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.

Confessions of a Super-Hero

I am a super-hero,

fighting off the monsters

that plague you,

knee-deep, as you are,

in the rhetoric spewed forth

by their silken, greasy lips.

I tear at their market-shares

and patented product placement

with my blood-spattered pen,

so quickly they fall

when denied the attention

they scream for.

I duck and weave, avoiding the

terrific armaments of their

merchandising squadrons,

immune, I am, being super, and all,

to their mesmerizing, syncopated

droning.

Monster bees, asleep at the wheel,

careening ever downward

to the swamp of their own filth,

a filth fed by the swooning of the undying

masses.

Oh, how I long for the planet I was born to,

cast away to this place,

long ago dismissed as an ever-present failure

by my long-dead peers.

Never in a million years did I see that coming,

that I would out live the immortal.

So super, I am,

That I can cause a near-hit in my sleep,

missing it, as I do,

the onslaught of seeping fortitude,

delivered endlessly by mindless, mechanical

marauders,

created by those who never knew you,

and will never care to,

still.

Sweet Song of Liberty

I am blinded by this blizzard,

the methodical winds of tyrants

beat me with their frozen taunts,

For they pretend to own my flesh,

as they dictate my future,

and reconstruct my past

to suit their totalitarian agendas,

The storm rages against my notions

of liberty,

taught to me in classrooms of wax

and glue,

colored string and songs of

beautiful country,

beautiful land,

our land,

your land,

but,

sadly,

no.

I am as free as the fish

in the bowl,

but less wise,

for he knew all along

that his world was made of glass,

and that his last breath

was already measured,

a long,

long,

time ago.

The Gilded Mirror

I sat watching,

quietly,

almost holding my breath

as the grey sledge hammer

swung deftly

towards the gilded mirror.

How the great hammer shown

magnificent,

it’s reflection framed

as it was,

in that great, gold frame,

scrolls dazzling my eyes

as the light bantered playfully,

the glass like a lake,

still and waiting.

The sound so shrill,

as it erupted,

the smashing sang like ripples,

the tinkling shards tiny notes

in a sea that has been blinded,

except for the mosaic,

tiny bits of vision,

that lay at your feet,

remnants of itself.

Savage Child

You can hear their echo screams

as the winds carry them,

beings, who will never roam

again, whose lives we

squandered,

selfishly,

failed stewards,

insanely playing

in the filth of our indulgence,

while our mother screams

behind the door,

beaten,

bruised,

her blood filling the water

as we, her abuser,

pin her down.

Every woman bears the mark

of her disregard,

her subjugation,

once exalted upon a throne

of our knowing,

worshipped for providing us

with life,

she drowns in the sea,

her blood spilling,

her children dying,

as we sit idle by,

afraid to see we are

killing her,

Our mother,

We, Her children,

savagely.

When we could love her,

care for her,

but we are too important,

though would not exist,

without her,

no, we are too important,

though will not exist,

without her.

And when they say

there’s still time,

they are lying,

failed species,

because there is still time for her,

but there is no time

for the ego of mankind

which consumes us all.

Penchant

Penchant

for servitude,

the human race,

squandering the illusion

of freedom,

while wriggling with

tormented ecstasy,

in chains,

bound,

loathing,

fumbling at madness,

cowards in glitter and enamel,

jeweled trinkets,

fetishized

swinging,

pierced and swollen,

unable to see the path

that would lead them

to the sworn

secrecy

of self.

Manhood

And she handed him his destiny,

like the head of a slain enemy

served severed on a silver tray,

And he stared it in the eye,

fixed and stony,

not yet resolved

to meet himself,

unbound,

He stood holding it,

uncertain,

yet once dropped,

it cannot be regained,

once left behind,

it cannot be found.