Marcian CX

Sweet poison’s whispers
echo in a twisted heart.
A mind once pure,
polluted
by that rotten cup.
And so it came,
what God made gentle,
voices turned.
Life from life,
a mighty gift,
was danger for lightning fallen.

But cherub wings and seraph voices
resonate in black hearts still.
And if a mighty fist can crack
the shell that grows,
day by day,
a gentle soul can yet be found.

The deep, the dark, the gale and winter snow
in silence speak, and speak of untold forms.
What shapes, what colors found or lost,
who knows?
That arctic desert, desert storms and cold,
unfeeling, vast terrain, again, again.

And blackened trees, those wooden, rotten arms,
extend and reach, a lone shape marks and splits
horizon right in two.
But what or who?
Perhaps not who, but rather why and how?
What force of nature wars with nature? Cold
that angers, scorches, deals out punishment.\

A cold that rages, whips and tears at him.
But yet, behold, that beast, that man, who stops
at nothing, step by step, and leaving grooves,
such cavern craters punched into the snow.\

Through bitter winds at four degrees below,
his heavy boots did march through sleet and slow.
When angry storms assault with hail and ice,
adventure calls, yet few would pay this price.

Two feet of snow, a frozen lake to cross,
a mountain covered end to end in frost.
The path ahead, a valley dead and thus,
brave hero carries on, for so he must.

But, lo, he saw just for an instant there,
reflecting bits of sun through grizzled air,
a monstrous tower, spearing up above,
beyond the cloudy cover up, aloft.

With every struggled step, the hero glimpsed
just one more facet on the place affixed.
Beyond the wondrous tales that he’d been told,
he witnessed crystal tower’s sight unfold.

And there, sublime, the prism tower stood.
The structure beckoned: “come if you so would.”
Yea, suddenly, new vigor poured upon,
the hero found he now could carry on.

Meander
through the dewey fields,
a spire in the distance.
Morning’s birth,
yet fresh and young,
rests gently on the air.

Then her.

Smooth porcelain
with intricate and inken swirls.
Such noble bearing,
ivory
and gold
and pears.
A melody.
Perfection.

Crescendo’s rise,
and queen enthroned.
The chorus of the world,
dull,
falls short of
sight sublime.

A feather drifts,
rides gentle breeze,
and time,
so strong,
is fractured.
Beauty’s touch
has near consumed her,
pure,
resplendent
creature.

I found myself,
a mirror dim reflecting me
to me.
The visage stared,
and while we shared
a trait,
or two,
the face was foreign,
though it bore my name.

His teeth,
not white,
but crimson red.
His skin, a pallid shade,
like wax that weeps from candle’s flame,
overflowing the gentle divot
pressed by its combusting wick.
His eyes,
so sans humanity,
the foulest ash and soot collect
and barely from the glass reflect.

Yes, what I saw
was vanity for vainness sake.
And closer still,
I ‘proach the mirror
and see
yet more of me.

An elder sits atop a cliff.
His tattered robes
and dusty skin
so blend to one,
that difference is elusive.
The silence near
caresses him,
like concubines of mighty kings,
engulfing him,
the ocean black.

What insight is contained in these?
Those endless wells —
too pale, blue orbs.

Surety.
The price was paid:
true countless hours,
desert days and nights.
A life so spent
is wisdom bought.
Would, if only, I could be
that sage one day.

Blood on fire,
noxious toxin’s fume delight.
Lifeless corpse walks animate,
and terror reigns
through puppeteers.

Frenzied army,
where weapons drawn
are agony’s right genesis.
Yes, breath of spark
is quenched in floods.

Empty hollows,
discontents seek rabid highs,
but calm yet knows
(the searching eye),
that beauty’s found
in plainest sight.

Insomnia.
Decades passed since
the city last slept.
With its frantic heart,
pounding,
drumming,
its life drains away,
rotten blood running
in rivers down a rusty hill.

And while the village
yet finds sleep,
the cold disease
of concrete dwelling
grows,
metastatic pest,
until one day,
the whole world
can no longer dream.

Total conquest,
foe destroyed.
Breathe in vict’ry.
Crown anoint.
Seek out peace
at first,
but shy ye not away
from war.

Seek the enemy
afar.
Give pursuit, relentless now,
and rest ye not
until,
somehow,
he lies in dust;
in dust the lies.

Stand still.
Herald,
stony guard,
and visage carved of stone.
Stand still.

