Poetry

Black soot ferments
Deep within the grounds
From which rises the depths
Proportionate to the horror
Of an internal spectator
 
Personal tragedy:
Raging against the unconquerable
By duty
By essence
 
Rail the box car over the tracks
And fall it will
But to stay on the tracks is a path to hell
So fire and brimstone
Against which none can avail
Only ease the suffering of lonely stagnation
 
Of intrepid intimation
Of that with which there is no intimacy
Like lightening that illuminates the night
In which emptiness rides essential
 
We are gathered here today
To pay homage to the Holy Nothing
The blank slate of immortal change
That resounds like rapids
Against the expectations of a more permanent time
 
A flow that breaks is the work of cowards
Torrential rain comes to me
To batter my soul
As a black rose attempts to grow
At least to be a battered ram
That maybe to one could show
That blooming is not only the martyr’s dream
But that the martyr is the conscious failure
Awareness that knows of the intimate
But has taken the wrong path
A path requiring courage
This Awareness did not have
 
So I drift away into chaos
For divine order is only a shadow
A pulsating wound
From where flesh was gaped open
On a sense of trust
That left me soul broken