Saturday, July 21, 2012


In a ruined and stifled land,
I will not stop taking in the things that breathe life,
pitying the man who walks the long way home
When home is only steps from where he stands.

Darkness is common,
a worthless commodity,
sold for pennies on every corner.
He bends out over the broken man
And friends old Death
who holds the losing end.
Timed, both,
and losing ground,
I will not pay their toll.
I travel this earth with an heiress hand
and a privileged life,
my share of ground  
my birthright.

Horror stalks the day now,
terrorizing the normal and model citizen,
showing off its heinous airs
in the theater of our minds,
our whims,
our lives.
I refuse to let him in,
barring the shattering powers
with a silent stare
and a righteous view.

Heaven burns,
sometimes as a blessing
and sometimes as a vengeance,
searing through the atmosphere,
penetrating the broken earth
littered with broken hearts
and crippled minds.
Feet walk in atrophy,
bound and bleeding.
Two walk wounded,
the dead land soaking in their weight,
filling its creases with seeds,
and seeds that break out in green,
the dead ones along the way sitting up,
and shaking off the dirt,
washed in the flood pouring from his side
like the moving tide.

And Earth,
Earth will come back to herself.
Washed in fire,
burnt in love with a passion that fuels
the battles of men and angels,
congregated and settled
under the feet that walk with healing
and final definitions.

I walk before Him,
pioneer and lover,
sometimes crawling, sometimes leaping,
my strength curled up
under the weight of His presence,
fueled and lifted to another level
as if grown in a moment
by the touch of His beautiful hand.
I am different.
Earth lies gray beneath me,
and she cries.
But I know her,
and I know she knows.
He is coming.
He is coming.
He is coming.

She will live again.

July 21, 2012

Sunday, July 15, 2012

There is forever a space.

 Life is so small.


 Just like this.



Thursday, January 26, 2012

I don't forget.

There's an empty box up on the shelf,
at least that's what I tell myself--
the kind with dust and curled up edge
and paper peeling off its top.

In truth, it holds a couple things
that I have stored from memories--
the articles that don't exist
but did, and now left set aloft.

I walk on and it haunts me less.
But I don't forget.
I don't forget.