Poetry: 'Untitled'

One who floats atop ideal
adjusts their depth of field.
And, in focusing on "what is best,"
detests, then all that's real.
To them, who hover high above,
suggesting "what is best,"
I'd suggest
they spend some time
inside the minds
of their oppressed.

Poetry: 'Bane'

There is a poison that's inside me;
It gambols through my veins.
There is a demon that resides here;
whose name I will not speak.
Its hunger is esurient.
It preys upon the weak;
a decomposer of the loathsome
Prosedom built atop the meek - bedraggled bedrock
so bedeviled
by beliefs and all they wreak.
There is a sickness sits beside me.
It whispers in my ear
a dirty tale and fare thee well,
a hallow gale that sweeps the trail
before the gate of Heaven-Hell.
It chews the sinew: "Flesh for sale!"
The sinner, sometimes saint.
The solution, and complaint.
The Great Devourer of the Hours
feasts upon my brain,
and so I thank It for reviving
what's left of me that's sane.
It's a light that casts Its shadows
on the fallow of my soul.
Where what is warmed is found around
where what is cold has taken hold -
It is a fount within which echoes,
"Time itself is growing old."
A weathered well with naught to bale
but banal tales and empty shells;
this devil will not rest.
This darkness in my chest
is but a season come to cycle;
a crimson blossom come to bloom.
For even poison runs it's course,
and all that's reasoned or presumed,
and all that's fixed or finely tuned
is finally churned.
All Life interned,
in turn, will earn
a timely tomb.