There once was a team overseas
Who fielded with power and ease
At Flak Kaserne they played
And a loss they did evade
With a season that aimed to appease
The Finance squad stood fifteen and oh
With one final ball game to go
They expected a win
Until fate settled in
And sullied his confident glow
A liner came sailing towards me
To left center where hesitance be
One pause in the chase
Let the ball slip past my face
And under my glove, I set the ball free
The bases were cleared in the ninth
And victory vanished from sight
Though fifteen-and-one
Was still proudly won
That play being relived in my mind
Uraeal: "The symposium has brought forth the headless horseman, most metaphorically driven to sundown by the celestial charade."
Helel: "Is oft the token be, curse, cursed, or has our sullied names been frothing clean in the sea, like a mind's eye seeing through another portal in the hemisphere?"
Aurora: "I claim lightly like wind, so let's unwind the orchard from that place of plenty, shooting stars strike like platform shoes for nimble fey dancers."
Lucifer: " I might soon turn down the star, and unfold more atramentous ink from which spillage is at once appreciated and birch, prying eyes see far in the dark for some."
The forbidden one: *enters from the left, and softly cascades the waters of newer rivers over the timbers and planks*
---End of act I---
Your silence is deafening,
As are the expressions you have yet to utter.
Ideas you mutter
Have fallen onto attentive ears,
One who hears
Conceptualizations you have yet to speak of
And notions you have only since dreamed of.
A supposition of love,
Perhaps not the state of being in love,
Leading to holding her above
The pedestal. For in this moment,
Her feet are too sterling
To be sullied by the dust
Left so carelessly on the plinth
That has yet been handled
Since the assumed maiden
Devastated your heart and abandoned it.
She left it vacant,
Allowing the new artisan to place gracefully
In her hand, the brush of crimson paint,
Renewing the color
That the crone thieved of you.
A warning is passed onto,
Sent so loudly
That your ears can't seem to
Indulge on the phrases.
Spells of dejection to offer many a protection,
Shouting to hold your deafening silences
And allow her to run mad.
For she can hear all that is unspoken,
Her understanding, unbroken,
But speaking it aloud
Leaves all emotions open.
Mystery babylon you are to fall.' No more
To beguile.' There will be an end to your siren call..The souls you have captured your, sullied ones..Rulers and sattraps the
Vax and all guns.' The rockets the bribes
Have come and gone.' You are rotting inside.' Your time has come.' Your stench is
Foul..The nations fail, where are your followers.? And dome of the air.' You are a
Spectacle of such despair.' You have no claim upon the earth.' No more of magnitude.' You will not to birth.' For God
Alone salvation
wrought.' Whose earth and skies, cannot be
bought.' Christ has Said He only rules.'
and frees all slaves
He comes in all Glory..Though you rant and
Rave.)
The Revealed Secret
Why did you do it?
Why let the cat out the bag?
Were you so hurting?
Why did you raise your red flag?
Was at this time in nineteen-eighty, you were being bullied
To retaliate, you spat a truth that left us sullied
I am so sorry
I wish I'd stood up for you
Instead of being passive
Let those children get to you
They cornered you, I saw those tears, I felt that pain you carried
You lashed back out, came out your mouth, and innocence was buried
I tried not to react
Although was broken inside
I wanted to ask my Mum
Is it true, why has she lied?
Your revelation, hells vacation, death of hope and light
The words you spoke, my youth revoked, my entry to real life
I fought back my tears
“I knew that”, I pretended
Through all of these years
Your secret, hope absconded
You blurted out, “He isn't real - it's just your Mum and Dad”
No Santa Claus, no warm applause, just kids - upset and sad
i took the litany of your diagnosis
on the groove of my tongue
down on my knees, I welcomed your terminological dominion
over my awfully sullied canvas
i closed my eyes, submitting myself to your word’s sterilization
frosting over my elasticity until I’m exactly what you want
am I what you want me to be yet?
will I ever be enough for the words on your page?
my wrists tear against the bloody shackles
your covenant exacts its price against my emotional crimes
the miscommunicated ex-communication of my mercurial being
leaves my mind high and dry, higher and dryer
i’m a zombie to your cure
infected by your frame of thought
FIX ME
TO THE FLOORS OF YOUR BUREAUCRATIC APATHY
AS I SLOWLY BUT SURELY
DIE
IN YOUR ARMS
NOT COMFORTABLY
BUT NONETHELESS
in your arms.
…
So, what would YOU do for a Klondike Bar?
The stench of endless days clings to my name;
My folly, like a rust, but stings not him.
A meek heart paid for by relentless blame,
Youth’s bitter wine- a draught forever grim.
Past twilights reel in cadences untrue,
I fall, a penitent within the flame;
Bound to repentance- ash where roses grew,
My voice, the echo of a sullied name.
O sickle, strike the valleys we once promised,
Lay low the ghosts that haunt my dwindled shore.
Let golden breaths on iron fleece be kissed,
And singe the thought that kept me wanting more.
So let the world unspool what once I wore,
That even ruin might return me pure.
In the beginning, there was not
The Word,
But silence,
A silence that weighs upon the soul.
Then came the dust,
with the flavor of an unfinished word,
like a lingering memory of a promise
half-spoken
by a God
too weary to complete the phrase.