Secure.
With wolves so posed
to lead astray,
a single sheep
may drift and falter.
Secure.

Remain.
Come hail of
fire or thirty years
of calm,
remain.

Repose.
With duty ceased,
repose.

What shall I do to silence
the droning pressure?
In forms and shapes both fresh and foreign,
assault,
assault.
The daily bread turns black.
A vicious infestation makes poison
of sure nourishment.

I am the infestation.

Can prisoner and guard be one
or prison’s game be won?
Where hollow sockets, d’void of eyes,
are solely left
and sorely consume the vision of me,
I push and press and strain
to no avail.
What little light was left
has disappeared, deep into fleshen caves.

I am the cave.

The sun consumes itself,
collapse,
collapse.
A force unbearable.
Light to sound.
And the droning carries on.

I found a field of green where flowers sway
beneath the sun’s warm gaze and azure skies.
In vivid paint and gentle breeze, they play,
until the winter mutes their lullaby.

No will of man could sow this vibrant scene,
for beauty here in wild array is found.
Why, could such floral glow be nature’s dream,
where lovers seek a token to astound?

For many hands that come to take away
a rose or two to gift to novel love,
have found the flowers starting to decay
and wond’ring if this sign be from above.

As for myself, I did enjoy the view
but found the only rose I pick is you.

The sun’s rays
creep over stones,
hills,
iron gates.
A distant figure swings an axe
in steady rhythm.
A oaken tree,
quartered once,
then quartered twice,
again,
again.

That metal disk makes quick work
of dried wood,
when sweat and heat
yield fuel for the barren months.
Steadiness.
For when passions rule,
the day is spent in idle beats,
no energy remains
for needful work.

The mature man knows no frivolity.
He just chops wood.

Amidst the shadowed veil of night’s embrace,
comes pressure deep in faux terrain.
So see the visage: Sandman’s face.

Where sunken eyes break steady gaze,
little death; fire drowns in sure refrain.
Amidst the shadowed veil of night’s embrace.

Leave the world, lost in place—
yet visit, visitor, again.
So see the visage: Sandman’s face.

And what a horror! Devoid of grace.
Infestation, insane.
Amidst the shadowed veil of night’s embrace,

was found replaced:
peace for pain.
So see the visage: Sandman’s face.

Yet morning comes—at clockwork pace,
and shaken off, the slumber’s stain.
Amidst the shadowed veil of night’s embrace,
you see the visage: Sandman’s face.

Monument
to bitter trials.
Scars,
and scrapes,
and broken teeth turned jagged.
Watch
as Korah,
swaddled so in moans and screams,
transmuted by insurgent crown,
is made akin to monsters.
Before the crown, a man —
beneath it, something else.

Behold,
the limestone Goliath
aching,
stretching,
looming.
Features carved
from thoughtless rock,
he climbs against the selfish weight
of the earth.
Upward.

There,
at his feet,
genesis.
Neck buckled under nascent awe,
eyes ablaze with bloodline fire,
the progeny.

Barely the ember of a man.

The stone speaks.
The boy listens.

"My son."

What solace has man,
when legions approach?
"Wage war," the call.
A trumpet sounds,
and orders leave the kingly throne.
What man can stand alone?

In silence tense,
soldiers girded,
nearly crushed,
before dawn brings scorching rain.
By effort, they rise,
three seconds of sleep.
No man can stand alone.

And one by one,
have glimpsed the face of death,
resignation is at hand.
"If death shall claim me,
may blood not spill in vain,
but water soil,
and nurture ground,
that spring may come in bloom."

Myriad of sand grains plummet
through the gate
into abyss.
Pull,
the earth,
and pass yet moments,
moments more.
Take ye, then,
the keener eye,
observing microns,
mountains thrown,
and find so quick the moment gone.

Pass ye moments,
moments more.

Short supply.
High demand,
and wasteful, yet,
is found the man.
Vivarium,
enclosing single atoms of
the bright,
the dull,
makings of, yes, every man.

Pass ye moments,
moments more.

If the last of these,
that is,
the boulders,
drop,
and the chalice is found empty,
but the raindrop is full,
the endless ocean consuming each grain,
it’s done.

Pass ye, moments,
moments,
more.

Feel shallow delight
and lose the war.
Harrowing.
Harrowing.
Narrow path.
The razor teeth of destiny close,
and childish ways are finally lost.

But shallow delight
pursues you still.
Harrowing.
Harrowing.
Farrow field.
The seed of oak is gainfully sown.
So seasons come and gingerly go.

