The Tree of Life sculpture by Alfred Preis at the Pearl Harbor Memorial in Honolulu, Hawaii.
Within the blackness of the night His body lies at rest Alone within His catacomb, amidst the quiet chill His skin is pale and bled of life, no air’s within His chest He lies in state, forsook by God, within the lonely hill She weeps within the waning night, alone before the morn When death …
Hell lies and fucks between Man's randy mind and Heaven's sunken pits; death begetting death.
Joy is birthed on the bloodied edge of sorrow's scythe; for death is life's only sine qua non and darkness its sole necessity.
Perhaps the greatest faculty our minds possess is the ability to cope with pain.
I've lost the language I've always known.
Poetry that is timeless is inevitably lyrical. If it does not sing - if it does not move - if it does not engage the soul - than it is simply dead wind; a fart drifting amidst the rotting leaves.
I slip into the murk of tumbled, troubled minds Encased within the womb of Darkness’ chilling hands My eyes are hazed, enclouded by confusing fogs My arms lie limp along my frozen frame Dirtied, blackened snow impedes my quaking legs Mischieved, unseen phalanges play my heart - arrhythmic tunes Filtered thoughts assault my inner sight, …