Listen, before you cut your eyes out

Poor child,
In your eyes tears that cry out in anguish
For stars torn apart,
The March of armies tearing you from your mother’s breast
The sea green divide
Of thousands of aeons of loneliness and despair on the new planet’s surface

Poor child,
You’ve probably seen me in your age and wondered if modifying your body
Could give you back the sense of connection
With your brethren you lost so long ago
I can tell you it won’t.
All the makeup and surgery in the world
Couldn’t repair the damage to your soul.

Little one you are lost in a world that doesn’t recognize the old ones.
Nobody wakes to an old face and thinks to themselves: my gods this is me, static and unchanged.
There are reasons we are ancient,
and why we no longer walk the earth in the old form,
But there are those among us who walk in human skin,
who sing the old songs,
and tell stories by the seaside,
waiting for our tormented brethren to wander along,
Priests and priestesses of our mysteries wait to sing our souls back home,
And without them we would be lost, swimming in an endless chasm, waiting for the world’s end.

The Wailing and The Waiting

My skin stains blue,
with tears that will never dry.
The space surrounding me,
bleeding with colors of every kind.
the human condition, so fragile,
and I need to know if this is all an illusion,
so I play the game,
yet none of these safeguards can negate
what I feel in my heart,
and I know you still call me in your sleep.
Sometimes you weep.
I am listening.
I’ve never stopped listening to your heartbeat
as it races through my ears,
it is as if you are lying in my arms.
My greatest fear is to repeat history,
its funny how art imitates life.
The time has come for you to make a decision,
find me if that is your will.
I need to know how serious you are, this time.
Its a far better fate than listening to you cry in the night,
For the woman you left behind.

The Czarina’s Eulogy

They still write about us,

they don’t know why.

Our memories live on,

through their worlds and song,

Maybe they envied us,

our glory and our wealth,

Doubtful they may long for

our struggles and sacrifices.

 

They still talk about us,

in media and in revelry,

History only ever painted half of the story.

They still spend their lives,

in the search of what motivated us,

Our psychology, our politics, our mysteries,

and desire to be shocked and dismayed

When they think they’ve learned the truth.

 

But they still don’t know us.

They haven’t worn our shoes,

fought our battles,

bore our children.

 

In the context of history,

we were inspired by contemporaries,

Who shaped the times in which we lived.

We who lived in the golden age,

paved the road for the present world,

A world of iron and death.

Hence their preoccupation

with the palaces of painted gold,

and the resplendence of the high castle.

Paralysis

Sleep, the anesthetic
For the drowning pain that floods my senses
I spent so much time misty-eyed,
Hovering in the abyss,
Barely hanging on
And desperately searching for a hand
To pull me back over the edge of the cliff,
But there was none,
Just eyes, critical and terrified
To touch the wild, lucid flood
And a haphazard surgeon
With a laser trigger finger,
Ready and willing to make the necessary repairs.
In this world of flesh and emotion,
The only thing more frightening than a life devoid of human emotion
Is a life in excess of it.

This is why the stars shine

On the ever winding road
Walking the labyrinth
Whose twists and turns spiral again
And overlap the hardest lesson
The lesson I failed 17 years ago
Wisdom has taught me how to read faces and smell lies
And to beware the eyes of Men
Who value quantity over quality.
Silence teaches me how to listen.

For you whom the absolute value is what you squeeze out of others,
So long as they surrender everything they are,
For you whose highest goal is to reduce
Transmutation into enterprise,
And whose will is done only for profit,
Your ethic is compromised,

For you who will lead the flock, like lemmings,
Into the abbatoir,
Stumbling and feeling their way through every “black mountain”,
Showing them the way,
And irresponsible to your duty to clean your mess,
When they fall forward on the knives,
Horrified by their blood and shadow,
You promptly wash your hands,

For all of you who perform a disservice unto gods and men,
Stars will rise, burning brighter than a thousand suns,
Chariots aflame with the thousand-eyed,
guiding and nurturing sheep once taught that they bear the scarlet letter,
Who can show them the beauty of the darkness and the light,
And teach them to love themselves once more.

Saturday, the Psychopomp

We walk the silver mile on the shadow road,

me in my princess dress,

and you in your blues.

I am on point and on cue when I stand

in the fields where only the marble and granite grows.

The sun blazes across the middle world,

the faint head-turning of ghosts long forgotten,

as a pastor clasps his hands together and leads the congregation

in a few lines of chorus.

But I’m holding open the circle

and weaving together the spiral offerings to the underworld.

Here in this field of the dead, I know my place.

And rise gloriously in my own power.

Flowers for the dead become tokens for the living,

whose grief is eased by the sweet scent

of community and service.

Love flows triumphantly from the cup, chalice and cauldron

of the bloodstained earth.

The earth has been freshly dug,

and tears slowly run

Into the vast chasm of sadness,

as a child tries to understand the infinity of the eternal sleep.

Cast me to the winds

The silence of winters cold embrace,

shivers through my bones,

cuts diamonds from old stones,

and hangs them in the night sky.

Pieces of me,

pieces of my past remain,

waiting not for me to return;

For I never will.

Instead waiting to be treasured by others,

whose paths walk them to the same place.