And shallow delight
by deathbed stands.
Harrowing.
Harrowing.
Arrow pierced.
A boy becomes a duty-bound man.
With seasons come and gingerly gone.

Watch,
observe,
the mind in pride —
It courts its own oblivion.
That sublime receptacle
of thoughts imbued,
would rather not
be quick inspired,
but does insist,
instead,
on novelty.

Yet when it thinks,
it thinks beyond those pure delights,
which Origin would gladly share,
should it but pause
(in silence, listen).
For all its grand designs,
the mind
remains
juxtaposed.
Its power bleeding,
fleeting,
and making the miracle,
mundane.

Distant gaze. Horrors of abyss, so bright, that blinding light, a bitter heat, comes searing through the skin and soul.

The cold.

Solar dragon, rush descent in time arrested, foreign legion’s charge, assault, and every living thing for miles is suffocated. Not a cell in waking bones can dream escape the cold.

Fear manifest. If death itself were climate’s mood, this mood, devoid of vigor, could not, would not rage, storm, strike.

It sleeps. Alone.

The cold.

As marble carved, forceful strikes reveal that image which sleeps dormant in sweet Adam’s core. Do bodies, soft and round, propel by time alone, to heights prescribed by fate and law? “No!” comes clear command, that thund’rous sounds. As fields of moisture part, thunder sounds. Each man must heed the voice, echoing, and wield his chisel and hammer, blow by blow, that law may reign supreme, and stewards be made, not born, of each.

Silent pressure of the ache.
Fold.
Gravity imposed,
unwilling flesh
and bones collapse,
such columns torn
and fractures laid.

Agony’s escape
is found in aches
and pains.
When pains are made
to dull the aches
dull aches
rise sharply,
sharply up.

Enough.

Bones unmade
are man remade.

Depict,
the icon,
treasure placed and hidden plain.
Can so vast infinity
reside in earthen vessels?
Earth.
When dust accumulated
contacts light,
the candle dims for fear of scorched terrain.

Mirror fold, reflect.
Tarnish, exposure,
corrode, decay.
So ‘ternal light is dulled,
exposed to air and fallen world.

Candle breathe,
and rage the fire.
Though it pains,
the fire cleanses, kills the stain.

Depict,
the icon,
treasure placed and image honed.
Earthen vessel whole.

Cold colossus
ancient silence,
rough hewn stones that bear the load.
Gaze;
the arch that opens thus,
it opens us.
Gaping maw of half-millenium,
flora fed with sanguine rain.

Speak,
generation’s creature cause.
The genus
generations caused.
Was hell a
worthy price to pay,
for heaven come to earth?

It was.

Swing, swing,
creaking ache of chain
it pivots.
Metal disk,
plummets from it’s first twin peak,
racing to the valley
swift.
So it carves its path through space.

Swing, swing,
silent aching echoes sing.
First a sound,
then two,
then three.
Multiply,
again, again.
As the mass
comes flying from the valley
up the jagged hill.

Swing, swing,
pendulum repeats,
retraced.
Eons motion,
metal disk divides the
cliff,
and deeper than that fabric
does no memory sit.

Come eon’s reign,
and throne appears.
Telos’ song.
Perfect fifths, sharp harmony of drums.

Unyielding force,
why,
swept away is man,
regarded as one
undone.

So terror strikes,
when overwhelming lakes of smoke
drown in their midst
a mind.

With mind undone
not a one
remains upright.

Ashen desert,
winter sun.
Ivory amalgam torn apart.
A long stretch,
narrow brick,
cobblestone.
Weathered ash on either side,
as the crimson orb is swallowed by a mountain range.
Faint bootprints
puncture the dust,
whisper a story.
Achilles,
Alexander,
Attila,
Napoleon.
Chronos claims his due in time.

Strings of fate
are severed by a rusty shear.
Time makes dust of every man.

R O S E S

The endless ether
traps,
consumes
those endless souls,
who darkly drifting,
floating,
glow an eerie glow.
Forget.\

Forget,
if for an eon more,
such beauty,
as subsumed by dark
and unforgiving realm,
would glow,
and only glow where none may see.
Repent.\

Repent.
The scent of roses, freshly severed,
sacrificed for your delight,
presents,
extends
sensation for a minute more.
Memento mori sung,
yet in the ether
minutes come and go.\

A birth.
A death.
A void.\

A soul adrift,
in chaos lost.
Panic,
battle,
self-destruct.
Destroy the self,
or self rebels
and so consumes the greater self.

