master and the slave
Burned up in literacy's flames.
Only the sound the world calls a name
Follows my steps through this newly dug grave
In the joyous sun filled land.

XIX.
I read as always
From my good friend's diary.
The beat of another entry unwinds,
The diary of a madman
Who never had a friend
But instead had to invent them.
He created souls to bleed in the confines of the night.
Read and weep as the pages proceed
To confess wrongs, sting like a wasp,
The knife just a page away.
A scroll of wriggling wastedlives
That reads itself to me in a whisper.
It is overrated to its climax,
A guffaw of sinful trivialities.
Time never waits
For time is the hostess, and she is very busy.
The lady I meet that evening
Is a black haired girl with plenty of life left
But none left to waste.
She takes me for a walk
Down through the nicely lit park,
Through the dreamy city ruins.
I wait for the deed to happen.
As always I wish my best friend's diary
Could be someone's other than my own.
 

XX.
Take me
The fool is the lover of lightning and rain
They are his being, just as he loves self too much,
And a prophet loves the future
As if he could see
The future, graven crosses in the sandstone
Black sand in a new desert
Over the place where home used to be,
Beneath the sky at twilight,
A world of my imagination
Though I am such a lover of the real.
The essence of reality
And the hope of dreams as a whole
Are the fever of the bleary eyed balladeer.
Stricken with love he then looks for a rose,
Though he may bleed from the scorn,
(Her prickly thorns)
He will try to take her away,
Away to his black desert
On top of what was once his home.
The lightning and the rain and I
Forget about such loves
And instead share each other.
We don't need our families' cooperation
Or a home, the future is ours.
The prophet seeks only the fool.
He thinks he will find himself.
In one identity or the other I'll be safe,
Alive and well in a crystal ball
And filled with the irony of
The Sickness Unto Death
 

33.
Wasted

I shot up the white lady
With not a hint of remorse or regret.
When the old girl finally kicked off
She slippe dout of her icicle chains,
So I shot her again, out of mockery of sin,
So that winter could once again reign.

I wanted that flicker,
A sweet morbid good-bye.
With the drum of a methodical needle
I screwed the candle down to nothing
Wasted away
The sheer of kaleidoscope time
In the nursery rhyme of a child.

The world moves very slowly
Against the currents of hate.
The child in a mother's arms
Later looks out from lonely eyes
No relatives but memories.
I looked out onto a colder world today,
And I saw no kaleidoscope swirls.
I whispered with grief sweet morbid good-byes
To the wasted, wasted away.

Tomorrow the sun won't rise or set,
It will only be night or day.
I'll witness each morning with mild regret,
Though the world still turns some say.
Someday I'll smooth out my problems with satiny ease,
Marry and have a home in the hills
Where rattlesnakes come and go freely.
I admire them most of all.
As the turning world distributes remorse
Say good-bye and kindly wave
To the wasted, wasted away.
 

34.
White Gloves

Last week the cold men came again
White gloved hands filled with small poison drops.
They adjust the tender balance of the mind.
They obscure the view of the bruised children,
Bruised in places only teachers can reach.
The teacher wore a crucifix
A tarnished badge of authenticity.
Prick sickly savage,
Your cross draws blood like a knife
While the lab coats revel and laugh.
They tell each other secrets about your insanity.
The uniform shows from their insides
Even when they aren't wearing one.
The tree of life has nothing to do with this,
Nothing at all good can be seen.
The white gloves obscure your view of reality,
Instead you can look only at your own small sins.
Those you are shown again and again.
Last week the flowers spoke.
Their words whipped the lazy heat to a frenzy.
Color fades as I chop more.
It leaves a porcelain ache in place of something
That was genuine.
Suspense and aggression dominate the land.
Maybe the cold men will arrive soon
To color my flowers for me,
To erase dry misconceptions,
Put their icicle needles to my needy mind,
And cleanly insert my daily injection of conformity.
Their uniforms are on the inside,
All you can see are their pale white gloves
 

