How To Burn A Heavenly Body

I see the parcel in the room again,
Why does it keep coming back?
I despise its foul demeanor,
Coated in a funeral black.

Everyday I think I have disposed of it,
Removed its presence from my eyes,
Yet here the impertinence remains,
Within my private chambers it lies.

A match, some kerosine, yes that will do,
Scratch the strike pad and behold the flame,
I must rid myself of this pestilence,
This grimy fragment so abstrusely arcane.

The fire engulfs the carton,
Angry flickering of a crematorium,
The package sizzles in retreat,
Searching in vain for a blackguard’s sanatorium.

Then I gaze into the smoke so dense,
An ethereal glow catches mine eye,
Within the monstrosity’s destruction,
Lies an angel about to die.

O how could I be so foolish to hastily condemn,
To the gallows that which I do not fully fathom?
In the reeds whistles a tune of haunting melody,
To which the cherubs have all already succumb.

I rush to the rippling brook with a pail,
My world has become a spinning daze,
I scoop up the glistening waters,
And rush to extinguish the bloodthirsty blaze.

I damn myself, again and again,
Curse me to hell may I rot for these vices!
I am the pallbearer for this reluctant requiem,
That I brought about by my own devices.

DAMN ME! I am so convoluted,
The raven of my soul has taken flight,
I cleanse the world in this flagellation,
As I scourge myself of the insidious night.

The angel coughs aloud and glances up at me,
As I wipe the soot from her lovely skin,
Despite my ignorant negligence she simply smiles,
And it isn’t justice how easily I am forgiven.

I don’t deserve her,
I am not worthy,
Such a fine lady,
Loving a rogue like me.

I didn’t understand the depths of her kindness,
Until I realized the remarkable transfer,
For within the beat of my own breast is a fountain deep,
That flows endless madness and love for her.

I am a person who has loved many,
And now loves one.
The one who has guided me home,
And made me who I’ve become.

The lashes are still wet with tears on my back,
But the angel sets down my cat-o-nine.
Her tender caress heals each abrasion,
She takes all the pain that should be mine.

And she says in a voice so soft,
"Would you stop beating the one I cherish,
Take your energy and spend it loving me,
End this torture before I perish."

Such adoration I cannot refuse,
I leave the whip and fall into her ocean,
To swim along the current of honor,
And to love this angel of true devotion.

A Boulder By The Sea

Half past the hour on a bright and sunny day,
In a sequestered coastal town bordering the sea,
I took a walk alone with my thoughts,
Alone on the shores of my memory,
Beside the very birthplace of Venus,
I pondered what the beach truly meant to me.

And there upon a driftwood shoreline,
Where the land meets the sea,
Stood a boulder with a face quite hard,
Glaring most menacingly;
And though the tide tapped his black walls,
He ignored the persistent sea.

Now as I walked up to his massive side,
There twas naught else that seemed to be,
For he filled my eyesight like wind in a sail,
Still grimacing appropriately,
And I was depressed by the cumbersome view,
For he was all I could see.

And I thought it a pity, yes a pity indeed,
That such a blemish must be,
So ill-fated upon this fair beach,
That stretched quite beautifully.
I forgot the shore for a moment more,
To grumble that of all the debris,
Allowing such a large eyesore a stead,
Had most definitely offended me.

Then I spat, cursed, 'n turned,
And away I walked instead to see,
The shimmering surf kissing the shore,
Beneath the horizon's eternity;
No longer maligned by the boulder behind,
That had blocked the beach from me.

Between my toes tickled the sand,
Ancient boulders each granule used to be,
The perpetual tide struck the goliaths down,
By the endless weathering of the sea,
Covering this land with much lovely sand,
That warms the soul in me.

Over my shoulder I gave one final glance,
The boulder now as a mere pea,
So far away, only a dot on the day,
My heart dance 'n rejoiced with glee,
For like the myriad of grains beneath my feet,
It'd become another triumph of the sea.

I focused indeed when I had not the need,
On the boulder down by the sea,
For a moment I'd thought the beauty was forgot,
The penultimate of all misery.
But I saw that the beach was still lovely despite
The blot between the sand and the sea,
For the waves will remain when the rock becomes grain,
Joining the illimitable sand so free.

Lighthouse Beacon

The fog has crept too long across the loch,
But I see my flicker of hope coming through the haze,
My pilotage saved by the blazing golden rays,
And I voyage closer toward the ever alluring dock.