Bloody hands.
The prison cuts,
splits,
tears,
cleaves.
An iron grip
is gently lost
and vict’ry found when self-control is gently lost.

Escape,
escape.
Leave the world,
cold,
still,
dead.
And find in death a greater world.

White swan,
arch and curve.
Crystal river,
flow and turn,
and swan will dance anew.

Cloud swan,
sleep and dream
a lullaby.
Crystal river,
freeze and crack,
and swan will dance again.

Gold swan,
feather twist,
fire,
storm and wind.
Ancient oak,
with branches grown,
that shade the swan like mist.

In winter’s endless slumber, cold and sweet,
when fires dim and short the day we meet,
I seek thee now, elusive shade, dim glow.
What terror brings the kiss of night’s first snow?

When blizzard’s blade and frost’s embrace converge,
sung melodies that carry dreams and urge,
I searched in vain, imprisoned by the moon.
Unchain me now, lost mem’ry, birth of June.

Now, mem’ry speak, if ever you did live.
My liberty, impart you now, and give
this wounded soul the warm embrace of day,
and let this tortured echo gently fade.

Smoke and fire silhouette,
where dreams so mired,
clothed in death,
will claw,
no, tear,
and seek revenge.

Passion,
poison,
raw regret,
never lost and always kept.
At once,
again,
the echoes thrum,
a horrid hum,
what bitter end.

If reverie
of purpose lost,
and dest’ny gone,
were such a place,
are such a place,
what of it?

It is,
in fact,
a just reward.

All salute
the storm’s approach.
Violent cracks and snaps
that split the clouds in two.
As pale blue scapes
turn dark and angry,
Zeus’ frenzy looms.

Tremble ye,
the fiery chariot
tears a gash into the firmament,
so that the heavens
will flood and pour
onto the earth.
Forty days and forty nights
Neptunes hands embrace the land
and sweetly hush the flame.

Beyond the weathered, granite walls,
and through the cold and moonlit halls.
A few more steps down spiral stairs.
Past countless doors and lights in pairs.

Adjacent to the marble Christ,
where open doors invite, entice.
There, tucked away, quite silent, sits
the poet, demonstráting whit.

A fountain pen pours, drenched in ink.
An empty cup which once held drink.
And in the gentle buzz of wine,
the poet writes a piece sublime.

In royal courts, adorned with golden wreaths,
the wealthy dance, and noble blood bequeaths. a lofty air of grace and comely turns,
yet deep below, the seed of envy churns.
These grand soirées, where wine and banquet meet
rouse blushing face, stoke fervor's discreet beat.
What once was chaste, nobility’s intent
has twisted thus the enemy, and bent.
So came the fall of God’s anointed men,
and further still they fell, again, again.
Yea, like their glor’ous castles crumble, fade,
thus, too, the world declines, in disarray.

So it has come. that I,
your Pride,
should now reside in a once pure heart.

Yes, vile the passion,
so I’m called,
in every soul,
my dwelling place.
This parasite,
spawn of its sire,
gives strength
(ere draining life, a stealthy theft).

Forget thee now,
somehow,
that I,
your Pride,
am demon born.

(Perhaps you will,
still,
let my corruption linger, uncontained?
Thus I may multiply.
Why,
my children could be quick to follow).

Consumption.
What violent force.
It feeds and grows
with life turned death.
Overwhelm and all-expunge,
ghostly demon,
rolling waves of liquid smoke.

Destruction.
Decay speaks voiceless tongues,
and hums in echoes
sent, not sought.
Uninvited visitor,
who overtakes and
causeless conquest brings.
Enough
is not enough.

Faux rebirth.
Endless feast.
Rote pageantry.
And with the ceremony so begun,
all beginnings die at once.

Enough is not enough.

Steep. is the path up the mountain,
treacherous the terrain.
Long is the trek,
each step a testament to toil and time.

Jagged the cliff,
where mist,
like wraiths,
twines chill around your weary bones.

Breathing the clouds,
each plume,
like smoke,
escaping unforgiving stone.

Yet zenith beckons
“climb,” the call.
Yield the command.
The march concludes where earth meets sky.

This back was made for burdens.
When life’s sweet kiss
would beckon me,
“come hither”
says her voice;
that gentle call.
But this back was made for burdens.

Compelled I am,
sweat,
strain,
strife.
Nothing left undone.
Such calloused hands
and sun-tanned skin,
no man has ever known.