35.
The brown man calls me again
With his stories of castles and troubadours,
And misty gray promises of truth.
The wall stares at me in stony reproach.
The seconds chase each other along like mice.
One drop of blood winds its way down the plaster
To an eternal rest promised by the earth.
I sink deeper as the time solidifies
Into adamant apprehension at the moaning sound
I can hear all through my house,
But for which I can find no source.
Wind scatters my courage like particles of dust.
Smoke in the room also disperses in the whirlwind.
The door is standing open.
Vision of the street is shrouded by the storm
As the brown man calls me again.
The walls take a little trip, leaving me behind laughing.
My blood finds its way
All through y body and back again,
A scream like electricity in my veins,
Thew craving shrieks to be set free.
My eyes roll back and stare inside,
The debris from the storm settles thickly over my body.
The room gasps out an infernal silence.
the voice of the dead man knells doom.
I am dead on the floor, unmoving.
 

36.
The End of the First World

Memory and the island of reason
A place to cling to in the currents
the stream of thoughts
All around you, swim or drown,
Swallowed by the luscious light blue.
Seconds dissolve in the past's chill flow.
It laps against the skin.
Hypothermia wants to play,
But you've washed up on the shores of reason
Experience the only voice you're given
A prisoner of sentiment, the largest ocean
The glare off the beaches blinds,
And winged inspiration binds,
There is no escape.
Wounds of night and dread cauterize in the sunlight.
Latere night slashes them back open again.
The cuts fill with the present,
Burnt with the salt of the now,
Burn on the beaches of reason,
Te shores of self justified mind.
Palm trees shimmer flase comfort nearby,
Really a jungle of darkness and mires,
A haven for the weeping god of the rain.
You seek the tangle.
It becomes coherence.
You realize the thickest part is your knowledge.
The rancid water is prejudice and bias,
But fresh water does exist there.
You drink of cool faith and devotion.
As you decipher the layers of you new island,
Travelling down small hillside paths,
You decide your island must be a continent.
No center can be found
And the highest hill shows a horizon ofland.
The trees shudder;
They know this land now belongs to you.
your thoughts are the heart of a quiet mystery,
The where and why of your arrival,
Secrets to be discovered later with delight
After you strike out across the interior.
 

37.
Nature found me asleep again.
She perused my soul with delicate fingers.
She woke the dragon that slumbered there.
Dragons fear my dreams
For there can be found their ancient names.
I toss and turn from the ague.
I am alone in the embrace of the nightingale.
She and the beautiful song she warbles
Float like tall ships overinternal seas
Of thought, from heaven to me.
A whisper told me to follow
The ocean to its source,
The streams to their springs
And laze in forgetfulness as rain falls in the night.
Nature and I touched shivering.
Words would no longer come.
Only our souls can sing,
Only nature's heart can understand mine,
For the eyes that love alone
Can never see the beast and then deny.
 

38.
Water swallow me,
I want to think no more.
Sunken beneath the wavy planes
Words are distorted like the songs of whales,
the sound succors the silence as we go.
We dive for pearls on the day of surrender.
We seek moments of happiness in our memories.
I want to think nomore,
Mind like the rolling of oceans,
thought like swells of spent time;
Tides of sympathy and regret
Follow the orbit of the quarter moon.
There's a pearl on the floor of the gulf
That can only be found
By drinking the ocean down.
 

39.
"Bullet to the brain
And I think it's very funny."
Law enforcement evokes humor;
Danger makes security costly.
Evasion appeals to urban tacticians,
Elude and carry on.
Speed has no meaning after discovery,
Then it is too late.
Future plans revolve around survival with freedom intact.
Defeat in the urban war means loss of human rights.
Defiance to the death eases
The humiliation of defeat by thelaw.
Sincerity no longer represents
The morality of the majority.
Rebukes were handed around
To the stern, righteous moralists in '92.
Nearly a quarter voted in protest,
And a half elected liberal regards.
The majority in this country rejects the moral right,
The militarist brand most of all,
For they are mongers of tough action versus the defenseless.
George Bush felt the thing he had to do
Was prove his masculinity;
Nothing here will be said
Of the questions such an action raises.
Things improve or decline
Based on the individual first.
the new leader improves or depreciates the value of the nation
Depending on whether or not the individual
Can find any sympathy from the government.
Regardless, the individual strives for meaning.
the struggle should be recognized as a universal,
And granted grace in society.
Urban dissenters have been thrust out into the cold
By American business leadership;
Apparently they believe people different than them
Should be starved out,
A delusion that could lead to a disaster
If not averted by more thoughtful folk.
Managers care nothing for excuses,
No matter how true.
The gang members, born without futures,
Learn this as one by one
They are locked into deprivation,
In prison and out.
Were they ever given a choice
Between grovelling and dignity,
Or were they offered only grovelling?
A rhetorical question,
A stain on the honor of our past leaders.
Business hates it
When the fed raises wages.
These leaders punish people in the name of morality,
Of which they know nothing but a dollar value.
 

