Holy River

Holy river that be

you won’t sink me.

Beneath the water

sinks reality

Young ones jump into the river

and peer into the abyss

What’s down there?

They all wonder

So they dive in

and years go by fighting serpents

all to find their treasure

and rise upward again

Satisfied, they build their raft little by little

and wave to the other happy rafts

that look so at ease not having to

dredge treasure from the river

What a wonderful world it is

floating in the holy river, together.

A broken raft lies on the riverbank

What has gone wrong there?

Another companionship broken

abandoning their construction

In the holy river it does not matter

if you sink, swim or ride together

It makes no judgments

it’s up to you to decipher the benefits

How did it go over there?

No matter, it’s past.

The river stops for no man

despite their swimming backward

It’s in passing we see the

wonders of creation and

horrors of destruction.

Each little treasure falls by the wayside

so you cast your line out for another

and hope for escape from the former

What was it, anyway?

Did you see it?

Or was it just captured?

One day, it’ll be upon us

to see through the wonders

and save ourselves from the horrors.

One day, it’ll be upon us

to accept the creation

and reject the destruction.

Holy river that be

Is it time that moves you

or do we float unto eternity?

Playing With Fire

my mind has been running 

towards similies that mean nothing...

so if i reach for a flower 

let i tell you, it is only our disaster

disaster written upon the face of murder 

will give us hope for a new commander

but if he is to lead us to victory

let i tell you, it is only toward misery

misery that pegs us guilty

for a new ideal to extinguish our frivolity 

but if it will lead us to significance

let i tell you, it will only fuel the resistance

resistance spawned from a dark restlessness

that masturbates vigourously to selflessness

but if our orgasm bursts utopian unity

let i tell you, it is only toward hypocrisy

hypocrisy pumped from the two opposing valves

which sound the beating of our heart

and plugging away the black,

it remits backwards to our sight

newborn heart born so pure

the world can't allow you to stay so sure

so you run and run toward perfection 

in a form of idealistic identification

then smug with a newfound position, 
you ramble off your blackened wisdom

when the nurse calls,

tell her it's a case of dissatisfaction

It's the most honest I've been,

and it's a life I've observed too long...

our minds either play with fire

or they dull and wither