But this back was made for burdens.

And if I even thought of rest,
the thought would wither,
a wilted leaf in late November.
Yes,
lessons earned are lessons learned.
This back was made for burdens.

Perish thunder,
fallen flame.
Magnificence and perfect form,
yet dark,
corrupt,
turns fallen flame.

Part the clouds.
Embrace abyss.
When lightning’s shape
and red-hot crack
did plummet,
plummet,
further still
t’wards the abyss.

Agony, agony,
and bitter shame.
The mighty prince
turned lowly slave,
must dwell now,
thus,
in bitter shame.

With bones so cleaved and shattered, iv’ry sung,
where flesh is turned and soul is rend in two,
so man is quick transformed and made anew,
and transformation true, at last, begun.
By blood and rivers fresh that bounty runs.
Yea, blinding flame descends and spirit flew,
Theanthropos become and dest’ny grew,
and glory burning bright, akin to the sun.
Shout, lo, behold the martyr's glory crowned.
All sense released for senselessness made pure.
Smoke risen so brought down the thunderous shout:
"Let sacrifice and brass intent abound,
that heaven's prize and form of God be sure."
Thus spoke supreme authority from cloud.
And with his dying breath the martyr fell,
to shouts of lamentation come from hell.

Iron chords,
bound in threads,
trap and cage a gentle heart.
Modern mythos,
demon’s lies,
twine like python’s brood.

Venom serpent,
soundless slither,
gags the hostage.
Dark parallel;
sweet Zechariah’s
muted screams.
A mute can’t scream.

And if he waits too long,
it seems,
his voice will die in whole.

Charcoal prison,
twilight song,
gentle passing, violent dreams,
at last, are not becoming of
a somber, marching melody.

Long forgotten
ancient ruin,
overgrown,
and yet, while memory does drown
and fade in unforgiving dance,
the trace,
eternal,
won’t erase from thoughts unthought
and corpse undead.

But corpses are,
indeed,
our dead.
And should the dense
and dark terrain
reclaim
that dust material for now,
until it be required,
it serves a better purpose yet,
than when it was abused.

photo by Michel Rohner

Bitter beauty, hum.

Cold caress, the sun.

Rage and rancor, run.

Death’s delight is done.

As daybreak’s gleam
swells low to high,
the coliseum calls.
Where footprints carved,
ten inches deep,
so mark the ancient trench.
With prayer on my lips, I move
raw combat in the cave.

And then the shot.

A fiery spear,
unheard, unseen,
cuts marrow from my side.
It rips and tears,
beast slicing flesh,
igniting bone.
The soldier trains
to crush in war,
yet training crushed me more.

It robbed my breath,
my speech,
my stride.
Achilles fell,
and purpose left my mind in whole.

But every time
the enemy dares launch attack
his dark intent exposes thus.
With pain comes thought,
and thought brings
light.
The soldier
bears the wisdom of experience.
The body heals.

It’s the soul that needs mending.

Slowly comes
the silent doubt.
Gentle pressure holds.
Ravenous,
without remorse,
the spider weaves its
silken threads to
trap what courage
thoughts behold.

Nearly insidious,
the growth.
When poison ivy
chokes and weaves
up marble columns,
tall and proud,
then rot infects,
infests.

Bear the pressure.
Build the pressure.

A grim shadow
falls over the world.
Dark, sunken eyes,
sulking through the streets and alleys,
fixate on me in mindless hunger.
The faces that don them,
lifeless.
Dread and terror hidden under a flimsy veil,
and I would be hard pressed to. know the difference
between these walking dead,
and the spirits of Gehenna.

What heartache tragedy,
the cup of life is dead to these,
and would the King of kings
appear to them in blinding light,
a pill or two
would hush that flame,
and quick resume the night.

In distant corners,
hidden thus,
where once perhaps,
an eon hence,
such voices' harmony would call,
the choking silence
makes its home.

No more do grandiose abodes
with twisting spires,
lavish doors,
and hearth ablaze
the landscape form,
but find instead
the ancient claim
of ancient oak
alive
in choking silence stand.

Yea, stewards born
are slavers made.
And those,
who placed in care of them,
quick turned to
rotten ash and dust.
Would, thus,
perhaps the King of all
reclaim his claim,
and choking silence punish those?

When flood solaris,
cleansing storm,
removes, at last,
the last of one,
what dread defense
will stewards make
with choking silence come again?

photo by Nikki

When aching dirge carves trenches deep,
and labyrinth of moss and smoke
more flesh for pure consumption seeks,
a ghostly candle’s whisper spoke.