But travel I only a bit before I must again drift,
Patiently scanning the horizon for the next,
Such meager travel does surely leave me vexed,
The swiveling shaft for me is much too swift.

But I know the beam will never douse,
For the lighthouse is immobile and resolute,
Guiding me closer and closer to the shore,
Till one day I can live at the lighthouse,
And lay upon her sandy beaches eating fruit,
Where I will be lost at sea nevermore.

Quip

Quantity shouldn’t determine quality, but sadly, like diamonds and gold, it does for the majority of people. Truly, diamonds mean nothing to me because they are rare, but because individually they are beautiful. Same with people. It matters not how many diamonds I have or how many times I see people, they are still individually unique. But that is for me, and for most people, quantity does determine value, because they do not see the beauty, and instead focus on the instant pleasure.

"Every snowflake is unique, but when they pile together perhaps you forget to think that it is a million individuals, not just one mass."

Sorrow

I do not know
Why the sun berates the moon
Why the clouds have come so soon
Why the omens of the ancient song
Utter oracles so remarkably wrong.

I do not know
Why the grass is growing dead
Why I cannot rest my head
Why I dream such vivid pain
And appear my words from truth refrain.

I do not know
Why the locksmith knows not the lock
Why a paper can crush a rock
Why a flogging seems always due
‘The sheerer comes’ bleats the ewe.

I do not know
Why the yacht follows the fog
Why my lungs choke with smog
Why the falling droplets stain
This worn paper a lovers drain.

Writing furiously in the rain
These hastened scribbles are in vain.

Insomnia

The malfeasance of breath,
Will not allow my conscious death,
The spirals spin slowly south,
I perchance did slaver upon my mouth,
That the afghan of my berth,
May in kindness shroud my lack of worth,
I hide the sun and enter my womb,
Build me Lord a sentient tomb.

And still the patter of breath does irk,
Each impulsive gasp beholds a smirk,
I desquamate the catacomb,
The opaque wasteland I call home,
Breathing specter go to dust!
Leave me lie to bleed in rust,
And turn again the ivory landscape,
Veil disguising an amorphous shape.

Finally I cease the puffing gasp,
To which my fate so tightly clasp,
The second darkness comes asunder,
Too late detected my foolish blunder,
The seraphims in splendored grace,
My cognizance now faint in trace,
I glide into the ethereal badlands,
Of sly satyrs and bloodied hands.

Initial

Immanuel Kant once wrote: "Metaphysics is a dark ocean without shores or lighthouse, strewn with many a philosophic wreck."

I am a philosopher and a writer. I am the burden bearer, the banks of the river that must bear the constant beatings of the turbulent current. I am a part of every life, of every moment, in every place. I am the monk, painstakingly recording every iota of The Experience. My characters don't know that I exist, but even if they did I would be like God to them, guiding and altering their stories. But I do not create them. When my quill dances across the parchment, it is simply recording outcomes already destined to be. The lines between fact and fabrication are merely recognized by degrees of outlandishness, for there is no certainty in fated invention. The foul of the air travel south as autumn begins her chilly respiration, but it is on a charted course they only know in the bowls of their hearts. And so I capture, moment by moment, the pathways of souls in the spindle of time and grace. When my quill lifts, their lives are frozen, and they only animate at my command. The eraser is their equivalent of death, and its whim is mine. I sit with my characters during lunch, I labor beside them, I breath with them, I sweat with them, I bleed with them. And in each of them you can find my omnipresence, for none of them come into being but by extension of me. The plot is my turmoil, the conclusion my resolve. The tale is not built to the reality I perceive beyond myself, rather the external world is but a metaphor I use to define my dreams. And my language is my gondola, giving me passage to other souls. With these narratives I can imprint upon a person my own sketching, with the goal of adding to their loveliness. There are no ugly souls, only those who have been neglected. I am their physician, their Ambrose, bringing nectar to quench their everlonging thirst for euphoria, utopia, and quintessence. My tales are infinite, without restriction, and without a ruler. I am not my own. I am merely a stylus, used by the story to transfer itself. Like a benevolent virus, it infiltrates into the outermost regions of soul life. And there it thrives. And without it we cannot thrive. It is my duty to lift the rucksacks of life from the souls who cannot withstand their strain. I carry these loads in love, and transfer them to my plethora of characters. I have the gift of salvation. I bring hope to the nearsighted, and it is by my sweat they find grace. I am the writer. I write, hence I am.