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The Devil as the Agent of Enlightenment

What would you rather be?

Free?
To see;
Through an apple on a tree;
A man, a woman, or a snake;
Sightless and unawake;
For your own sake;

Who would you be?

The one who strikes the match;
The one who fans the flame;
The one who burns from flesh to ash;
The one who takes the blame;

The one who’s nakėd without shame;
The one who stays the same;
The one who wonders: what’s the aim?
Of this audacious game;

The one who wants his fame;
The one who does not care;
The one who knows his father’s name;
The one who wants his pair;

Rebellion all for love or power;
For vengeance in the hour;
Disobedience slays the ignorance dead;
Leaves disenchantment in its stead

The Marionette



Pompous Peter prances proud;
Strings affixed within a cloud;
Hands and feet to heaven bound;
Instructions given to the ground;

The script’s decided from the start;
This thought he bears within his heart;
And Pompous Peter plays his part;
His god’s determined work of art;

Thrice the size of wooden boy;
Old Henry takes him for a toy;
Then Peter brings the dreaded flood;
Old Henry drowns in vanquished blood;

His stage performance is believed;
The people are so oft deceived;
That strings unseen so tiny spun;
Would not be missed if come undone;

But Peter knows to thank the skies;
They keep him under watchful eyes;
They blow his sails and give him rise;
To do the things which sense denies;

One day he takes a peek aloft;
In thanks to heaven, as so oft;
But vacant skies poke Peter’s piety;
There’s nothing there, no precious deity;

Despondent now is Peter’s pose;
Whose might has kept him from his foes?
Surely not his own, he knows;
He’s but an inch ‘tween head and toes;

The next he’s in a boxing bout;
Peter’s now a prey to doubt;
The strings, once tethered to the heavens;
Have left him at sixes and sevens;

And Peter’s fate’s a sealed affair;
No binding strings; he’s all alone;
His faith in wood cannot compare;
To faith in flesh and faith in bone

The Waters of the Ocean

The waters of the ocean,
Are of singular mind;
To be true to its own nature;
To believe its own kind

One in love, as one in life;
One through thickness and through thin;
One, if severed by a knife;
One without and one within

Bottles, buckets, cans, and jars,
A portion here and a portion there,
It shapes itself to suit its bars,
Still, it’s the same form everywhere;

Separate in time;
By thoughts, flesh and bone;
Through its captivity,
It remembers its own

Present in all and then all present;
One soul forever as time can devise;
Fluid as water; extant as air;
Holding the universe in its eyes

The Weight of Music Pt1

First there was a lullaby;
To sleep in the silence of music;
To dream in the care of sleep;
To smile in the beauty of a dream;

Forever is a story,
Across both ends,
Of a moment in time...

Then there was a love song;
To awaken two hearts,
To dance in the daylight,
And suffer with love in the small of the night;

Forever is a wish,
Healing a broken road,
To the recovery of dreams...

The last time, it’s the blues;
Always a moment too soon,
Too heavy to bear, but lightening the load;
Always just in time,

Forever is a dream,
Distant and small,
Like a whisper in the rain...

When the music is played out on strings,
I will fold up my spirit in a crisp paper plane,
Glide into a keyhole,
And find new beginnings,
Live alive forever in refrain;

Forever is a prayer,
Searching the river,
For the sad ears of God.

View from the Ledge

City lights, street hustle,
Too busy to look up,
Too busy being you,
Ignorant and indifferent;

The terror is inside,
Up here, on the ledge,
The turmoil and despair,
Outside, it is quiet;

Deafening horns, screeching wild things,
You're quiet and tame,
The sounds of conflict are in my ears,
The sounds are from within;

When this egg is cracked,
The yellow runs into the white
The shame runs into the blue,
The red runs into the dirt;

City lights, street hustle,
I'll come to you poor putrid porridge,
Scrape me off the floor,
And throw me into the trash.

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