Dark labyrinth of moss and smoke
sends forth the crimson specter thus.
A ghostly candle’s whisper spoke,
and lured with siren song of lust.

Send forth the crimson specter thus,
that wanderer may stumble, wisp
has lured with siren song of lust.
Where souls are lost in phantom mist.

A wanderer may stumble. Wisp,
infernal blaze in eerie chant,
where souls are lost in phantom mist,
would paint in flaming strokes a dance.

Infernal blaze in eerie chant
has captured once again a man.
Through paint in flaming strokes and dance,
where Adam’s sin at first began.

And captured, once again a man
fell prey to hungry will-o-wisp.
Where Adam’s sin at first began,
his iv’ry prison, flame abyss.

Fell prey, O hungry will-o-wisp,
more flesh for pure consumption seek.
Man’s iv’ry prison, flame abyss,
when aching dirge carves trenches deep.

photo by Whitney River

Monster of monsters,
specter and sprite,
charcoal soul,
you lack of soul.
Why, beauty sought
yields horror.
You poison trap,
crafted by your master’s hand,
insidious that venom cold.

Endless prison,
towering,
speaks not, but babbles.
Scrambled spirit,
ghost of Babel.
Tragedy,
since man has quick forgot,
what punishment almighty hands
an age ago
deemed fit for him.

Rise,
dark gargoyle,
ready the hunt.
Chips of stone
are airborne yet.
Clamber and follow,
for laid to sleep is man,
that your crimson eyes,
dark cuts in deep grooves,
may seek him out,
devouring in crawling time
his soul.

Fear raging storms that crush and tear the dark
and split the firmament. Fear angels felled
when Revelation comes revealed and man
steps, risen from Gehenna’s tomb.
What tomb?
No, surely speech is silenced on the thought
of that domain, that emptied cell or cave.
Man’s speech, or maybe better yet, that Man,
who’s Speech, pure Mind, pure Word, would frighten you,
that thoughts of things unthought would cease.
Find peace.
Apocalypse, and dreams that woke that sweet,
beloved man, disciple, him who wept.
Apocalypse, that bitter, frightful sight.
Once seen, but called by destiny to be
yet seen again, and woe the man asleep.
Fear raging storms that crush and tear:
The dark.

Hail,
sweet agony,
kind to man.
Morpheus begets my pain.
Let be,
so let it be.
That nine more hours
pour into me.
Senseless slumber,
shadowed cold,
make it well within my soul.
Calm excursion,
phantom fight,
wake me with the morning light.

Candle,
dance and turn,
as ghostly breezes move you.
Incense spirals,
trail and rise
and break from earth to heaven.
Textured pages,
turn and speak,
a speaker turns the pages.
Icon, image,
glow that glow,
impart your sacred message.

Prayer,
chant,
rhythmic dance,
voice that weaves and stumbles.
“Give me peace,”
I beg,
“command my soul to answer.”

In the dead of night,
when the moon has sunk through the horizon,
nocturnal animals cry in the distance.
Their echoes roll
through valleys and hills,
caress my ears,
and fill my mind with dreams undreamt.
Dreams of glory.
Dreams of death.
Dreams that haunt my waking hours.

And if I’m not careful then,
these newfound dreams
will leave me lost.
The labyrinth of charcoal wall
eternal energies entraps.

So though my mind
is wide awake,
I force my body into sleep,
remembering that
he who owns the night,
would rather I never see another day.

Alabaster,
winter white,
a pale blue sky
glows like marble.
That soft,
pure light,
radiant and yet
hardly a soul has noticed.
I bathe in the inverse prism.
Colors coalesce,
and the sun,
immaculate,
meets my gaze.

Translucent, dusty tendrils,
easing up a chimney.
Mahogany
snaps and splits,
by florid tongues consumed.

What stony cage with ease contains,
a raging, roaring beast,
and makes timid
that sun-striped tiger?
For passion bound
is purpose made.
And much like man was purpose made,
so, too,
the beast,
once fearsome,
rose boldly,
taller within granite walls.

Purge the mountain.
Grind it down.
Rocks to dust, terrain is haunted.
Mighty is man. Mighty his towns.

Grind it down.
Carve a way.
Mighty is man. Mighty his towns.
Soulless creature, born of clay.

Carve a way.
Man has made the earth his slave.
Soulless creature, born of clay.
Short dominion, long the grave.

