Truth

Who can redeem one sole life in dying?
Yet, thousands, through my life may find redemption

I cannot kill the sinner, save death
I cannot of my sins be freed, eternal

By the life we live, we create each our own example
That others may watch, and refine

Gleen something from my tarried existance
Cultivate qualities that escaped me

In a truth, there is contentment
and thus, an equal portion of dispair.

New

Pattern

I'll think of you when I relive this day in a year
It's the substance life is made of
What some call habit and practice only leaves me feeling mechanical
It's this feeling process that worries me
To the depths of my core, I measure

Emotion running, with chokingly thick, sickening viscosity
You'll always get the better of me, my dear.
I can feel it pressing, reshaping the foundation of subsequent things like time
It all plays out to those who watch

It's a shame that I cannot but play function to this life of ours
It's all too simplistic to comprehend
Too slick to grasp, as it slides away
Leaving a trail too tangled to follow
Yet another pattern I'll never recall

I'd Live In A House Of Blow

Afghani Black

Poem Stolen From My Unborn Sci-fi

Prayer of the morning star

Mother, when shall the stars come out to play?

Pray child, do not seek such answers!

May I call a cloud, who will whisper the way?

Into our land the stars shall come to play!

No, my dear, my shining one,

On this day, no star’s light will bright the sky;

Emptiness set moon and sun, And taught the stars to fly…

But Mother, why?

Perhaps they only lay sleeping, upon vast obsidian bed

Awaiting moon’s great sun burnt cry

A summon, to return to land they fled

Child, long they bore our pain

The moon mourned and sun simply suffered our dying plea

Until the Great Hand loosed their ties;

As for the stars, they were cast into the sea

A Bloody Metaphorical Mess

If you held on to the minutes, collecting seconds to pick and steal
Would you shape them into a master piece?
Perhaps the world would look worthwhile tonight
If we were held together by whim

And if our blood were to spill
Maybe skeleton keys might dance again
they might shine again
like they ought to.

If only your fingers could wrap around the hands of the clock
A break, a pause in time,
To spend fighting for chance
is that too much to ask?

I'm not sure exctly what I'm going for here. It's pretty abstract, and abstract tends to fall apart when you try to edit it into something structured.

More Poetry To Post And Edit

And The World Stood Still, As We Stood Overlooking The Ocean

Flowing on the winds of aspiration
Faith, in the sting of salt
A solemn clap of folly
Incamped firmly around my heart

Once, we tread the Ocre waters
Arc of triumph, triumphant stand
We marchers, of little valor
A grain of sand, clasped in hand

What of our trophy, what of our war?
Spire eyed, and bludgeon lipped
Of our benevolence, speak
Lay kindle to fires, writ, ever more

Shallow whispers, in the night
The smell of feral grease and smoke
While only shadows, wrought by ghostly flame
Bear true testimony, to our eternal reverant name

Oceans speak to me on a poetic level, they are a reoccuring theme.

Existem, Respectare

Were I wrought perfection's image
Goal of present self in mind
What does perfection longingly desire?
All that is lack,
Would I become?

Knowing single state existance
Master of fault, and folly
Stave joy, my feral hunger,
Would I know true contentment.


To understand, to know
To know; will you risk becoming?

Shall we nought be patterned
Perfect in imperfection
For when is there beauty in striving?
That which is attainable, knows not.