Some label the grave cold, dark, rigid, desolate - I am not one of them.
Vision-quest travels have impinged in me huge beauty, higher vitality, a permanent brightness of transience - it sticks like an aroma of home and cannot be unexperienced.
Easter’s meaning sweats my sensitivities: ‘O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?’ - notification of reality beyond mere hope paying no mind to vile church histories, perverted priests enslaving theologies and burned cathedrals.
Epiphanies & intuitive reflections; silently, has He whispered to me So sacred & dear; His penalties were never to free me from travesty Equipped with my every downfall & gift; from His draft, was I built Life isn't a reverie in which I have any authority to write my script I was born a child into a life where all to ever be, was broken Ornaments of pain; I carry - a better soul though, they've woven An angel often unworthy of His graces; cling ever so to sweet sin A moth to it's flame - as I crash; His light ignites within ...
Death of a spirit as you know earthly roam Looking for comfort, oh thy wicked heart of stone Condemned and sentenced from a Birthright Bankrupt Consequences you have suffered from the revolt of being Satan’s slut His following Angel’s intentions, to grasp fame, and lust
Archangel Michael and his league of Angels fought with such passion under God’s ordinance, the war in Heaven was a must No more bowing to the Heavens, as you’ve stated, for a Mistaken Angel, no more, In God for you I trust Yes, you have...
Fastball - My Spiritual Awakening through Baseball
I can hit the fastball But I really want to hit the slider Same thing in writing verse The erotic comes easy but my own core emotions always leave me wanting more fom myself
So, no erotic poems this morning Going back to the basics My need to write I hope you will let me in Even though I have been hard on you I'm not a bad guy And I don't spit too much When I'm at the plate
Standing alone in the surf. Again. Sky is bruised by the endless battle. Changing. Apophis retreats. Nothing. Ra’s spear triumphs. Again.
Silence reigns over all. Rushing. Waters upon waters. Hissing. I bleed. Roaring. I remember. Hushed. I forget. Retreating. Everything.
Everything is music. Raindrops fall.
Make a fist. Tensing. Muscles answer. Growing. Stand out in a circular mound upon my arm. Rising. Veins protrude. Nothing. Forks in rivers of green, beneath translucent shadows of skin. Nothing. Rising like the dawn at my wrist.
Dirty hair and a rag tag shirt with spots of blood sitting on Cathedral steps spilling out love smiles greet finely polished Cole-Hann's, Carter's, Valentino's along with gentle out-stretched strokes to the well-fed
Doe eyes dance in Hanna Anderson at the base of Sunday's best holding close the moments where every child is blessed gifts of bread and water waived off politely not wanting to be the needy but just another part
Hymn's ring loud in an empty soul begging along with a lost flock fledging to be whole filled with sounds of...