— Leave Is Sought, Never Usurped—
He'd meant to heed the sermon, yet her air
unwove his reason from its sacred thread;
whilst Love, pronounced as heaven's sovereign prayer,
burnt through his senses till the words lay dead.
Her aureate presence held his gaze enthrall'd;
the chalk hung mute beneath her lifted hand;
each precept solemnly from heaven call'd
fell like white cinders on enchanted sand.
“Stand forth.” Beyond the hallow'd door he came,
ear-grasp'd, whilst all his wayward senses swam;
the bell released him from his chastening shame—
then meek before the threshold: “May I come in, ma’am?”
For love that knows its longing dare not claim,
kneels at the door—and perishes unnamed.
The clandestine creep
Started with a grandiloquent speech
And his surreptitious subterfuge
Has everyone confused
He said "Now grapple with the apple"
He said "has God really said"
Did God really mean that if you eat of it
You will end up dead?
The clandestine creep
Is after Jesus’ sheep
And His hands will reap
And He will forever keep
He attempts to rival God
Even walked where God trod
He attempts to corrupt things everywhere
He is the prince of the power of the air
Once the anointed luminary
Once light, until he was found contrary
Parading as an angel (as one of the guise)
To gain converts for the lord of the flies
Not as an aesthete, he steals
Instead of enjoying what God reveals
He realizes as bell’s knells, as the bell peals
He’s an A.I. of God that never kneels
An artificial insubordinate (A.I.)
Unfortunately, you are real
You’re the Godzilla to mankind
With our blunders we must deal
There are only
and always
two kinds of lies ...
Ones to deceive
while the others protect
And two kinds of liars
that barter
the truth ...
One kneels in shame
— and one genuflects
(Dreamsleep: August, 2026)
Nirvana is a handsome, gray writing spider. She kneels on the outside of her web. She opens up her legs and reveals a slim, female arachnid's, similar to a woman's.
"Interpret me," she coos. She takes her feelers in her womb and licks herself.
Moments later, our legs collide, and we're both moaning. The feeling was rough with a lesbian sense of bliss. Snakes and spiders would agree; the thought of the dirty voice inside my head began to rumble. It was the voice of Jiminy Cricket. Don't forget to FLOSS them gum-vipers, she screamed, swinishly...
Her jaws were now down there, licking. I, in turn, licked the lobe earnestly with precision and vanity.
Have you ever seen the l mouth of a ladybug or a transgenderbender? Yeah, I did them all, I gulped.
The vampire was feasting, feasting on the wrath of man-- the vampire known as the Antichrist and Count Dracula...
The garden glows with that soft,
van Gogh kind of morning~
light shimmering on the edges of things,
as if the world is holding its breath
for a small miracle.
A child lifts one foot,
then the other,
arms reaching forward
like a tiny pilgrim
crossing the distance
between fear and trust.
The father kneels,
hands open, steady,
a harbor waiting
for the smallest ship
ever to brave the sea of grass.
Behind them,
the mother watches~
her posture half-prayer,
half-release~
knowing this is how
letting go begins.
And the child,
caught in that golden hush,
takes the step that changes everything~
a step toward the future,
toward the father’s warmth,
toward the life that will unfold
one footfall at a time.
And in this quiet turning of the world,
paint becomes life~
a small child stepping into tomorrow,
a father opening his arms to meet it,
their lives unfolding in soft, bright increments~
each step a promise that love
moves us farther than fear ever could.
The sky staggers
in s
p
i
r
a
l
s of sleepless blue,
a celestial storm stitched from sapphire and sorrow,
where stars swell, simmering seeds of unstable light
trembling like thoughts too vast to be contained.
Above the village, night kneels in restless reverence.
Roofs rest in rigid resignation,
windows dim as quiet witnesses to cosmic unrest,
while the steeple stretches upward like a hesitant prayer
that never quite reaches its answer.
A cypress rises, black, brooding, blade-like
a funereal flame fixed in the soil of silence,
cutting through the composition like grief given form,
binding earth to the fevered heavens above.
The wind is unseen yet insinuated,
a wandering whisper weaving through the whorled sky,
stirring stars into spinning, shimmering syntax,
as though the night itself has lost grammatical control.
Nothing here is still.
Everything leans light lurches, darkness deepens, distance dissolves.
The world holds together on tension alone,
as though the painter captured not a landscape,
but the moment reality began to tremble.
He came bearing
a polished memoir,
wrapped in the grammar of duty,
stitched carefully
with the threads of allegiance.
The pages marched proudly—
disciplined, measured,
dressed in the language
of statecraft and survival.
Yet beneath the polished sentences,
ghosts wandered barefoot.
The ashes still remembered
the names of children
history buried too quickly.
Mothers still carried
silence like broken calabashes
upon their heads.
And the rivers of the East—
they have not forgotten.
For memory is stubborn.
It sleeps lightly.
It wakes
at the sound of old justifications.
He spoke of unity,
of difficult choices,
of burdens carried
for the preservation of a nation.
But nations are not preserved
by eloquence alone.
Sometimes history kneels,
not for defense,
but for repentance.
And so the book arrived
like rain that touched the earth
without entering it.
For many sons and daughters
of the red soil,
it sounded less
like a full reckoning
and more
like a door left half-open—
an incomplete confession
standing quietly
before a wounded generation
still waiting
for language heavy enough
to carry sorrow.