Man has made the earth his slave,
and has become a slave to tools.
Short dominion, long the grave.
Kill the world.

He has become a slave to tools.
Rocks to dust, terrain is haunted.
Kill the world.
Purge the mountain.

Woe to the cohesive form.
Woe to him who crafts it.
The ghost of man
declareth war
on shapes immortal,
and dares no more
to shape something
immortal.

Woe to harmony, et al.
Woe to master craftsmen.
If beauty’s breath be felt,
and sight of her,
delicate,
be seen,
the vicious anger of the mob
will put swift end
to steady song.

Woe to trace of Him divine.
Woe to those who seek it.
Towers, spires, iconostas.
Where beauty rests,
the ancient Spirit sings
and barren trees bear fruit.
And once again,
the cup of life,
clandestine.

Quiet corners,
quiv’ring hours,
the creature stirs.
Its dirge commands a harmony
of bitter,
bated,
faceless haunts.

Distorted lens,
the inkwell spills
a twisted prism,
casts, reflects a mangled monster,
cold chimera,
stitched in shadows,
and speaks to me
blood whispers sung.

I turn and face
chimera’s screams.
Its gargled voice
no voice at all.
And if it seems
chimera won,
know, life moves on—
and so do I.

Silent beacon,
tender flame,
make my heart your home.
Fragile candle,
care I take,
to let no gust blow out.

And may not even
turbulence,
chaotic world,
disturb your sleep this night.

Thus,
vigilant and iron willed,
I guard.

Day by day,
burn away,
and grow,
sweet light,
uncovered.

A gray,
formless lump of iron
is heaved out of the mud.
Cold,
hard,
shapeless,
it rests in a mahogany cart,
driving punctures and dents into the wood.

For days
it travels
narrow roads that lead
to the flaming forge.
Scalding tongues
of crimson blood
caress and tease the iron.

Then, consumption.
The iron is subsumed by fire,
heat and pressure
dig and claw.
A chorus of steam,
the iron screams.
The fabric
of its being torn apart,
rivers of its scalded body
flow like blood from a deep gash.

But yet,
there guides eternal vision.
The smith,
wielding his two-ton hammer,
slams,
pounds,
bends,
twists,
folding the iron.
Endless repetitions,
heat, pressure, heat, pressure,
until what once was shapeless,
is guided by his expert hand
to new form.

A good woman is hard to find
and more precious than diamonds.
For what is man alone,
except alone.
His toil in vain,
his sweat a waste,
it drips on
cold,
unfeeling stone.

Pray,
turn arid plains to verdant fields
and by the vivifying waters,
let life spring forth.
Flesh of his flesh.
Bone of his bone.
It is not good
that man should be alone.

Does the soul, swathed in silken strands
of endless reprieve,
awaken clear, or in quiet surrender,
die?

When man resides near tranquil lakes,
and summers much on placid shores,
what pressure builds,
if any at all?

So venture forth.
Like St. Anthony,
seek arid wastes
where the scalding sun
and shifting sands
summon yet
the dormant strength.

Succumb not
to the sweet mirage,
dancing
in the shimmer of the sun.

Fingers dance
with knotted threads.
A labored breath,
expelling misty plumes of warmth
in the glacial morning.
Rhythm of rhythms;
beating heart
a hushed echo
of the chant's refrain.
And the metronome
keeping count for
all of it.

In silent orison,
I pray.

Quiet morning,
chilled the air,
warm the heart and blood.
Weathered pages,
margins crammed,
warm the soul of man.
Bread and life,
Bread of life,
Word so old yet ageless.
Nurture him
All-nurturing,
that narrow path make stainless.

Whisper, whisper,
dark and sweet.
Shape elusive
echoes deep.
Sound that urges,
aches,
commands,
with pressure formed by pressure’s hands.

Whisper, whisper,
shame or pride.
Summon shadows,
stand beside.
Bend your voice
to twist my soul,
and rend from me my mind’s control.

Whisper, whisper,
scream and shout.
Raw resistance,
breaking out.
Draw my blood,
I taint your hue.
Give war for war, the blade runs through.

Whisper gone.
The echo dead.
Crumble walls of old regret.
Purge the ground,
then seeds renew.
Bathe in morning’s gentle dew.
Melodies of seraphs hum.
Fill my heart,
O ancient song.

Sweet,
terrible loss.
When expectations rend from us
what little peace that
light bestows.
Finite sense,
how long must wait
our finite sense,
and wish inferno,
forest fire,
sends up smoke like
fine incense.

