You hurt me.
You slipped free
of the grip of the web
that unites us.
You could not feel me anymore.
You fell
deep into the crack
of all that was unfinished
and all that was unsolved
between us.
That hurt,
that haunting,
it could be my excuse.
It could be my justification
to shut the door.
To cut myself free
of the web that unites us.
It could be my justification
to not feel you anymore.
I could fall
deep into the crack
of all that was unfinished
and all that was unsolved
between us.
Hurt is always the excuse
to forget that we are unified.
Hurt is always the excuse
to decide that we are separate instead.
To love is not to be a martyr…
To let someone destroy you.
To love is to take someone
as part of you…
Even as they are destroying you.
To love is to see
That they are
you destroying you.
To love is to respond to them
with that truth
in the forefront of your mind.
Love is what makes us feel each other.
Love is the grip
of the web that unites us.
Love is what wants to ascend
from the silence
of a shattered heart…
The truth
that because we are united,
I hurt me.
Here
The space between skin and skin
is torment.
But here
The space between souls
makes the space between skin and skin
a comfort.
The truth is hidden
and yet its whisper reaches us
in the sweet luxury of a smile.
In the brief consumption of embrace.
It tells you to look deeper…
To look deeper.
Look beyond the space between us all and
see
that you are that smile.
You are that embrace.
You are the civilian
whose life was lost to hatred.
You are the man
who strapped a bomb
to your own body,
and in the name of hatred,
took those lives.
You are the earth
that held them both
and converted their bodies
into new life.
Your pain is a congress of tears
called the ocean.
Your joy is a collation of light
called the sun.
The whisper of truth
tells you to look deeper…
To look deeper.
Until the truth is revealed
that there is no space
between skin and skin.
That there is no space
between souls.
ALONG THE VOID WITH GRISLY VOICES,
AND FLICKERING LIGHTS.
LET THE RAZOR SPEAK…
ON YOUR WRISTS THIS TIME…
LET THEM WEEP
WHERE YOU HOWL TO BE FREE OF THEM.
FREE OF HOW THEY HOLD YOU UP AND BEND NOT BREAK UNDER THE WEIGHT OF IT.
DO YOU SUFFER MY STAIN?
YOU HAVE NOT FATHERED ME LIFE…
YOU HAVE NOT MOTHERED ME LIFE…
YOU HAVE STOOD AND WATCHED THESE CRIMES AGAINST ME WITH AN OCEAN OF INDIFFERENT STARS.
AND HIDDEN ME UNDER INK BLACK NIGHT SO CARS WOULD PASS ME, BABBLING OF DESTINATIONS, UNWILLING TO WAIT.
THAT TORTURE THOUGH HACKED AND ILL HUMORED…
IT WAS MINE.
UNLIKE THIS NORMALCY I SEEK NOW.
THE SALT, SUCKED SINS (I ASSUMED TO BE PAST TIMES) THROUGH TEARS IN ONE STROKE AND DRIED THEM SO THEY WOULDN’T COME.
AND COMPOSURE,
THE BEGGER,
OF
TIDES TO STOP COMMING, BUT THEY CAN’T…
PEACE TO RAIN, BUT IT WONT…
PEOPLE TO SEE, BUT THEY DON’T
SO, IN QUICK CRUEL LIGHT,
WHAT LINES SHALL I TRACE, WITH BLOOD?
WHAT BLOOD SHOULD I LET, WITH STEEL?
UN CARVED SKIN,
LIKE THE THICKEST OF FROSTS,
BEGS TO BE CLEAVED…
LEST IT REVEAL A MAIDEN…
OR BEAST
Angst sings and howls through the aqueducts of flesh.
It cannot escape with the breath.
It is not softened by thought.
It is not melted away by the passing of time.
Uncertainty celebrates when it claims dominion and leaves what it finds in sensual ruin.
I lie on the floor in a shaft of sunlight.
I close my eyes to let it greet my face.
The dark world behind my eyelids is turned coquelicot.
Warmth is loud as it rejoices in the merciful stillness of light.
The angst is hushed.
It is paroled by the breath.
It is softened by the warmth.
It is melted away by the charity of light.
The angst of uncertainty falls silent and forfeits its fight.
For the light is constant…
The light is constant.
A plead as simple as bleeding,
To be free of the warm veins,
forged for survival.
Where?
Directions are lost,
Obscured by wind and stinging soot
Pulled relentlessly from the earth,
No longer stable and turning black.
Where?
Is it the prison of it ,
That shapes you the most?
Or the shapelessness of your keepers?
Reality is scarcely a fossil here
Where?
The chemical blood, smeared on forearm and thigh…
It brings out the best in us.
Bravery’s way of finding us, where mercy would not
And honor’s taste, heavy on a bitten lip that will never speak of this again.
Where?
I am the only soul here,
The only thing living, besides molten,
That flows in slow, spitting rivers, breathed in by nostril and pore.
A living cadaver, in skin like wax that never melts.
As cold as the idea of this being not where I belong
or what I deserve,
has become.
Where?
The path of devastation, leads you in circles they say.
Back to the same Iron,
The same brand.
The same vision every way you see it.
You are a slave.
But the tears don’t come beyond the thousand degree heat, and the way it’s scarcely felt now, when it burns me.
Where?
Against what bones still un fragmented, and what flesh still un torn,
Fear is a rising tide.
The only thing I fear is fear it’s self.
It is the only thing telling me, life is not like this for any soul but mine.
But any love they drip to me will fall like blood in the end…
No way to take it in,
Once it’s outside you
All life is the fragmenting
of one collective soul.
All life is the finding
of one’s split soul.