40.
No Boundaries

Happiness refutes all rules.
Happiness has nothing to do with universal morality.
One can be happy without following the rules.
Morals exist on two levels.
One level idealizes morality,
Glorifies the narrow path to perfection.
The other level is the morality of the common man,
Which still condemns many of the same things
But which believes no lies about perfection.
The obvious choice for one seeking perfection
Would be the system that allows for mistakes,
Otherwise life leads to self torture by guilt.
No one can make the claim
Man was destined to reach perfection.
God stripped perfection from man at the outset.
It is something that can never be achieved,
The tragedy of the fall from Eden.
God understood that man could not handle
The responsibilities of perfection and still be happy.
Marriage to the first woman
Allowed nothing close to perfection.
Imagine having absolutely no precedents,
Then imagine trying to make a decision.
The difficulties associated with being early man,
before the existence of moral systems,
Leads to the conclusion that moral standards
Were once much more lenient.

The argument that addiction destroys health
Does not allow for the certainty that is death.
No matter how perfect you try to be
Death comes to visit you anyway.
Wouldn't it be more humane to allow the suffering
To make the long procession to death with subdued awareness?
Are stimulants given to people in terminal pain?
Of course not.
Nobody wants them to be overly aware of their pain.
Then why would it be considered wrong to do the opposite
And reduce the edge of the pain.
Motor functions are sometimes barely affected by cannabis;
the danger of delayed responses turns out to be anti-drug propaganda.
it does, however, inhibit pain reception,
Which can be terrible on the final march to death.
It also creates appetite when sometimes the sufferer
Has lost the will to eat or can not overcome nausea.
The merits outweigh the defects,
In this common world where perfection is understood to be
The most unachievable of goals.

If God sacrificed his son for the world
Did he do so in order to save everyone,
Or just the perfect people who have no vices?
One solution to widespread social dissatisfaction
Would be to end expectations of perfection.
This will never be put into practice
Because the professionals who tell the people
That they have problems,
That they aren't perfect, but that they should be,
Would lose a lot of money.
Lies have been perpetrated about perfection;
Under an insidious administration it was spread about
That deviants are responsible for all our problems,
that abnormality threatens the sanctity of our nation,
And the rumor still persists.
The politicians of our time
Have poisoned the minds of the conservative and traditional people,
The same way the fire of superstition were fanned
In Spain during the Inquisition,
In America when ergotism was mistaken for witchcraft.
This means that the average, slow thinking person
Fears other citizens, other, likely better, citizens,
Because the multimedia brain programming
Tells them to fear the different,
And uses a moral system that makes no allowance
For the intentions of the divine creator.
The people of letters should take comfort in knowing
that even the most tested of laws
Can be wrong,
And even the most condemned of actions
Might be inoffensive in the eyes of God,
The only entity capable of knowing you
From the inside out.

Legalize it.
 

