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The Memory of a Dead Man Walking
Suchlike the will of brimstone beasts,
Is the will of a dead man walking,
In each step is left the prints of carelessness.
Holding the half empty glass with a crack in the side,
stumbling around the dunes in the long wait to become
a savage before the credits roll.
A happy ending was for another tale for another man way
off back in the mirage of the desert that harbors those
dunes as he lies six feet under with a smile by rigor
mortis and a silent song in the beatless heart, there
beneath a tombstone that read,
here lies a memory.
Come Hell or high Heaven, the dead man walking
walks on without a goal or care for the world,
a bottle of dried up whiskey hanging loosely
in hand, gathering sand from the winds of that
coming storm. Illusive would have been his
laughter to sober eyes in that wasteland.
The Memory looks on as a shade beyond the grave,
staring straight at a man of woe, watching those
apathetic trails disappear. The glass fell into
the bosom of those lands beyond greener pastur
Just One More Time
Those chains, how their cheers can resonate
in wake and dream alike. My shoulders are
strained in time without a proper word.
How bound I am from the starting line of my
own naivety to my lack of bliss in
the lack of ignorance?
I am no longer blind, but climbing my
Jacob's ladder upwards from shame
where chains pull me back
In that foolish past, I was never aware
of these bloody chains that before me countless
others have worn in varied forms and guidance.
Stable ground that welcomes my feet is
above my head, just out of reach as the
seconds take my few grains of sand.
Those chains labor me, like massive serpents
of unholy iron that constrict with
all my struggling.
Take my heart and hands, for alone
I will only fall with the inevitable
results of time and temptation.
The Devil on Your Shoulder
Wrapped like a gift in sheets, playing the role
of cold turkey while sweat shakes down the flesh.
Frozen in time, forced to see life flash before
the gaping eyes as though a Pale Horse had
come alone in jest and spite.
The rapid blinks that pan the camera angles for
unsettling cinematography make for a trip to an
avant-garde Hades for the audience of one.
Those damned subliminal messages hidden
in merciless metaphors.
Demons behind the curtains, sending in paper
airplanes with scribbled teasing and temptation,
awaiting their gift to open itself and become
a savory meal that would only blend with
the memories of what once was.
A husk once called man will sit, quivering alone
in the room of his own induced Hell, while those
demons cackle and drool from every angle as the
hallucinatory short films escalate into
the award-winning nightmares.
They call for him to come out and play,
with voices like friends and tones like killers.
Strength wraps the blanket tighter, absorbing
the sweat of th
Serenaded are the vultures past the
silence of calm demeanor,
where only leaves fall in a quiet Autumn.
The gusts of haunted winds run through a
chilled air that even ghosts choose to
evade in the darkest hours.
No Sunlight had touched the soils below
in any matter of time,
though it had given first light to growth.
Though that canopy cannot keep away the
howls and screams of undead scavengers
which only muffled the sounds of better
birds who sang for the sun.
Third eyes were stitched shut and feet
were bound by illusive chains. How little
the closed treasure chest could ever hold,
where when opened it would have overflowed,
blotting out the haunted sounds and using
the limited light within darkness.
The vultures search only to find with eyeless
sockets, the lively canopy of those growing woods.
Time and all of space could never have grazed those
soils, however wet or dry. Whatever was let in was
by the canopy that guards and shelters.
There were paths in those woods, where many feet h
The Oldest Trick in the Book
The recurring theme of malinger and tomfoolery
pushes an envelope packed with counterfeit
bills across a desk made by the hands of hungry children.
So blatant a sin as to lie to a land of suspecting
psyches is that of a rape to every thought crossing
the pathways of synapses and morality.
The clueless neckties were never clueless,
as free will is the truest catalyst to the monsters
beneath the skin of miracles, like cannon fire in an orphanage.
Deception is a talent practiced while mastered by Hell,
and surely the envelope holds origins from places of evil?
Bills, from mangled trees, grow into newer roots of evil.
Rot can be proven and believed in any walk of life
in and across the world. A thing like evil is illusive
but worth the hunt. Thus end this cycle before it expands.
It is old and respected only by the evil and the ignorant,
the breeds who are related in sin. Let never a single demon win,
and take only the challenges that ring bells in Heaven.
The Fate in Miracles
Do her eyes love what they see?
Do they dilate and tear up with the loving devotion?
If they could, the makeup would run and
she would care little as she ran faster, towards him.
No pace is fast enough for her racing heart
that beats a million strong to bombard the soul.