Cast away your agony,
but first you must
embrace it still.
Hard the hammer.
Hard the blows.
Weapons forged
are iron pressed.

Great shame,
they beg salvation
in the wake of selfish acts.
Cowardice,
emboldened by a sense of might,
that nameless sin incurs
the wrath of Him most merciful.
When men turned beasts,
sell blood for gain.
Green venom,
envy,
and killers made of blameless hearts.
Not fourth,
not fifth,
not sixth,
but ninth, the circle.

Beware the serpent
hiding in his tepid cage.
Bleached bones piling.
A mountain of death.

Beware his fangs;
One single drop of venom
rolling down that curved,
ice dagger.

Beware his eyes.
Dark black slits
from deep green orbs,
they tear they air.
They watch.

Beware his whisper
in the wind.
Deceitful song,
sweetly sung.
He’s drawing souls
to shadowed courts.
And once the gate is shut in full,
a torch burns of its own accord,
and woe the soul that stopped,
and listened to that melody.

It finds itself,
surrounded by
and swallowed in
a place unfound.

If man would drink that cup from which,
with trembling lips,
he draws pure life,
his tongue,
numb,
will jerk and twitch,
and make too real
that image.
Death’s cold sting
would rock and swing,
and life proceed from death
so quick,
that man must cease his sinning.

Levy your law on me, O Lord.
Give me constraints.
Do not allow me to move by the whims of my heart,
for it is deceitful. Cover me in your commandments.
Like a Father to His son,
speak, and I will obey.
Some will despise Your ordinances,
But I know that the walls
do not keep me in.
They keep the enemy out.

Patience.
The well is dug,
stone by stone.
Hurry does increase delay,
and grows the burden manifold.
The man who rushes,
rushes towards his end.
Yet every step
taken with intention,
treads like His feet
on the water.
The hand of guidance
guides the hand.
If God be in your work,
and yet more in your thoughts,
the tree
that once was felled by Him
will bloom an eon more.

As the sun rises,
I rise with it.
The frigid morning makes stiff muscles slow to move.
But yet I move.
Sunlight, prayer, coffee,
I follow a routine refined over years of waging battle.
Battle against myself, my comfort.
The enemy does not sleep,
so I can hardly afford more minutes in bed.
Its siren song beckons me,
but the slow chanting of my morning prayer is ever so slightly louder,
and with each passing moment, victory becomes more certain,
until return to bed is impossible.
I’m awake.

A lone fire blazes,
birthed from ether.
[It burns.]

Man, that enigma,
cradled by nature's hand,
summoned by God,
life's breath animates.
Ember or flame,
light of storm,
it singes the fabric of his clothes.
It chews at his skin.
It chars his hair.
It hungers, hungers, bone to bone.
[It burns hotter.]

It bites his flesh,
ravenous teeth,
like the Lion of Judah,
it grazes his bones.
It torches his lungs.
[It burns hotter.]

Marked among many,
he carries the flame.
It consumes his mind,
having found its fuel.
It rules his soul,
and does compel the flesh at once
to charge ahead,
a hundred,
two hundred,
three hundred miles an hour.
A leviathan of steel.
A train unstoppable.
White-hot steam escapes in bursts,
and mounts of spent coal, discarded.
[It burns cold.]

A speck of flame lingers, barely an ember,
whispers of smoke.
The breath of God does not subsume his being;
it merely keeps him warm.

In the depths of my mind
there resides a voice.
Quiet.
Meek.
Still.
It urges me.
‘Do not delay,’ it whispers.
‘Time is short,
and you have work which needs attending.’

Beyond the heft of lead and stone,
there lies the glory man demands.
But can he lift such weight alone,
and conquer it with calloused hands?

If man himself had strength to spare,
and power by his might and will,
would God supply His grace and care,
or would His voice at once be still?

From the dirt and dust and ash,
when God’s world was young and pure,
did the same shape and craft what appeared at first to be man.

His head, his hair, his heart, his lungs
filled with the spirit of the ancient God,
all formed in perfect care,
and perfectly made not for things below,
but for a calling holy.

And he blinked the specks of grime and soil from his eyes,
his delicate hands wiping the debris off his skin,
his feet set firmly on the earth,
his soul rooted in divine purpose.

He was man.

But can we say that man was man,
when man from the beginning wasn’t man enough?
For he was never man, but rather man to be,
and had it not been for God made man, could man have truly been man at all?