41.
The bard sought to write down all of his dreams
For his true love, so she would know their beauty.
No matter how hard he tried
She rejected his dreams as ugly;
They all ended in sorrow.
His failure began to discourage him from his art
That he had loved on his own for so many years.
He decided that with someone who loved him
Song was useless,
For the goal of his songs had been to attract a lover.
After he wrote down his last dreams
He vowed to write no longer
And cast his pen into the wind.
He laughed at his good fortune,
That he had found someone to love at last.
That night she told him she loved him
And no one else.
She told him she would stay with him forever.
The young bard didn't recognize the common lies.
He had yet to learn.
As he slept in her arms he dreamed of an archery contest.
A large number of archers attended.
They all suffered defeat at his hands.
When he was given his prize he sought out his love
To give it to her.
Victory to her was something ugly,
A display of bravado.
She scorned his accomplishments as useless,
And flaunted a new lover to taunt the bard.
Upon waking he found the same woman in his bed.
She scoffed when he rushed to write the dream down.
She claimed real men didn't do such things.
Her attempts to dissuade him from his art
Were as intense as her jealousy for his attention.
When he would not stop writing she grew desperate for a tactic
With which to capture his full awareness.
She told him he could not satisfy her
If he loved dreams more than she,
And she threatened to leave him for a stronger man.
She meant this to more fuilly capture the bard's attention,
But he recognized the truth.
Just as he finished transcribing his dream
She went too far, calling his songs pathetic and childish.
When the bard began to weep
The woman could no longer control her contempt.
That was when she mentioned the name
Of her new choice for a lover.
this made the bard laugh while he wept,
For though his dream ended in sorrow,
Like all his songs the beauty of it was all too clear:
Songs and dreams are truer than cheap lovers.
His former lover called him crazy and left,
Ultimately freeing him to better fortunes.
 

42.
Gaia Enslaved

From the first tortured setting
Of the valorous and golden sun,
Fear stole out over the earth,
Out of caverns where savage things growl;
Beasts of a netherworld spread over the land.

Through forests and dales
Where once laughter ruled supreme,
Fear stole into the hearts of men,
And laughter disappeared, replaced by grim.

Darkness holds growing dread,
desperation solicits death as a solution,
To conquer fell terror or be grieved for, gone.
Dawn is the end of blind madness' reign.
Muted eyes look skyward in disbelief.
Gone are the shadows.

During the day man went unscathed.
In glory the rose opens for nourishment.
All manner of beasts are free
To walk between heaven and hell.

Confidence from thelight
Caused a corruption in the hearts of men.
They felt too powerful, too sure of their control,
Until malice possessed their intentions,
The forest full of rustling leaves
Knows too much about the origin of evil.

Through valleys, beside quick streams,
The word was passed that what man had feared
He had become.
From gloomy candle lit halls
He growled, a savage thing,
A beast of a netherworld,
Only cruel laughter, if any at all,
Escaped from his foul lips.

The heat went out of the land.
It was as if nature had broken from the wrongness
Of the victory celebration man flouted over her subjects.
The carcasses of the wasted kills,
Slain only for sport, sent up ghosts to aid
Mother Ice in her conquest of the world.
Her tendrils sought out the chambers of the warlords;
Blue spread from their hearts to their faces.
Where once they had known rest
Now they could have only work,
For heat and food became scarce.
Everyone knew to their core
How the earth had reacted to their parade,
So they sought control no longer
But instead let themselves be slaves.
Wrenched from regretful lips,
A cry like the eagle's, a fire on the wind.
Some saw error enough that
They worked the rest of their days
So that the people of their future would know their time
For the great works of beauty they would find
Rather than the horror that began the cold.

Once, when the sky and earth met in flames,
Woman and man understood how it felt to rule the earth.
Then the shivers wrested the world from their grasp.
Gigantic monuments to their grief
Rose from the solid frozen ground,
Testament to the mystique of the land.
Greater works have long been forgotten,
Crumbled to dust in deserts where islands once floated.

Once again man seems to rule the earth,
No hint of his punishment in the ancient past.
The trees once again fear and the skies smell of dread
In pained gray shades, polluted.
In a crystal palace Ice waits
To return with fresh lessons for immature humanity.
The earth mother knows the cold will revive her name.
Once she had been known as Gaia.
She was remembered for her severity
After man ceded his authority.
She loves this creation in which she plays.
There is so much to be learned in her world.

When the businessmen meet theyfail to notice
The slightly hotter temperature,
Fail to understand the principle behind snow,
Fail to know that Gaia will freeze them stiff
For her own amusement
When she has enough water to cast her storm.
Their manufacturing profits will decorate the glaciers nicely.
 

43.
The Diadem

The forest of people welcomes you,
They murmur in unison, they call.
The sidewalk keeps time,
The stride and the tread both comfort.