How she has missed the arms that wrap her like
a present, that sport the hands that wipe the tears.
Not an eternity would suffice for her hearts
desire that only matches his for the woman he embraces.
He stops only to unwrap a gift from God and
kiss the lips that Heaven gave perfection to.
His eyes were tired, mixed with her tears,
while sparks of life came in every breath of relief.
Miraculous was a name for this reunion that was
to outweigh every obstacle of the Hell gone through.
There was no question now that God did in fact
smile from a throne, upon Heavenly joy.
A devil on the shoulder had lost its voice and
become only a whisper in the presence of an angel.
A heart beats and I am back where I belong,
In the arms of a woman whose soul never
left that broken heart.
My breathing, no longer labored, is the deep
breath of a relieved man once in mourning,
brought peace by resurrection.
Glory, oh glory to our God above who conducted
the miracle that is shared in warm
embrace and elation.
The scent of better days has risen to my nose
with every breath and the day becomes
brighter when my eyes are open.
They are open to the works of my God,
this miracle of a love that binds us in freedom
for a great story in the making.
Never again, will be the words I say to a brutal
past while smiling...for a heart beats and
I am back where I belong.
A Poem for Deaf Ears
Victor oh Victor! Was a lesson not learned of any cautionary tale? You are an ape within your own ego. Curious George with a lab coat and a pompous tone creating what you have yet to call God as the script is written by your hands, covered in made up fantasies and shaking with pride. The lessons you know are self taught, as while building an empire hardly different from any of the past. You have built with your hands, a legacy that could be founded by any Curious George in a lab coat, my dear Victor. The monster that you have created, oh my dear Victor. Such potential, cast aside for all that makes it a growing monster. It is beautiful within and misunderstood, even by you, on its exterior. You know it best of us all, yet you are still caught in your world, where everything you claim to know, is unexplainable and by chance. The Monster has changed only so much with time, becoming trained and nothing more.
To those with plugged ears and eyes sewn shut, yours is in fact a religion. Nothi
To Those Who Take The First Step
A lesson in anguish in line of this
our cautionary tale and present process.
The eyes stare back like wet stones
at empty fields covered over with fog.
What Hell has been gone through to
Now see some patch of light beyond
Clouds and a few rolling slopes left,
To see now and to feel hesitation.
Ominous, is that fog, full of life
Without so much as a pulse
As floats like a lesser cloud over
These fields meant for running feet.
Thunder applauds from just
over the shoulder, as Hell awaits.
Turn around and see us, they cheer.
The voices take all tones in memory.
The carcass of a tree stems upward
Reaching like inverted roots in search
Of soils and waters to be reborn
There in a land of mistrust and confusion.
The bliss that radiates from that patch
Beamed down from Heaven,
Awaiting a tired soul in this cautionary tale
To equip deaf ears to Hell over the shoulder.
The eyes stare on, lacking in faith
They doubt themselves as messengers,
For known are the illusions wrought
by the past, unto th
The WifeA good wife would never provoke her Husband to jealousy.
A good wife would not take advantage of His love.
A good wife wouldn't take gifts from her Husband to parade it to attract other men.
A good wife wouldn't lie with strangers.
A good wife would be faithful.
A good wife would be thankful.
A good wife would be an honor to her Husband.
She wouldn't want to manipulate or hurt Him.
She would seek to build Him up.
To be there for Him, just as He is her.
She'd remain at His side and work with Him.
Seeking to please Him.
Not tear down the house He makes.
Not disgrace Him.
But love Him.
A good partner tries to understand His feelings, not shun them.
Conversations with a madmanAm I mad? I guess it's obvious.
For you just believed you spoke to a planet.
So I'd say your insane, if you don't mind.
Well a mind? I certainly don't.
When I left this house,
I had such a feeling, the need
To kill myself.
But now that I have returned,
From my conversation,
I wish nothing of it.
I need a reconnection,
I need a re-calibration,
With our earth, the deceased planet.
Many view madness as a bad thing,
Something, some state of mind, negative.
However only through madness,
Have I found true, genuine happiness.
For what am I,
But a verbose thought.
Wrapped up in skin and sanguine,
Comprised of fleeting moments,
Faux truths and a
Personal spiritual ideology.
My mind a realm of chaos, undivided.
Constantly warping, changing.
A moment of complete silence?
I could never recall.
Yes, a pit of disorganisation,
But yet of organised anarchy
That follows no fixed form,
No certain structure.
Much like this current piece
That I have entrusted to you,
To happen upon.
