Threads bare on the woolen blanket.
Itchy fibers weaved together
complete the tapestry.
On soft strings lays a mighty castle.
Two tall towers loom over a booming base.
Bricks of red, brown timber, complete its' massive barricades.
A pull strains the fabrics.
Slowly it rips.
These mighty walls,
that withstood sieges
and fires,
collapse.
A hair alone has little use.
Together, each makes the yarn stronger.
A work of beauty and utility crafted from nothing.
But, like all things that come together,
everything falls apart.
A kingdom comes to an end.

Pleasantly, the minister finishes his sermon.
"...and so go forth my flock, and do good.
The good in your heart. In the name of..."
An urge comes over him.
Something from his old life,
but he resists.
"civil service." He finishes.
The words leave an empty feeling in his gut,
but he smiles from his pulpit.
The wooden pews in front of him clatter,
as the occupants vacate.
The huddled masses move under the golden arches
and out into the fresh spring air.
He stands, transfixed on the ever present dust.
The broken glass windows flood the room with sunlight
for the dust to dance airily around.
In his mind, he has gone to that feeling.
Lately, his mind had been coming back to it more and more.
Like a pimple growing under his skin,
as soon as his attention slipped,
his subconscious would float back over to pick at it.*
A younger version of him stood in front of a mirror.
The new white robe brightened the whole room.
It was his first. He was ready to lead.
This was what he was meant to do.
This was good.
This was before The Secularity.
*Attached were memories.
He was cowering in a corner naked.
"Drink this." A cup was placed to his lips.
He was too scared to run.
There was no choice to refuse.
He knew what happened next.
It would be bad.
*Each spoke to him.
In his arms, he supported a figure with long brown hair.
A girl. A soon to be mother
with a child out of wedlock.
He rubbed her back.
"It will be ok." he soothed.
*An argument of images...
"My kids!" A tiny woman cried at him, "They're starving!"
He had seen her before.
The short cut, blonde hair.
A fancy dress on her pudgy body.
Rings on her stumpy fingers.
Outside a bar in the early morning.
*Muddled.
"Enough!"
He spoke to the ghosts that inhabited his mind.
He found no rest there. No answers.
He retreated to his study.

 

Like a focus through a lens,
I see the stars' different light.
They can twinkle like bells,
and illuminate the night.
A laugh leaves my lips,
when I know it's all, alright.
But, when a lamb escapes,
as they are wont to do,
I fear for the rose
of a friend I once knew.
The difference in lenses
force a different perspective.
A cage or a park?
The world is reflective
of our thoughts in the dark.

Beyond the corner lies the alley,
where deadly lies await.
And in the streets lie the dead,
where weighted lies confess.
Through out this day of delay
life is laid to rest.

John stood up as the all clear sounded. He had not been hurt. The mortar missing him by a football field or more, had not detonated. He was deep enough in his base to never experience direct fire. The occasional IDF had been an inconvenience at most. Even so, something inside him had died this time. He walked back to his work station quietly. Around him the chatter was picking up. All cares of any threat forgotten in the drunk haze of laughter and bravado. He smiled when someone joked to him, but his mind was not there. It was still on the ground, listening. Fate, karma, pure chance had tested him. He felt as though he had failed. What did it mean? He seemed to stand on a hill of sand, that had once been a mountain stretching into the sky. A tower of certainty reduced to rubble in seconds. All it took was a whistle. The ground, dusty, had mixed with his sweat and left an wet outline. It died there. A piece of who he had been. A piece of who he thought he had been. It was there, when he laid down and heard the whistle from above. A Schrodinger's cat of death. Unseen, so unknown. His thoughts raced to acceptance. Accept it they said. Death is coming. But he couldn't. Inside something pulled against it. A superstition. If he accepted it, would he seal his fate? Control over something already per-destined? His mind shuttered and the walls collapsed. He would die in fear. A heritage passed down since the first creature to feel. The unremarkable, forgettable death, that would go out without barely notice. Another number in the history books.
John stood up when the all clear sounded. A piece of him remained on the ground listening to the whistle as the mortar flew overhead.

Another sleepless night,
because a face won't leave.
Or do I tempt it to stay.
A race begins.
The heart.
The mind.
The spirit.
All thrown round the corners.
You grip as tight as you can,
daring to push further and further.
You move towards catastrophe,
and immortality,
each a side of the razor's edge.
When there's no time for fear,
primal instinct is your guide.
It is wild
and savage
and free!
The moment passes,
leaving you skittering out!
Out into the unknown black.
When certainty is gone,
she lets you know what it feels to be alive. 

A red splash on a canvas,
that was covered in dreary brown,
heavy black,
mildew yellow,
shocks the senses.
The monotonous colors smeared high,
like mountains of Mordor,
sludge the the once white sheet.
In them life is a spiritless trek.
One that most know and accept,
confined for so long in a bland prison.
But the red is new,
something primal,
yet long forgotten.
Like fresh blood,
or the smell of sex in the air.
It sings deep into the caverns.
To hearken it's call,
is to give in to assured destruction.
To not is living death.

Stuck in a job with dirty walls.
Peeling plaster and cheap wallpaper
accompany me. 
The T.v. is showing
another commercial
that I do not wish to see.
It's telling me, while selling me,
a lifestyle of now.
I look at the fixings, the unhinged door,
and the escape box on my wall.
I close my eyes and think of trees in the fall,
someplace that I've been before. 

Writing, like bad poetry comes from the ego.
I do not know how to strip it naked.
The false promises of the world whispered by snake oil.
It doesn't go up or down.
And the end.

Curtains move with a breeze.
The light plays on the wall.
First, full sail. Then closed modern robe.
The hot sweat sex, leaves the sheets damp.
Or the sick body shivers and sweats.
Parallels of a diseased mind.

I speak not of holy harmony,
for I have only glanced that way.

I started on this road looking for something new.
I was set to be a savant,
an original.
Up their with Pablo, Hitchcock, and Rembrandt.
But I never started down a path,
each was already tread.
I thought it wasn't worth it.
I was stuck in my head,
a place of no escape,
where excuses kept me hostage.
Always a reason to never go.
The bullshit piled up,
the ego grew,
but I was not happy
it was my heart that knew.
So,
I moved.