The city seems to sleep for the righteous
And seethe for the tainted of mind.
The buildings haunt memories
As they in return are haunted by padding footfalls.

The earth takes her own in due time.
Worship of self burns the bridge
Between self and the religious masses.
Few care while they languish in the warmth of faith.

Strength is to withstand the shout of the storm.
The storm oflove is quiet, there is no wind to see,
But certainly the blood does quicken,
A torrent of emotion that both lovers feel.

A waste of words, all should know,
If words pour forth the river floods:
Too much water for the roots in the garden
Rot comes of the saturation.

For days the rain has driven the self inside,
A falling star that can find no light for glory,
Left only with a pinpoint to be glimpsed,
Lit only from knowledge left behind.

Sleep in loss of knowledge becomes pain for want of sunlight,
In the day comes a craving for the night.
A falling star passed before me,
Down through the crossroads of the wind.

Which way would you fly,
To supernova among the stars,
To hidden fires, like a moth to flirt with death,
Or home to caring arms, the night sky blotted out?

Awake and see no more,
Grim visions of lurking death vanish
But the pain of birth lingers on,
The merest glint of divinity in mortal eyes.

A wisp of smoke catches the sunlight,
All this for the heir of the earth's comfort.
The wind will tell no secrets
Of the union between the stars and the sky.

From the coupling comes the iris,
With a frail scent of heaven that drifts.
The petal is a portal into truth and beauty,
The tenets of simplicity and awe.

The vow of loyalty to the creed
Can be taken only in foreign tongues.
Familiarity clouds the meaning,
Language is vacuous to sincer ceremony.

Touch not the rose.
No beauty can be felt between the fingertips,
And thorns stand guard besides,
Grown from ground filled with old bones.
The best rose remembers the worst of all villains,
He who plucked her selfishly.

In the world that no eyes can see
No mirror can birng thoughts to justice,
And law must enviously stand fast with her scales,
Unable to witness the transgression.

Longing is a want to see the pale
From behind another soul's eyes,
To feel solace without grief, survive grief without tears,
Age without the passing of years.

For strength and pleasure's ache
Does the stoic take his pleasure as pain,
Living for the drop of the blade,
Waiting to heal as the blade waits to cut again.

Comfort once wrapped its coils
Around a tree in the early paradise.
Forbidden to see with the eyes of God,
Hope is left only that one day others will share your doom.

Decay will struggle to be part of the divine,
Pretend to be a blackness that waits for all
When choice really determines the way of fate,
And decay is meant only for the chooser of hate.

Conflict... a prelude to peace,
Decay... an epilog to the entirety,
A message to memory to act for change
For the better before the end comes to all.

Plunge into mad dreams,
Mind soar through twilight skies.
The skies hold vigil in destined places,
And you are there, eyes staring into mine.

With healthy glow time leaves you waiting,
A story to be found, but none to be told,
A tale of chains, the ticking of the clock,
No way to escape, in public the center of attention
Embarazada.

Names should be untold secrets
Placed with the burning touch of silence,
A dark, lonely corner of the mind holds identity,
In a place too close to be touched by men,
Nature will not allow the invasion.

The story: the hero captured
By cruel, legal minds.
His captors have plenty of time, and they linger
To force his explanation.

The web of rumor traps of well.
There is no escape for the nameless hero.
A law too certain of the land it tends grows too strong.
Where a man falls the law will bury him.

Conservative women throw curses at the captive.
The stench of their ignorance curdles the blood.
The nameless man, misunderstood,
Can do nothing but stare from the pillory.

In the darkness did he dare.
Night holds strength in the form of cunning and surprise.
The men know the crowd would kill him,
But they want to make the punishment fair.

Can anyone follow the curse?
The course of the disease should be plain,
Though most will force explanations of what they can not guess,
Most would end freedom to define official love.
The crown of insanity
Broken story lines God laid down,
No escape to official reason,
No reason to be ashamed,
Though captured by the murderers of dreams,
there is no salvation,
Every case is checked by thenumbers,
Or rather the weight of the victims in mass.
The righteous cower behind an image,
The illusion of their own justice.

The man who has been chained
Will one day rise up an angel of vengeance.
The woman who never gave up her secret
Refuses condemnation a foothold in her home.
The hero found that comfort denied,
Though in many other ways we are similar.