Do I retain the right
Towards The Beyond
Spirit breath condenses
in the deep chill of the void.
as these great ephemeral towers
drift, they reflect the cosmic glow.
They belong to unreality,
only in imagination can any of us
scale their heights.
Heart SongI am conscious of
Getting everything in my body going.
I can control everything in it as I need it
And perceive in it every single touch.
I love my heart as it is.
I am certain of loving it.
In my spiritual hand I take it gently
And I always pay attention to it.
It bounces and flutters in my hand,
Almost up to its edge.
My heart is beating incredibly wild
And I give it a calming picture.
With loving words I talk to it:
In a relaxed, peaceful tranquility may you serve my body.
I am full of gratitude in me,
All this love belongs to you.
You have always provided my body good
And I admire your everlasting courage.
In all fears, in all fright
You have been always awakened.
Through my body you pump the blood,
Even at very extreme anger.
All that always in love to me,
For this I thank thee.
I need all my life
Your everlasting song.
Until I have accomplished my work on Earth
And my soul will set out.
Please accompany me with all your strength,
Until the path is reached.
Till then, I will join
Be the light in a dark worldThe world is a dark place.
It is filled with sin, pain and despair.
Shadows overwhelm everything.
It seems as if there is no hope.
And despite all this, if you look close enough, you can see a spark of light.
A light that outshines the darkness.
A light that keeps evil at bay.
And before you now it, it grows in strength and evaporates the blackness leaving peace behind.
If there is one thing God wants us to be, it is to be the light in the dark world that surrounds us.
He want's you to shine.
He wan's you to overcome fear and sin, to strive and to light the world around you.
You may think you are worthless, without meaning but God loves you enough to put you on this earth with the potential to change it.
Let Gods word be your fuel,
let Gods love be your heat,
let His wisdom be your air.
With these 3 things you will be set alight and you will have purpose.
Darkness may tempt you to burn out, but if God is with you who could stand against you?
With Him at your side no darkness can burn y
You're just a puppetI am everything,
I am nothing.
I am everywhere,
I am invisible.
I'm in your head and won't let go.
You beg for my approval,
I am light,
but you will never see me.
But you will never know me.
You don't know yourself.
You are lost.
You know what i allow you to know.
You're just a puppet, who thinks he's alive
You're just a puppet.
I amI am a merchant
and she is the sun.
Something so far
yet radiates the gold
that I long to feel.
I am a Knight
and she is the war.
The impending doom
of nautical decisions
that only death can incur.
I am a God
and she is the oblivion.
A desire for power
that only it holds
just to feed the greed.
I am the forever nothing
and she is the truth of life.
That I will never get to breathe
under the circumstances
of a love never getting.
Why free will?Bits and pieces form a whole.
to what end, and for what purpose?
hath thee incorporated all for naught
or doth thy purpose pertain obscurity?
for i know not your plan and pretence
but only that i am bits and pieces
from a whole exceeding my own.
When our paltry sun burns out and grows to encompass us
when our decayed and recycled bodies return to the forge of our creation
what end and what purpose will be fulfilled?
I demand meaning, i yearn for the role to play
i wish not that my life fall in my own hands
i want not that my will be my own
i hope for no volition.
Must thee be so ambiguous?
where is your iron will and forceful commands,
your heavenly angels to spread your word?
but lo and behold naught a sound
no crackling thunder and no booming voice
only silence in the darkness outside,
and the bitter fear of alienation
growing in us all.
am i alone?
IF so, what of it then!
if you will not answer me i shall answer for you
and if you do not protest you must accept that my fate in my ha
A Walk With the Poet- Canto 2- The Ink of Exile
From behind me came voice and word...
Both new, and friendly to my ears.
In a sense did I now feel safe presence.
"A descendant of Cerberus was he...
So vile are those beasts.
Though shall you fear not, as you are protected."
I turned to find, through a doorway
bursting through with light in abundance...
The poet of Florence, in form of spirit.
Dressed the white and red of his portraits.
With upon his head, a crown of leaves,
Whose veins were black with ink.
"Poet before me, I beseech from thee, answers,
For once I had many, and now I have none!
Assist me, as I lost more than ever."
My head hung in shame,
like some criminal on the gallows...
I knew not the true reasons for my shame.
"I have many times prayed,
and my faith have I kept!
But once more, I am adrift...
Like a ship is my being, lost at sea...
My body, the temple...crumbling with erosions.
My soul fears the twists and turns of time."
"Hold thy tongue," he commanded, "And worry not!
Sent to you is the guide before thee,
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More