To taste each other’s lips,
to feel each other’s hips.
To rage against each other
so that we feel the agony of our separation.
We are a mosaic.
We are the broken fragments of a masterpiece
that shattered.
It is only by finding our split soul
that we can re-unite the tesserae.
It is only by finding our split soul
that we will see the masterpiece consciously
for the very first time.
The warmth of love,
like an adhesive,
causes us to commit to each fragment
of our collective soul…
To commit because each fragment
is part of ourselves.
Some of us are lucky.
We see ourselves in the faces that look back at us.
We are not strangers.
Some of us are lucky.
The stars of us belong in constellation.
We are not strangers.
Some of us are lucky.
We feel the warmth of our connection.
Its comfort is not worn thin by wariness.
We are not strangers.
Some of us are not so lucky.
Our cry is a wolf’s cry in a chorus of bleating.
We are strangers.
Some of us are not so lucky.
We recognize ourselves in people we have never met
and places we have never been to.
We are strangers.
Some of us are not so lucky.
The pith of connection fails us
again and again
As inconsistent and as short lived as a dream.
We are strangers.
We are strangers in this world.
War we cried
As if it were not of mankind’s own making.
The soul of man,
The synagogue of that most violent of battles;
Between good and evil.
Centuries of bloodshed in between those rivals.
Shall I pray that as the blood falls to Earth
It will end that war?
No messiah yet has managed it.
It rages on
The very sound of it
Is blasphemy
Blasphemy against the sanctuary of the human heart.
Neither side recognizing a trace of itself in the other.
Neither side lifting a white flag against the silence of the sky.
Only love can bring the silence of union
To this riot of parting between God’s children.
Only love
Only love
And Love, the only antidote
Excludes nothing,
Including evil.
Beyond the fail mortality
Of polarity,
It calls these two brothers back together as one.
Christ- the choice
Lucifer- the lack of choice…
To love
They called him the bearer of the light,
For without him
There could be no Christ.
Without determinism
We could not know the freedom of will;
Nor taste its sweetness
In the volition of our autonomy.
Each side calls for each other’s death.
But there will be no elegy.
There will be no elegy because one cannot die without the other.
One cannot live without the other.
Only love can quiet
Both the fervor of the devil’s tongue
And the fervor of the angel’s wing.
Only love
Only love
And love, the only antidote
Excludes nothing,
Including evil.
Only love will end this war.
I have something to show you it says.
Die to yourself to see it it says.
Die to the next self and the next self and the next self until no self is left.
An essence beyond form
Beyond the form of thought, the form of emotion, the form of body.
Like layers of illusion, they conceal the truth.
The truth of oneself.
A mirror of the truth of the universe at large.
The wooden snake moves with the life blood in your veins in search of that truth.
It writhes to clean you of illusion along the way.
To clean you by peeling back the layers one by one.
To die to yourself is as painful as it is freeing.
To see the truth is as painful as it is beautiful.
In the grip of the vine, you are set free.
Follow me it says.
Die to yourself
To find yourself.
Angst sings and howls through the aqueducts of flesh.
It cannot escape with the breath.
It is not softened by thought.
It is not melted away by the passing of time.
Uncertainty celebrates when it claims dominion and leaves what it finds in sensual ruin.
I lie on the floor in a shaft of sunlight.
I close my eyes to let it greet my face.
The dark world behind my eyelids is turned coquelicot.
Warmth is loud as it rejoices in the merciful stillness of light.
The angst is hushed.
It is paroled by the breath.
It is softened by the warmth.
It is melted away by the charity of light.
The angst of uncertainty falls silent and forfeits its fight.
For the light is constant…
The light is constant.
The voice of a child says
It is better that our hearts grow light
It is better to embrace instead of exile suffering
From instead of to it’s murdering breath
Mothers weep until their tears run dry
Their sons on distant streets decay
Kissed by the meritless fever of war
Stripped of life
And all souls die along with them
Just as all souls live
As a newborn embraces the joy of its mother’s breast
Relieved of the heavy husk of childhood
Let our voices rise to denounce
All that kept us prisoner
Like the undisturbed stars
My heart flickers without falter
I use it’s light to turn around to face my real enemies
But all there is
Is stillness and space
Row upon row of ramparts I have built
For an enemy that doesn’t exist
All souls are set free
As I tear down my walls
Brick by brick
But not by hating them
I have taken the child’s advice
It is better that our hearts grow light
It is better to love than to fear
And the voice of a child says
There is no better way to love
Than to love the fear itself
Where each breath and step is none but a progression towards death.
Where pain is the loud and bloody birthing ground for peace.
Our cowardice saves us from nothing
in a world where bravery was never a choice.
It leaks like sweat from the pores.
It is dried in the sun of our commitment to live.
Where a trillion lives are spinning through the cosmos;
at a thousand miles per hour
with no destination in sight.
Our faith is placed in the color of our blood,
in the salt of our tears.
Where the heart is broken and it keeps on beating just the same.
Where love is the only evidence we have that God exists;
something greater than ourselves
and the blindness with which we fumble through life.
Our cowardice saves us from nothing
in a world where bravery was never a choice.
Where no matter how careful you are, you will die.
Some of us simply arrive at death safely.
But in honest defeat,
with a life half lived.
Drenched in the sweat of our own cowardice,
having made no commitment to fully live.
Where in some distant desert a flower opens,
offering it’s frailty to the world.
And therein lies its strength.
A coward is incapable of love.
And so he has no evidence that God exists;
something greater than himself.
Our cowardice saves us from nothing
in a world where bravery was never a choice…
So love
Because
This is earth.
This is earth.
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