A bubble of premonition
Know one can know
Together maybe we all can see
Right and wrong, the story ends,
A spectacle, a tragic existence,
To feel right and swing from the gallows.
Innocence treads a dirty path at all times,
But the filth never touches her feet.
The sun slips from the sky once more.
A slow death, planned well,
Fated by law to chill and burn,
Nature's envy plays the executioner,
Happy to extinguish the flame once too free.
The conservative women file away,
Empty of the curses that would have been there for their husbands.
They are so relaxed from the execution.
The woman who loves knows the loss of security,
The open home defiled, love no protection from the mongers.
The moral should be clear to all,
Though from whence the message came no one knows.
There is no future for those blinded by love.
There is only misery at the hands of a system that hates love,
Because tax money can't buy it.
The aforementioned envy
Is all too happy to kill happiness.
Empty minds can find no value
In a man who finds his love in the night.
Men of the clever dark are despised
For they have memories of pleasure the forces of law
Hunger for so badly, but lack the harmony to achieve.

Dust kisses the skin of those who tarry.
Muscles tighten.
Desire plainly understands the bitterness of ugly spirits.
No chain can bind beauty's loyalty after it has been given.
No pain can afflict the hero who refuses to recant.
Chains were meant to hold shadows of the real article.
The spirit, quite distinct from the body,
Shatters the myth of strength or weakness.
Legends spring to life in the imagination.
They grow in the throes of shrouded mysticism.
Maybe soon there will be another ending.

The man breaks free at the fall of light,
No longer the object of ridicule by stained souls.
The law sees nothing of his departure.
The center of mass concern slips away.

Only chaos can breathe freely
Under the rule of prejudice.
Grappling with cold fact
Shows that no family can be safe under stupidity,
Doubly true if they are even slightly different.

The song of everyday life ends with the departure
Of the hero into the wilds,
Into the wind and the dust from men's errors,
Into the crumbled ruins of mountains they would have built.

Today, on the frontier,
An urban wasteland.
Guides are needed to voyage there.
To the west an epidemic of population
In which any self may become lost.

Some stories can be found, but best go unheard,
As you look back at me over you shoulder.
No creation could be as perfect as smooth skin,
High cheekbones and the sentience of animal fascination.

Hold onto the memory.
We are wandering stars without troubled ideas,
Safe in the heart of unquestioned sanity.
Oh, how fast such a vision changes.

The whole world would want to know more,
A reason for this, why it came to be,
Hushed wild breathing and the call of conjured fires
Explains the wild dance of all beginnings.

The present is an emotional satellite with no horizon.
The best gift is one of astral ideas
Meant to tell all about care without any hint of jeopardy,
About the longing to create an image
Beyond the stagnant womb of trite affection.

Their is no conclusion to my admiration,
Once forbidden, now coveted.
So many trees in this paradise
Under which to entwine.
No love is based on repression.
To understand the fall we partake of the fruit
That drove us out of our minds.
The moon takes mirth from our plight.
Glances between us showed mirrored warmth
In the folds of a windy afternoon,
Words caressed without fear of repercussion,
This art a creation no frame will hold,
Like roses in delicate hair,
Satiny curls that tease the breeze,
To pick is to watch the flower wilt,
But a sample of the crimson draught will delight
If the thorns maybe avoided.

The earth turns slowly.
Vows are taken in subtle nuances, soporifically,
The honor of the ceremony is a pass
To walk anywhere in the world with certainty,
Eyes the color of ocean pierce the deep waves to bring light,
Hesitation evaporates at the whisper in my ear,
Like the coiling devil winds in the desert.
The certainty of aging carries with it no fear.
Love is beyond the confines of the material,
Of this there can be no denial.
I wait to glimpse a shower of comets,
Instead I catch only your eye.
Words do no love justice,
They are wasted on the shadows.
The shower of comets is inside.
When light catches in your curls at dawn.
I wonder if I'll be captured for this transgression
And be made to pay.
Thought leaves me entirely.
The cool scene steals the breath from fresh lungs.
A special thing about the dawn
Is that it has no expectations
And demands no explanations.

Choices