Dancing on a sword

 as the tarnished copper

ripples in the flowing gown

as lights line the pool

at the foot of the obelisk

as they are counted four hundred

for every thousand death

from this modern pestilence

as life folds itself in mundane

existence and is tucked in

by time's extraordinary hands

as the sun sets on devastating

disrespect and disruption

for dawn to rise on greater hope

as the world seems to be turning

a page in history with the next day

we are all dancing on a sword

we have always been dancing on a sword

and we will always be dancing on a sword

Should've, would've, could've

 my should've is a vine

slithering through my gut

when I heard you had 

spoken your last words

your feet were so pale and cold

when you took those first steps

into the dark

I want to grab your hand still

when I could've when we were still

so stupid, so misshapen, so weak

and so ready to bite into it all

I should've when we were alone

and stolen away to lay out 

in front of the starry abyss

on our backs on the trampoline

in the shadow of the house at night

where we could've watched the lights 

dance through the seasons

and where we could've poured out

all our troubles into those starry depths

as our heads laid ear to ear

listening so gently 

as the sandhills exhaled in the distance

I should've brought you out into those hills

and held your arms while you let your rage

explode from your mouth

perhaps your tears could've formed a sea

and I would've swam its waves with you

I could've been a reason for you to stay

hoping that I would've been enough

to keep your pale cold feet from taking those

steps into the dark

I should've grabbed your hand back then

when, when I could've

The longest night

 it's always Christmastime on the streets

the flashing red and green

on cold wet pavement

await the arrival of passing sleighs

full of presents going somewhere else

for someone else

yet spirits are merry

in the bottom of bottles

or rolled dollar bills

and magic's in the air

between puffs of smoke

and little crushed pills

but the needles don't sew

or mend worn out coats

flames flicker in makeshift hearths

to warm frozen hands

the warm glow keeping

the longest night at bay

until slumber calls

and the dreamer is tucked in

fresh fallen snow

a blanket to hush the harsh words

of the bitter northern wind

How will you use my bones

I've left them behind

whether I've forgotten them

or left them on purpose 

is for you to decide

but they're there

buried deep inside of you

not inside any soiled grave

or carved stone tomb

I gifted them to you

before you were born

whether they're a burdened curse

or blessed legacy 

is for you to decide

but they're there 

dancing deep inside

they can build ladders 

on which you can climb

to other times beyond plagues

they can be planted and grow forests

in which you can lose yourself in

away from disillusionment and tyrants

they can be used to beat drums

to revive the heartbeat inside this world

that is fading from all of our ears

they can build bridges that were always there

but just were hidden in a fog of difference 

they can be struck and ignite

and burn so very hot within

until they engulf not only you but it all

they can do most anything 

as they came from everyone that came before

but how you will use my bones

is for you to decide

Thieves in the night

 those who linger from the skies

angels of old who

bathe in both truth and lies

their eyes that freeze the soul

that steal the air and sound

in midnight lights 

and sights words fumble with

their chariots are the same 

that forgotten gods crashed

into the earth

the same that gave birth

to heavenly ascensions

and countless faces never found

after being printed on milk cartons

the stolen lives and celestial bribes

that crowns have banked

to say who exactly gets into heaven

heaven, they may name it

yet fires burn there in dark skies

these fires that know not no

will accept only their bidding

these wingless gods who fly

surely they know what's best

let time be the blade to their throats

let that be the test

Mask of cruelty

 cruelty grins

behind a mask of status

it gathers it children

unto itself

pacifying them with ideas

of independence and wealth

it leads them with a hollow carrot

pulled from its own barren garden

letting them play underneath

the suspended root

while holding a rusty cage

behind its back

a cage where it stores

the hearts of promise, generosity, and decency

from behind its crimson robes

stained with the bleeding poor it treads upon

it hides a withering frame 

of which is sustained by the attention 

of the hordes entertained by 

that hollow golden carrot

cruelty can only feed upon such recognition

it can only hide behind the glamor of wealth

and the idea that one can be completely free

from the rest in this life

without this fuel it would be exposed

stripped of its crimson clothing

and shown as the wretched coward

that it is

The fourth

 two elders sat playing chess

they knew in order for one to win

one of their kings would have to die

the goal in playing power

the role to play in order to devour

only one king will remain

only one king will have the say

and in this victory of the game

the board is left in a gory mess

with swords ran through rooks

decapitated knights and pawns

and even bishops and queens

lacquering the wood with blood

and what would be left of the court 

for the newly ruling king

would he have dismembered hands

serve him his chalice of wine

would drained torsos bow at his whim

and bring him tidings from his allies

what allies would come to him with open hands

and not bearing daggers behind their backs

for it all was a filthy battle fought

by the strategizing hands of the elders

who whispered dark and deadly words

into the ears of their pieces

and to all those who would eat up their lies

these foreign elders playing their game

on a land not of their own footsteps

but a land at least one of them would 

gladly have a remaining king rule

alas not even a village-sized blanket

could sop up all the victor's drool

Samhain man

  the elder of late October

wears robes of silver thistle leaves

with a serpentine gourd vine

tied round his bony waist

he's crowned with bare branches

that shade his long locks

of crimson amaranthine hair

his skin is course and crackled bark

of which lichens are akin to

his dark vacant eyes are chasms

one can fall into if not careful

while his grin is as sharp

as the first frosts in the 

presence of the dawn

he carries with him all the fruits

that have fallen, forgotten and not foraged

these are his orphaned children 

he comes to collect each year

to carry them safely into the long night of the year

but parents be wary to not leave 

your own children under the arms

of a tree with showering leaves 

or else along with the discarded fruit

they too will be carried off

by the elder of late October

Copper's weight

 the grave sings the same song

as the green woman by the sea

it eagerly calls to the tired and poor

it laps on the shores of huddles masses

yearning for freedom as icy waves

of northern waters lick ships in the night

it hungers for the wretched refuse

the homeless is its favorite target

and the tempest tossed, well they

are one of its greatest temptations

but that green woman by the sea

she possibly hides wings under her robe

for her song is one of deliverance

while the grave hymns indulgence

 each song pulls greatly on the human soul

one strumming the strings of fear

the other the chords of love

yet the notes mingle in the ear

but each distinctive melody rings clear

and each step must decide their way

and what another's life is worth

weighing the green woman's copper

against a bed of cold damp earth

Confirmation

in the steps one takes to the sea

those taken back to forgotten fins

and amoebas dreaming of the sky

time's hands momentarily pause

to tock their ticks and to count

a dozen or two down to one last second

this second when we watch Nero

beckon for Caligula's resurrection

the tears that will be shed will be

the blood of so many yet to come

spilled out on the pavement 

where barren lands give birth

to skin draped skeletons

these forgotten children

whom angels have abandoned

will only thirst for neglect

and only hunger for shadows

that hide them from themselves

they will wander through lies

that bellow forth from behind columns

and take flight in ravenous crows

these devious tempests will toss

Eden's offspring into the abyss

as Caligula's horrific glory

shines down from obelisk heights

Nero will be but a memory in

the geoluread dust contaminating 

the air and adulterating breath

stifling of the cries for justice will be

taken in the wind away from the asshats

that gobble their grisly suppers before

the horrific glory of the now risen Caligula

one by one truths will turn to stone

waiting their turns to be pulverized

by the scepter of Caligula's tongue

one by one every answer will be questioned

every star will fall from its celestial space

every tree shall fall, every speech will go unspoken

until darkness and silence shall robe Caligula

and strip Eden's offspring of everything