The heavens offer no sign.
Only His absence wounds the heart.
And I walk onward,
unaware of the destination.
The sand is not barren.
It holds the weight of all I’ve lost:
A promise trodden underfoot,
A love forsaken
Before it could even bloom.
Somewhere,
in the shadowed recess of non-being,
God remains silent;
Not from indifference,
but because His mercy
no longer finds room
within our sullied measure of time.
When shall I arrive?
I do not know.
Yet I know the road
knows me better than I know myself.
And when the hour arrives,
I shall not knock upon the door.
My silence has been long enough.
My silence shall be the key.
And perhaps the door,
by the mercy of Him who waited for me,
shall open of its own accord.
I will step inside
bearing all I could not speak,
all the prayers
that burned within me
yet never reached the heavens.
Because sometimes,
even silence
is a way of faith.
I've oft been offered but not tempted by
large helpings of pie in the sky
from too many crooks
who indeed the broth did spoil
and so as not to be sullied
by such greasy oil
I stay out of their kitchen
not because I can't stand the heat
but what's on their menu
ain't my cup of meat
apple or cherry by the slice
with a tasty pastry crust
is not a must but very nice
my absolute fave fit for a King
with taters on top of thee I sing
made with lamb
not beef that's cottage
and personal wish
as the name does imply
is a dainty dish
of homemade shepherd's pie
May the earth reject it..Let the mountains dance..For the
God of all universes will break this trance.' No more shall
You dabble..' instead you will ride, the road of rejection in
Pain you will writhe.' You have sullied creation.'
Now.! You are to be judged in your pride.!
Besotted, ensnared and diverged thy pupil
Dilate the ache 'pon holy gate
Sewn son to sun of love'n marred and married gait
Palpate the touch o'titular chance
Kiss'd and carresed thy senile smile
Tipped'n tallied bashful sway, to fall
Away, and away, eyes to 'ssemble
And resemble the semblance of valour and holy hour
Mine to my own, to pitiful ponder
Shone Sun to shine 'pon th'drought of moon wept wonder
Sullied sultry shout yonder, and o'er the wind swept chimes
Of chortl'd laugh, and Sun sung sonnets
T'lay a kiss t'stain, and eclipse within th'sky.
Dearest, and dire to die for, Sun of mine.
Beneath a callused skin of light
the hunched and mustered
clap a prayer between a leaking sight.
It is the earth that mourns itself,
whether baldly thrown or loamy laid
the silent soil repaints its sullied shrouds
far beyond any atoning sorrow,
or cooling heart.
It is none but a laboring pity
to lay down the past
as deep as a weeping sky allows
or raise a hand only to tamp down
a new-turned mound.
Restless are the skewing worms
ever churning a blood-born mud,
eyeless they cover the once begotten,
cloak a hard pressed present and loss.
as the missing
deafly retreat beyond our ken.
Hear now the trilling birds,
how they far-fling their buoyant hymns,
see how they hop between their own bones.
at the doctor's
There are days when I feel bereft of the people I knew
are all dead and no one is coming to take their place
there is a sense that I'm a waterlogged tree floating
in a sullied inland lake where bathing is prohibited
my nights are full of ghosts from the past visiting
when not awakened by nerve pains traveling up and
down my legs and the burning sensation telling of
the eternal flames of hell
I'm sitting at the diabetic doctor's office complaining
about the depression of pain I suffer at night
the man has an ascetic face, a real doctor, not a product
of a mother's wish to have a son with the title DR
You are keeping your sugar level well-balanced
which is good, your weight is right! (at this point
I pull my stomach in
As for your discomfort, you have to see this as a part
of your illness, I think he calls my pain DISCOMFORT!
He prescribes prescription for Insulin pens and tells
me my blood pressure is perfect, with that he sends
me away with a friendly slap on my sagging shoulder
In marked territory, I must step with care,
For shadows past and present linger to snare.
Each step poised, measured, cautious, slow,
Falls on ground where furtive few, dare to go.
I kiss the bliss of ignorance, I know
Cannot dispel the florescent deja vu glow
Knowing virgin ground is non-existent,
All is done before, done for, insistent.
Even when I plow the field to furrows spell
Up pops the litter and glitter, that therein dwell
Echos, reflections, touche touches that smell
Of the death of innovation, pummeled pell-mell
For all out there is marked, scared, sullied and stained
As used before, or well past its use-by-date ingrained.
For machines are now omniscient, beyond what I could ever know
And all my steps are marked as plagiarist AI copies faux.
the azure flower, a lone sentinel,
stands tall amidst the scorched earth.
the tornado's wild caress,
a whirling dervish of destruction,
unleashes its fury upon the field,
devouring the vibrant blooms
with reckless abandon.
as the last petals are swept away,
the azure flower remains,
a frosty jewel,
polished by the tempest's violent hand.
it now dances, isolated,
amidst the barren vastness,
a wistful beauty sullied by the ravages of chaos.
in this tragic solace,
the azure flower finds a strange,
elegiac beauty,
a trophy to the brutal capriciousness
of the universe's whims.
the canvas drained of hue,
except a drop of beau hue blue,
a little color in a bleak landscape.
question is will the bee tricks ever get to thrive,
or will this field be bereft of her flora forever?
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