Through a window humbled between walls of faux wood,
the ascending light of the morn reveals him.
He is a shape shrouded in silken ambiguity,
still and silent.
When he sleeps, he is a caterpillar.
Dormancy is betrayed by the urge for sustenance.
In a sudden stir, he is conscious.
As if in tense combat with gravity itself,
his movement seems sluggish and strained.
When he wakes, he is a sloth.
In the midst of a labyrinth in white,
he is both most accompanied and least sociable.
The force of his heart remains focused on tasks
appointed by an unfeeling sovereign.
When he works, he is an ant.
Under skies upon blackened streets, his path meanders
in unison with a heart predestined to wander.
His discerning eyes spot silhouettes akin with his own
amongst looming figures, proud and tall.
When he roams, he is a wolf.
Sprawled atop an unmade mattress, he ponders
on life; on death; on the real; on the unreal.
From fear, the thoughts turn to blades,
hacking at the very threads of his sanity.
When he suffers, he is a human.
Unhallow
Unhallow
A pale feather, undone, takes to the wind.
The Seraphim stands idly upon mountains
Regarding the fruits of creation.
In the past, she had loved.
Even further past: she had been loved.
Long ago, a Man had come ‘round in search of home.
His eyes told him of the well-favored Seraphim in the distant horizon
And his heart told him of his adoration for her.
The Man greeted her warmly, explained of his undesired vagantry and professed his love.
The Seraphim set down her inhibitions and accepted.
For millennia upon thousand millennia, the Seraphim and the Man lived in harmony.
He foraged food from amongst her forest,
Hunted the critters whom she designated to be safe to eat,
And learned a great deal of things from her.
In return, he paid her tribute in song and dance in dedication.
Now in years more recent, the Man had become corrupt with his own longevity.
His tribute has ceased; alas, he had forsaken the Seraphim’s generosity.
His abodes had become many and vast; the critters on whom he sustained
had oft to be killed in vain.
His respect for his home had faded with the time.
Most foul was the Man’s abuse of the Seraphim, herself.
In his savage lust, in great frequence, she had been raped by him.
With every penetration, she was broken, further and more severely each instance.
The respect once contained in her heart had died;
She could bear his evil no longer.
The scorned Seraphim’s expression gnarled as she smit the Man with a crushing blow.
He laid helpless on the nipping concrete; his life waned before his own eyes.
To the heavens blurred by the city fog, the Man howled
“Why?”
This is the way of the world; this is the way of man.
[SPOILER=Lt. Colonel Henry Blake's Plane Was Shot Down Over the Sea of Japan. It Spun In. There Were No Survivors] Lt. Colonel Henry Blake's Plane Was Shot Down Over the Sea of Japan. It Spun In. There Were No Survivors
Pallbearers of a fallen hero:
The same ones who let him die.
Cries of grief; of retribution
from the mouths that never questioned why.
Leading tireless crusades
against those guilty of speaking out.
We'll fire up the body furnace
And act as though it's not our [SIZE="2"]fu[/SIZE]cking fault.
The television loves self-sacrifice.
His face is plastered on every frame.
Cries of grief; of restitution
Ignorant to the nature of this game.
Media-friendly attacks
Against those who dare to think alone.
We’ll celebrate the execution
And act as though we see what could be shown.
To the pallbearers of the fallen heroes:
Which road will you traverse?
Mourn in silence; in grave conclusion
Or raise your fists and make the matters worse?
Let’s see the end of those days
With the people for whom we care the most.
We’ll bring back the tired and hungry
And set fire to the vacant military posts.