A Chapel — in the Rib of Dawn —
Where Silence kneels — in White —
And Candles — like obedient Stars —
Confess their little Light —
The Rosary — a fragile Chain —
Of Murmurs — worn by Thumb —
Each Bead — a small Eternity —
Where restless Spirits come —
The Organ — lifts a wounded Wing —
Through Arches made of Stone —
As if the Dust — remembered God —
Before it was — our Bone —
The Priest — a solemn Traveler —
Between the Veil — and Breath —
Who speaks of Life — with quiet Hands —
And sanctifies — our Death —
The Virgin — in her patient Blue —
Still watches — without Sound —
A Sorrow — only Mothers know —
Too holy to be found —
And Faith — perhaps — is but the act —
Of standing — when alone —
To hear a distant Mercy call —
And answer — as its own —
History writes in stone,
names carved by the steady hand
of those who outlived the fire.
It remembers the crowned,
the victorious,
the ones who stood last
when the dust settled
and called it truth.
But poetry—
poetry is not loyal to survival.
It kneels in the ash,
listens beneath the silence,
gathers the syllables that never made it
to daylight.
It hums in broken tongues,
in lullabies cut short,
in letters never sent,
in the breath between a scream
and its forgetting.
Here—
no one is erased.
The fallen speak
through metaphor and marrow,
through ink that refuses
to dry into obedience.
The anonymous rise—
not as monuments,
but as echoes
stitched into lines
that refuse to end.
So hail the poets—
keepers of the uncounted,
smugglers of memory,
architects of quiet rebellions.
They build shelters
from fragile words,
and somehow
they do not collapse.
Inside,
the unheard gather—
not asking to be saved,
only
to be heard.
Red flash blurry in sights
Walls smashing tuna and mint stew with potatoes and garlic
Mercy they cry I sing with bliss
Ten toes Edgar remembers
Five fingers a head of mystery
Shadow dragons battle me
Juniper waves of Love
She is so amazing I am so glad she exists
Understanding oceans divide
Quake their blood is fresh
Ruby eyes clean and sharp vision
Warrior spirit Milk toast delivery
Champagne in my vicinity
Warlock drug lord shaman kneels to My Best friend King of Kings, Dreadnought arisen shamrock
Allocating all decisions to my Physician Yeshua true doctor and healer
Waco York Perth Renton and Eugene Oregon
Albert needs to treat their disabled people better
Wake up speak out fight for our rights!!
Disabled people matter!!!
Black castle fallen from foul flames,
A king kneels beneath the Green Moon.
A single tear stains his vacant eye,
“It is finished” he whispered.
Clouded visions of the magnificent Queen echo in his mind,
Maroon colored lips embedded in memories,
A passionate voice that no longer breathes.
“I claim these lives in your name, paramour.”
No glory or honor gained from hollow victory.
Vengeance has consumed a powerful soul,
What was taken cannot be given back.
The king's heart, burdened and heavy with despair,
Empty halls embrace a bloody throne,
There is no value in a broken sword.
As the vibrant jade color bleeds across the sky,
The king gazes into the night sky one last time,
Embracing a cold hug from rigid steel.
The Green Moon weeps with fading light,
Covered by stormy clouds, masking her grief
Her light is consumed by endless night.
Is it logic
Is it impulse
Is it neither
Or then both
Is it Descartes
Is it Hegel
Is it Kantian
In our hope
Will we whisper
Will we dictate
Will we prejudge
Most devout
Will we wonder
Will we question
Will we pander
Into doubt
In the morning
In the noontide
In the twilight
Of our youth
Reason saunters
Reason flounders
Reason kneels
— before the truth
(Dreamsleep: March, 2026)
Hammer down the scent of eau de cologne, mist or splash;
and her laugh.
It is infectious?
Is it poison or supple?
I can smell love as the velichor shuffles!
Glasses lean far down his nose;
eyes clink glass.
She airs a heart shape.
Like knocking knees, the shelves; lesser books need smelling salts.
Seems he’s stiff, but in admiration, he kneels.
Leo Tolstoy
He stands—among the tallest Names—
That Time has learned to say—
A Mountain robed in Mortal ink
Where Centuries still pray—
The Page becomes a Parliament
Of Souls that seek their way—
He ruled the Nineteenth Century’s heart
With Armies made of Thought—
Where Peace and War went hand in hand
And Love was dearly bought—
Where every Breath of Mortal choice
By Destiny was caught—
Anna walks the iron Thread
Between Desire and Law—
Resurrection lifts the Ash
That Guilt had turned to Straw—
And History kneels quietly
Before what Conscience saw—
In little Rooms of Narrow tales
His Judgment still appears—
Alyosha tends the hidden flame
That burns through all our Years—
And God, who waits beyond the bars,
Counts every human tear—
Few Voices press so hard on Life
And ask it—what it means—
He carved the Heart from Mortal clay
And showed us what we’ve been—
A Witness robed in Russia’s snow
Where every Soul is seen—
Silence is gold.
And gold shines brightest
in the dark.
They build
without applause.
They plan
without noise.
What is made
in silence
cannot be easily broken.
Sun Tzu still whispers:
Become formless.
Become soundless.
Direct fate
without being seen.
Appear weak
when strong.
Appear strong
when weak.
Power hides best
when it kneels.
Confucius taught them:
Humility
is the root
of permanence.
While others shout,
they measure.
While others threaten,
they prepare.
Empires collapse
from pride.
Not from patience.
They sharpen no words—
only time.
They do not beg history.
They wait for it.
The dragon does not roar
unless cornered.
It prefers peace.
But it remembers
how to breathe fire.
And in that quiet,
unseen breath,
an empire
is being written.
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