—Praesens, Expenditus, Absolutus—
Chronos coils like molten aurum through our grasp,
its heft cognizable only in the pulse of Time.
No antecedent lends credence, no futurity preserves;
the contemporaneous alone adjudicates its coin against our marrow.
Respiration becomes legal tender; heartbeat, the irrevocable contract.
Each gaze, each gesticulation, a transient negotiation,
flaring and collapsing like ephemeral markets of umbra
we cannot master, only apprehend.
We discourse in fragments—chronicles of hours and quanta—
as if the ledger of existence might be reconciled.
Yet the cosmos remains uncounted, its obligations
inscribed in luminance and silence, trembling in its own shadow;
And in that tremor, we are born, spent, and unmade,
clutching the coin of now in trembling palms,
investing neither in timorous regret nor avarice,
for the treasury of eternity resides exclusively in immediacy.
Once the convulsion subsides, stasis returns.
We stand, unborrowed and unbought,
observing the inexorable flux of aeons,
and apprehend: naught endures save that which is expended righteously.
To bludgeon the curmudgeon trudging on among the blind
Or hide the Easter egg upon the stage playing your mind
When word's the play some like to stay indif'frent in the lobby
Among the corn and candy and the geegaws of their hobby
But some afoot are bigger game and so avoid the trap
Set for the blind and lame contented in their nap
A wakeful state of grace in place, entitled and enlightened
To independent thought, unbought, unsullied, and unfrightened
By those who would pretend that good is what they are about
Fooling only those disposed to follow those who shout
A son of Georgia
I was a chemist by trade
'Unbossed and Unbought'
'The Movement' gave me a call
I left the lab and I marched
As the Sword lies await in Stone
and Death is Conquered, Alas The Way comes Forth
and the Soul is Reborn and Reborn and Reborn
until the Day of Reckoning, How Sweet Is This Forge
and by the Blade, Subdues the Evil One
All Victorious, All Triumphant, All Return To The Sun
and The Great Seal Erupts, Let Thy New Age Commence Nigh
and Heaven Descends to Reclaim it's Light,
through Fields of Battle where Souls are Wrought
we claim our Victory, for Heavens Calvary is Unbought
and the Nations Tremble, for here come the Saints and Cavaliers
through the Upheavals, a New Jerusalem, a New Israel, a New Shield
Justice is Divine, No Staff Too Just
and The Great Patriarchs of Old Ascend from Dust,
and The Church Trembles, what was lost is Yet Again Reclaimed
these Swords of Heraldry Vanquish these Miseries, and Abraham is Uncaged
and by The Pillars Of Salvation, We are Set Free
and The Blade Of Science Claims it's Victory
Written: January 1st 2026, for Contest by Brain Strand
************
thin verse hums,
hidden in the dust,
feral flame,
unbought voice—
a stubborn pulse refusing
the algorithm's cage.
Written: January 02, 2026, For Brian Strand contest
******************
last clean—distilled
morning shards
in the skyline’s teeth—
a city chewing innocence away.
yet in steam,
in blue-light bruises,
a filament of verse hums.
the world scrolls
into a grave of souls,
kindness sold,
humanity dragging its shadow
through aisles of extinction.
but poetry—
feral, unbought—
rises in the throat
of the dying century.
I praise the fracture
where truth leaks,
the wound that sings anyway.
let it be the last clean thing
in a species
smearing its own shadow.
There is a voice that wakes before the sun,
Not loud, not proud, but patient as the dew;
It does not shout like crowds that bruise the air,
It speaks in pauses—asking what is true.
It tells you when to stop before the fall,
When something bright is wrong though wrapped in gold;
It asks you to be gentle with your strength,
And brave enough to leave what makes you cold.
The voice does not command you how to live,
It does not flatter, threaten, beg, or lie;
It will not build a throne out of your fear,
Nor promise heaven just to pass you by.
It does not curse the world for being hard,
Nor teach your hands the pleasure of the blow;
It does not silence tears that need to come,
Nor rush the heart where it is not ready to go.
It matters because silence can be taught,
And quiet minds can be trained to only obey;
A voiceless soul will take the shape of chains
And call it peace at the end of the day.
But one small voice—unbought, unowned, awake—
Can stand against a thousand marching drums;
It matters, yes, because it keeps you yours,
Even when the dark insists you are none.
We bide our time upon the cusp
Twixt what may be and surely must
From evenings hush till morning hours
Begging chase through moon lit bowers
Where gleans the will in blissful trance
And leads the way in halting dance
To just beyond what grasp may reach
Where barely recalled memories teach
Tween what is now and might have been
To tease the eye with promised gleam
With silent whispers barely heard
That nary leash the fleeting word
But call to mind the long lost plight
That dreams and hopes in lofty flight
Might grant surcease on windswept wings
With unbought time and unsought things
The poet stands in the court of thought,
Accused of wielding the pen as sword,
Charged with crafting truths unbought,
With words that strike and chords that chord.
Guilty of exposing the soul’s bare form
Of unraveling the unseen seam,
The poet faces the judgment storm
For venturing in the concealed realm
For daring to dream or to utter the unspoken.
We've lived here so long
Making fairy tales of normalcy
Existing in perpetual dormancy
Where did God go?
Left Him in pews
and dog eared passages
These are wider passages
with nowhere to grow
Crumbs still crumble
when making breads ends meat
I don't find this mete
but it still has to go
There was never honey here
Bees have opted to die in battle
and now with sore throat and palpitations
I have called on myself to carry this load
We've lived here so long
that the shadow of our shadows have found place here
Left their trace here
and linger
for as long as we know
But this is not home
We have been housed
Broken into and lived in
Unleased and unbought
The occupants are now occupied
and we have been swept clean and garnished
but yet seven more
Upon an evening's heart distress
I bereaved the lass of palm caress
Of all the consolation sought
Nil dare allay that which death wrought
Amidst my ponders of seclusion
Logic's veiled of dolor intrusion
My psyche the Tempter left unbought
For he can't soothe the death woe fraught
Is there dining in Valhalla's Hall
for he who is slain by loveless thrall?
Do Hercule's hands possess zeal
to loose me of my heart's bastille?
Alas, our destinies coincide
I'll meet thee anew in suicide
In thou unforgotten appeal
I slay my throe in life repeal
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