Goddamned answers
Are we all different versions of Job? I thought the wages of sin were death, but from where I'm sitting, it looks like we're the wagers and sin is how we make our wages, with death inevitable no matter how we live.
I've done a decent job with the Commandments, not because You said so, but because it's what decent folk do.
I’ve noticed the fastest way to get decent folk to behave indecently is invoke Your Name.
So tell me, am I Abraham or Isaac, because I'd rather be the one holding the knife if I have a choice.
The Irish Child
The Irish Child gathered rocks to fling at the English soldiers in the streets of Belfast.
Fire, from molotov cocktails made from bottles filled with petrol, launched at tanks rattling in the streets.
The Irish Child only knew war, not caring about political affiliations or even the reasons why.
Or even knowing anything about the conflict itself, only that his parent's were against the soldiers, and he would protect them with his life.
The Irish Child grew a scatterwag in the streets, banging bin lids in cobblestone street at the approach of soldiers.
Burning bottle, rock, glass, wood and finally bullet, though that was a game the adults played. The deadliest game of all.
Vale the Irish Child, weep the Irish child,
Cry for innocence, all for the Irish child.
Ode to Mine Blocker
oh blocker of me
what wrath hath mine words
encumbered upon thee
that mine presence should render
invalid thy glee
was it chiding thy stories
as cheap gilded pee
or razzing thy poems
with wow golly gee
oh blocker of me
regardless thy cause
henceforth thou art free
to post AI scat which
i shan't ever see
now harness thy tech
thou most wretched wannabe
12/9/2024
Poetry in the Dark
Writing poetry in the dark
as I wait for you.
Courting lights as they rush by,
wishing I was enough for you.
You're searching always for more,
trying to fill a void in you.
All that you try and fill it with,
makes the empty grow in you.
There is so much you refuse to know,
shoving down the truth in you.
It’s so hard to watch you fall,
seeing what I see in you.
I love you enough to fight,
enough to shed a tear for you.
I know with you there is no forever,
but I’m grateful for my time with you.
Human Prey
I came in from the eastern side of the Rocky Mountains
Through blizzards and savage animals called humans
They tried to kill me for my food
And I outfoxed them all
Some froze to death trying to overcome me
In deep snow drifts
Others starved themselves trying to take my food
I crossed great empty deserted desert plains
And wandered across rivers big
Streams and lakes I crossed fluid
Some frozen hard
Wretched winds blew against my cold uncovered face
And would have gotten frostbite if it weren’t for my furs
Beaver, mink and fox
The wolf I wouldn’t kill, it became my only friend
Even from a distance he kept me company
As I’d sit around a 14,000 foot elevation fire
Smoking tobacco and drinking salvaged whiskey
From unattended camps
Staying far away from man’s cities and roads
As best as I could
The wolf would come and peer at me through the dark
As I warmed around my fire
His yellow eyes reflecting wanting a piece of me
Or my meal
Of killed grouse or deer
Which I’d share with him and his mate
The she wolf staying clear
The pair would follow me for miles
And then drop off when I’d leave the boundaries
Of their territories
To the eastern edge of the mighty Sierra Nevada
I came
Looked at it’s dry and deadly peaks
In the midst of August its killer heat
Formidable but I’d find a pass in dead of night
A speck in feared Man’s horizon
A bullet whizzed over my head
I jumped for cover in the brush
My heart beating fast and hard
Another hit a patch by my feet
I lost my care and jumped up and ran
Through the dark and cold altitude night
He or they pursued me up
Until I fell into a gulch
I waited and could hear the approach
Of this specter assassin of who knows where
I could smell his sweat as he came close
Hear his breathing near the edge
I grabbed my Wesson and aimed at him
With starlight and dim fingernail of moon
His shadow couldn’t catch my sight
Shot his head and shadow fell
I grabbed my self and picked me up
Crawled and trudged over there
Feeling in the dark with none else there
But the form, the corpse of him
Who would have killed me for who knows what
He lay there faceless, smelled of death
Didn’t bother trying who it was
Simply grabbed his rifle
And threw it down
The dark chasm of the gulch I’d been
Heard it tumble crack and drown
In the hole that saved me from
A stalker, human man
Hunting me like I were a dog
On and on through the night
I found my way far from that sight
My heart was beating from the pain
Of having killed one like me
Yet feeling glad I’d left his stain
There on the ridge to keep
His flesh for wolves and bones to bleach
Signpost scattered murderous remains
Under the heavens as the mark of Cain
And further proof of my plight of run
From enemy man whose ways I’ve spurned
The Problems of Witches
One of my hobbies is astral projection, meditating, magic and the like. But, recently I haven't been able to do this because I've been losing track of reality, again. This started during a time of forced isolation. It was part of my training in magic but... well... it went on longer than it should've and I started going insane. I hear voices and see things. They um, are sometimes real and at other times figments of my imagination. I test them. I ask them things I don't know the answer to. Sometimes they get flustered and begin arguing with me. At other times they answet with a question. And still more often, I convince myself that my mind could come up with that answer on its own. It probably can too. The mind has power.
