Poetry-Thing Thursday: Implode

This country’s imploding,
from charges set by treason,
the madness that bred us,
was not without reason,
but this madness is new,
from unknown season.

Neither hot nor cold
but slightly luke-warm
ninety-eight point six degrees,
and from the body-Human, torn.

Fitting to say:
much like blood,
but the badness today,
makes me long for suds,
though I never drink–
maybe that’s a lie
“but that is the point”
I say with a sigh.

Reality is fading,
into a none soon to come,
unless we stand vigilant,
together as one.

Otherwise, we’ll never know what hits us.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Man’s Long Goodnight

There is naught but triumph,
in the hearts of man,
a species unkindled,
nor burdened by plan,
but so too can madness,
be a triumph of sorts.

It starts small,
but leads to a fall,
one that may never end–
one that cannot contend,
with the madness that life wrought,
or those it offends.

That triumph is darkness,
as well as a light,
and no matter whether one,
believes themselves in the right,
actions are never,
quite so cut and dry.

They do however, tell all,
and determine in hindsight,
the true wit and worth,
of man’s decaying soul,
his heart and plight,
but that cannot undo the damage,
nor end,
his long goodnight.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Raw Aether

I know of no magick,
like that which I’ve seen
through third-eyes,
or in-between dreams.

It is soft and supple.
Virgin and pure.
A reality beyond reality,
yet formed of raw aether.

It is there that it bore us,
unto this chaos of light,
and it is there we shall return,
whence comes the long goodnight.

Though we know not our purpose–
if indeed there be one–
we know we find service
in answering a call,
whether for light or darkness,
it matters not,
but we must remember,
the truth is in foresight.
It is but buried.
Yet given due time.
I too shall carry,
the aether’s death-sign.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Abyssal Stares

Verging on a precipice,
gazing into a chasm,
an abyss staring back,
vile and black.

There sits a madness,
inside each man,
woman,
child:
animals.
We are long gone in soul.
We are at war for our world.
Yet the only blood shed,
is that, which from tears,
we cannot help but weep.

Millennia have come,
and may again go,
but what are we,
if devoid of our soul?

We live yet not die,
breathe but not sigh,
hover but shan’t fly.

Whilst all around us,
there is hope of conceit,
we are undead,
our species defeat,
sealed in the abyss,
swirling ‘neath our feet.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Last Setting Sun

There is naught but madness,
where once there was peace.
Therein lies badness,
morality deceased.
Hold tight to your hope,
but don’t let it bind you.
The bad men are coming,
they’re right behind you.
You can’t hide anyway,
when they’re under your hood,
and inside your pocket,
your home and your heart.
Raping and razing.
Looting precious art.
Stealing the young ones.
Pillaging the lame.
Hating the lovers,
whom love without shame.

Even those that made them,
are not immune,
they’ll eat you or chew you,
either way you’re through.

If only each one,
could put down their hatred,
it might not be few,
then we’d know the future,
wasn’t black and blue.

Until then we stammer,
and stumble to run,
Terrified that this,
be our last setting sun.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Bloodied Hands

Mama,
There’s blood on my hands.
The sky is gray,
and static fills my ears.

Machine-gun fire,
chatters in the distance,
and I feel as if floating,
in dark,
cold seas.

Air between fires is,
tainted by putrid stink:
Bowels, entrails,
and fresh blood.

Reality,
begins to fade around me.
Blackness,
edges its way over my eyes.
Red crosses and faces,
scream silence,
taking residence,
in my mangled mind.
And when I look down,
I see only red through black.

Tunneled suns are useless,
but so too are soldiers,
whom caught off-guard,
die to stray bullets,
no-one is sure to have fired.

No purpose,
no restitution,
flits by with solace,
for there is only silence.
And blackness.
For me.
For Mama.
And my bloody,
dead hands.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Death Genus

Lie to me,
about the future’s culmination.
Speak the words,
of endless exultation.
Then inject me,
with Death’s overt-stimulation.

‘Cause I am,
running out of words.
And you have,
betrayed all the herds,
of woman and man,
and set fire to the birds.

There will be,
forever no more singing.
Sounds of fire,
forever to be ringing,
’cause our fate,
time is ever-bringing.

If I had,
perhaps one more life,
to get along with,
all of this strife,
Perhaps I’d learn,
to take away your knife.

But you have,
buried it within me.
And the blood,
is pooling I can see.
My life will fade,
soon just like we.

Collapsed to my knees
I beg your forgiveness,
for having failed,
to show you more than this,
but I understand,
more than am remiss.

So much has,
come and gone between us,
that any distance,
feels like Earth to Venus.
So inject me,
with a dose of Death-Genus