I Am War, Your Risen King






I will bathe in river blood and ocean war

tasting flesh of some forgotten circumstance

as the gun deceives, then let the cannon roar

what is life but cotton's thread in mortal dance.

Make my altar sun kissed bones and grieving silk

shine my chalice with a silvering regret

feed me anger, suckled sweet as mother's milk,

cry my name as seraphim, lest some forget.

Where the prayer falls let the body fall unknown

on disowning fields of far so far away

what was hope becomes a name on weathered stone

I am war, your risen king and all obey.

You cast doubt in words that fall where none can see

sown as barren seed beneath the Judas tree.

            Apocalyptic Bedlam




Ten thousand echoes fell like purple rain

upon the thoughts of poets everywhere

and though they tried to catch the hurricane

their fingers clawed the nothing that was there.

Perchance a sonnet lost in quantum space

a swirl of iambs through a twisted mind

where time and tide and tempo interface

or yet the hopes of man are redefined.

Four horseman rode through bedlam, painted white,

a pristine shade of pandemonium,

upon each one a threadbare painted knight

who sought the grail of dis-harmonium.

'Tis said in chaos nothing is the same

save moments of inferno and of flame.

                       My Final Poem




I will write it as the world's about to end

and the horsemen ride unbridled through the sky,

so it is my Revelation will be penned;

what is glory but the willingness to die?

And my quill will burgeon flame to scorch the night

as my laughter tears the mountains from the earth,

in this final cataclysm I will write

knowing none can judge or deprecate my worth.

Who will read my verse I do not know nor care

as I never have before and will not now,

I will mock the dying stars and cry beware

as the blood of conscience trickles from my brow.

In the void my words will seethe as none before

through the darkness, shadow grained, for evermore.













And so it was that sunlight shone no more,

eternal darkness crushed the dying earth:

'Tis writ in tomes of ancient Mayan law

that this was life and all that it was worth.

Defiant as the silence stood a man

upon his lips a tortuous lament

and as his death long eulogy began

ten billion ghosts looked on in discontent.

What song he sang no living thing would know,

his melody as glacial as death,

no voices would be raised, their scorn bestow,

upon this self intoning Shibboleth.

Now everything is hushed nihility;

no portent, but the truth of what will be. 











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