I have thought about giving up all together, but I've had so many experiences which brought me back from the edge and I know forcing my brain to think without arguing with itself is pretty useless, so I don't. I just sort of wait until I have a time where I can't sense things at the edges of the subconscious. I wait until I know the earth is holding me firm. Even so, I get lost. I loose track of time. I loose track of sleep. I mix dreams and reality. I mix characters in books with Gods, demons and the people I see in front of me. I am supposed to be a witch. I am supposed to have fun near Halloween. All that happened this year with the parting of the veil was me having to delegate more energy to keeping up my mental barriers. I can't have random spirits contacting me in the middle of school, it's just not practical. So here I am, a magician, set to graduate top of their class who can't tell if they imagined every piece of magic they've ever done.
Stomped out ash
Stifled, burning embers extinguished, spark-less, lifeless and caged
We wither away, rotting, rotting like we too are being consumed
By more than what life has thrown, by a society igniting matches
Then shouting down that we burn too brightly, stomp him out, make her cease
Fire that cannot be controlled shall be removed, taken elsewhere
To burn through centuries of kindling in far away places
And the government, they hope the smoke never seeps home
That all that remains is dust, stomped down so deep we forget what it felt like
To briefly be burning, alight, consumed by more than cast away decay
But even specks sparkle in sunlight, if the wind wafts in just right
We may float, illuminated by the source of all heat
Remembering what we could be, before the boot crushed us beneath it.
Ashes to ashes, flame begets flame, suppressing fires only makes the burn
Uncontrolled, unceasing like how one may yearn
Simply to live untethered to social niceties, to clocks
That yield and rank us too much, always creating shocks
At how young a fire can be, how kindling doesn’t need a century’s suppression
As youth carries with it one’s first oppression, the boot’s first footprint.
To say that this thing, this beast, this dark force, a shadow lurking in every darkness was older than time would not be accurate. Before time, there was not a before. Yet, the Old Soul exists there. Time has a beginning. Perhaps it will have an end and yet another beginning, but the beast does not care. For it exists separated from time.
In the absence of anything, it thrives. It tries to breach our world, to drive mankind to a sort of madness. Just try to imagine an atheistic afterlife. Thinking of nothing brings you closest to shadow, to darkness. Those who think too hard on the topic graze the fringes of this Old Soul, this beast. They touch madness and are driven, in pain, toward it. The Old Soul consumes a part of them.
It can touch, only, the things that have no substance. It is infinite, because there is no infinity. It is silence and stillness. It is emptiness and abyss. It feeds on the lonely and lost for their lack of a thing. Every outline encircles it, and every blank stare pulls at it, bringing it closer to reality.
To fight this Old Soul, the only thing one can do is fill their life with as much substance as they can. One day, despite it all, the Old Soul comes, and it will not consume you, but will thrive on the lack of you. So, weaken it. Fight it with love and music, and your favourite things. Keeping yourself occupied feeds it with neglect. It will be satiated until the day it is not. Such is life, to an Old Soul.