Skin Deep

I sheered the black sheep,
That wool itched so, anyway.
It weighed me down in the heat of your indifference.
Woven cloak of your shame.
Your shame,
My other name.
Awarded to me like a trophy,
By you, my referee
How dare I not do as you did,
Unpresentable me.
Not draped upon the arm of a rich man,
Not sipping from a golden shoe.
Pride is a subtle thing,
A fragile wing on a tiny creature.
And subjectivity forgotten,
In the law of your land.
The tragedy of funerals had,
with empty graves.
Burying the dead,
while they still walk and talk,
But not to me.
And what beauty I inherited from you,
You, who bore me here.
I can only show
In pictures
and a looking glass.
Faded memories
And broken dreams.

Forgiveness

01

 

 

 

 

 

And the Moon said,
I forgive the Sun for not shining his light upon me all of the time,
for it is the lack of light that gives me my definition.

And the Moon said,
I forgive the darkness for not hiding me thereby betraying my presence,
for it is the shadow that gives me my fulfillment.

And the Moon looked to the great Seas,
and said,
You mesmerize me with your undulations as you dance to my music.
But in that, I forgive you for that which you reflect back to me,
All that I hate in you, for it is I that I see,
For you also reflect that which I love, and that is also within me.

And the Moon regarded the Earth,
and said,
You who keep blocking my view of the Great Father Sun,
I forgive that I cannot see all of your beauty,
for His light is often upon your back
And I only get to see a hint of all that you are.

And the Moon said,
Oh, time, you who I both demarcate and am bludgeoned by,
It is you who has left so many marks upon my skin,
Not the stones thrown at me and upon me.
I forgive the pain of all of the years,
for it is you who has given me my character.

And the Moon said,
I forgive that I change every day,
for in this I am always the same.
It is this rhythm that the drums of the people sing back to me.
It is this motion that gives them the gift of dance
and it is this that is Love.

Modern Man

The wretched, cursed man,

bent and weeping,

Walking as if a monument

to sold out souls,

Turning, turning,

face side to side,

but no one sees him.

Still, he saunters,

freely meandering

through streets of

golden auras,

all the promises

well packaged lies.

Smelling flowers

as he travels,

for they told him

if he did so,

stopped,

and smelled them,

life would mean,

something,

anything at all.

New Moon

Oh Silent Torch,

The forth face

in darkness,

Stand upon the

crossroads,

Mighty Hecate,

Fooled they are

by your triadic

image,

I salute the four

of you.

Hail upon this night

of the Black One,

An eclipse of true

mystery,

Vengeance born,

In the name of Gabriel,

sung upon the stillness,

still,

silent,

A panther,

nightmare,

is upon him.

The most deadly curse,

is silent.

Treachery born,

now dead.

This threshold

between death and

rebirth,

This liminal gate,

Night of the Black Torch,

Full Moon-Shadow,

Let the blood flow

between velvet legs,

Oh Hecate,

for the Rites are Hers,

And the Priestess,

Serpents in the sky,

stands upon the Prominence

of Black Fire.

 

Under the Shadow of a New Moon

They watch,

night vision,

and you can

feel them

see you.

Breath rises,

a fog to

peer through.

Still,

silence.

Touching

the darkness,

with outstretched

fingertips,

you make

your way.

Will the

noise,

of your

shaking

feet,

finally make

them

move?

Still,

silence.

You wait,

frozen,

within a

moat of the

vapor of

your own

breath.

The smallest

bits of

light,

relief against

the darkness.

When a flash

could be

a retina,

you wait,

still,

silence.

You wait.

 

By the Pale Moonlight

It is the light of the moon

that makes you so beautiful.

Poor Zombie.

Stetched to almost breaking,

only able to make sounds

through rough, sewn lips.

I compliment

to save his feelings.

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know.