Light Into Dark

When the lights are shut off
And the brightness of day
Disappears into dusk.
The secrets of the flesh
Come alive and propogate.
Nighttime bedroom secrets are shared
On pillows of dark relief.
This is a wondrous hour
When treated with respect,
No man must ever use this in vain.
For his mind will reset upon the bright,
And all occult knowledge
Will disappear forever.
But when upheld,
These dark moments can bring
Pleasure forever, and no memory
Can trash what is retained if he so pleases.


Whereas she is always of the night
staring into darkness,
and knows home is made there,
as she makes her home,
in the comforts of being alone.
If only pure sunlight
did not petrify her,
and entered with calm diligence,
and the sun softly
glinted off her skin
in bountiful pleasure.
She would know the brightness of illumination
and sacred pleasure.
For only he can deliver,
and their world is torn between
the ultimate duality
and fight for darkness to become
of the light.
She will be the world
unto which he asks for his blessings.

Shadows of Me

The worst enemy is inside.
The darkest shadow becomes powerful with age.
When I find myself inside,
the depths of a disheartening me,
I'll know there is no better place,
than in the arms of this most
terrifying enemy.
When I say "I'll love him",
I say "He does not love you".
So to and fro
I will go,
between what I choose
to be real
and the endless potential of failure
than my other half propagates.

This choice we all must make,
to embrace the one we hate
within ourselves,
and calm our own unsteady seas,
or be forced to deal
with every unpleasantry,
our mind will readily refuse.

The Ibis and Death Itself.

As I, the one who can see,
the forlorn faces in front of me,
behind the rosebud hips I must be.

While, they ooze and reek,
I hide behind my beak,
with the intent to sneak.

The wailers groan in pain,
all my efforts are lost in vain
to see life in their eyes again.

The shadow of death arises,
to foe and friend alike,
their death, a heady type.

I push past their mutated mimes,
look upon their vital signs,
I, the symbol for trying times.

In the piles of carrion
I see before me,
a long and bleak path,
past the corpses that death has so vigorously imposed on.
His invasion is necessary,
but I am not his adversary.

I work to fight for life,
life that God has so precious made.
I bear the task of selecting the dozen,
while death does not bear pardon.

While he does the reaping,
I do the seeding,
preserving the crops
where the few dozen grow,
in God's goodly glow.

And so on I must go...

Memento mori