Black Soul Afidavit

Death on the surface of a plague,
Spewing serum in rabid abdication,

A perjurers first instinct
To rot upon that vial,
Thunderously bellowing for absolutions he devoutly hates

Finding bonds with decrepit fellowships
A putty for a craftsman with distinctly darkened vines

Cradling close the dearly fallen,
An appetite whets upon in blackened anticipation

And as a feast of blood sates his wicked tongue
The beast acknowledges the impossibility of nourishment
As fatal pangs asphyxiate the morsels just devoured
The cravings emulsify within
Delineating the unrequited compensation
Delivered to those who discard the graces bestowed when choice was still free.

Shards of Mankind Broken

Nostalgia burns a fever

In the caustic river’s eye

Tidal boundaries shatter, flooding shores,

forcing debris to swim, well before it's learnt to drift

Ill-equipped thoughts addle. Matted wings resign to weight.  

Flailing, it all feels like flailing….  

The crows nest dangles. It's broken pole slivers.

Remnants linger upon distressful seas.

Venial thoughts are left to stew. Eventually weariness ripens.

The polished and hewn wilts alike.

Overwrought. Ambushed. Daylight is truncated. Evening falls to Stygian design….to those daring enough to dream.

Danger paints a dragnet from your plaster. Hunger feeds the gluttonous rill. Currents, replete with paroxysms, commiserate.

Tragedies offer casualties alone.  In such moments, mankind as a unity is shattered.  All we have is grief and mourning. 

And a river born from sorrow.

Addendum:

If you believe the vortices will calm their vehement swirl, I pray the shoreline shackle heel to sand.

If you believe absolution will quickly cast it's net, I fear that catch shall never breathe again beyond it's gnarled mesh.

If you fear that time will not heal such lacerations, I pray support is ever by your side.

Nightmare's Autopsy (The Will to Overcome)

Unawareness.  Sad, sad scourge,

Where despite the cleavers gleam

Enroll again! On we surge

Upon the cold, cold table we

Will once more lay prone for

His convenient dream

Watch we shall, March we will

From the silos to the unmarked graves

To cut across reaping fields, ever forward on we stave. 

Vivisection does not breed good intention,

Do not believe anything they say, it’s never about

The process, it’s always about the pain

Inflicted, where the loudest are the strong, and the screams expire before the walls wail their weeping songs, while the sick, while the poor, shed not one tear more

Bone to bone. Disassembled on

Slats of marble, practiced upon

For those not cared for

Are but generic and alone

stainless tin, cold, cold steel

each discarded, parts and whole

Sad it is, for these, not a tear is felt

Separated by the lash of an imposter God

Fearing a day without, where future’s freedom’s left in doubt

Leaving but an unheard requiem, a lesson, a sigh, for without the crackling, pain does not yield, ever forward stirs the prod

Reassembled, fractions and sums

As only a self-termed God would dare attempt make whole,

Such reunions of the recent dead

Your image yet fans each flame incited by the memories haunting the dreams of your dearest mourners, where words, spoken in your natural tongue, engrain each minute of slumber, with the writhing procurement loss endows

Every piece within is found without.

All lined up across this wall

Organized precisely yet scattered haphazardly about

And here treads a man, in the shallowest depths of water, pacing in wander, sloshing over each direction ever scoured

Ever mired is the misery concomitant to each shard remembered, never knowing what tortures persist to lurk

Yet, it is he, who we cannot dare guess upon; it is he, who never sickens thinner than frame allows, for repetition’s mysteries here assembled sour not the troubles therein

Jars of me, at rest, alone

In this sealed solution,

flesh plucked clean, off its bone

a floating cage with lockless ends

Forever swimming—

Never truly dead, yet life barely seep these veins,

Floating simply about, within this pool, an aquarium

Where waves are as absent, as those prehistoric beasts science willfully omits from the present-day vernacular

Pickled in formaldehyde; Awash, then dried,

By permutations cloth, preserved forever, yet

Never, in such company, could the soul hope to thrive within

Errors form the function, upon this weavers loom,

Tainted by misfortune, needles sew wryly their quilted interpretations, echoic of our most hollowed depths of doom

Expertise is ignored, when it’s failure that’s exposed,

Leaving only the thrush of pride, forever hidden—shall we try, to find pathos, through wisdom’s ever dwindling light?

Parceled streams create purported visions—albeit in lieu of the self-sustaining sufficiency such stained seams require—

Where thusly soon thereafter, we are quick to notice that the breadcrumbs have all grown stale and indigestible

Here, the body secretes away its last remaining vertebrae, crafted, is a sense of clarity, never known or seen before—proffering each sentiment stored away, with the dank chill preeminently found whilst creeping seditiously amongst those reservations not your own—for it is within these chambers, where the stagnant air of darkness, adroitly replicates mankind’s first regret—

Yet strangely enough, for now, a change is found—an unrequited epiphany appears—here, falling forward—we see through the murky horizons and past the greyest clouds, envisioning that fleck of precognition crucial to surviving this nightmare realm our beings have been unwittingly cast unto—

It was in each these bands of sparks, whose arcs bestowed more than superficiality, but legitimate directions to salvation—here, it was found that one can be lonely, without succumbing to loneliness, where one can be alone, yet sated still—for it was then, when needed the most, that I became aware, aware, fully, completely aware, where the torture that shall surely follow, will be nothing to the comfort I now feel.

The Lumberjack

A lumberjack

Laden plaid

Above his head

A doubly sharpened battle axe

The ropes are knotted at the roots

Hands wriggling

Not going anywhere

Outside, the bustling of life

In hear I writhe in broad daylight

Fingertips encased in red

The wheel spins

And sparks condense

A whistling can be heard

Below the outsiders muffled words

A darkened boot stamps its mark

Knowing that its owners but

Delaying gratification

Then the moment comes

The shining from above

His shadow engulfs me whole

I close my eyes and thoughts drift some other place,

Ignoring the blithe descending here

Hunger Pains

Sometimes the words they go on strike,

Picket signs, chanting vulgarities,

Themes revolve around the overwork and underpaid,

We both can learn a thing or two,

Without me, their meaning would never be heard,

Without them I’d have nothing to say,

Sad as a pauper begging a king for a half eaten bagel,

Looking down at the scowling and the blood shot eyes,

The laughter echoes all about,

From the corner shops to the street bazaar,

I never look up as they berate me so, under lights, over glow,

Just praying when they leave that bagel will be close,

To where I wish to be,

And then it was, A half they did not leave

No bagel, no donut, no biscuit or crumb,

Instead I found an entire basket of bake goods,

Hidden behind where I stood, I was grateful, I was glad,

But around the corner a plentitude stood,

I closed my eyes to avoid their outreached arms and saddened faces,

All those misguided eyes and their blistered tears,  to this I stopped and turned,

Who was I, which deserved all this pity served?