Again And Again

Rising

 

Monks that chanted clung to bells that firmly standeth

With such clamor, forced with swinging, and a ringing no longer cometh dreams of angels singing

So the hissing sickle to the wheat and the servants that did plead

A harvest that was promised now a hallmark mephitic an alarmed

Signifying the delusion of mass conformity’s inclusion

And with a pair of eyes upon that old unquestioned effigy, I sat at the corner of cathedrals planted and blurring into perigee

 

Falling

 

Beneath the beaten path of stamped hooves above the dirt and grass, your days are like years and my years your days—the drying mud the roof of graves

To delay the drapery of the mantle, the maiden in her crimson garb did handle such trembling hands as sunbeams kissed her broken fingers

Inside the fortress where thine Superman lay dead, in a tomb, a cold deep abyss never ending with its rearing head

Beheld the dawn galloped through the foggy wall, and so the voices that once kept you and rendered you at all, supposed a treatise begging for you once for all

 

Pulling Up

 

The son would not die, despite the three day bite of the cold breath of winter, and the father had sent three kings to ensure the success of life but with a sigh

And so I set out and descended aback the beast—my downward spiral, holding firmly eyes wide open, clenching teeth as blood did pour

At the bottom I beheld him and I leaped for knew I must

I did trust my desperation as I heard my body aching with a dying and a crying never more

 

 

My hands clamped about his neck and gasped and grunted with much begging he did plead and although there were no thirty pounds of silver, I would do it again and again

 

For Free

∞