You needed to,
At least think,
“Let me do it”
And bleed (burn) it out.
And this is a devotion to a comfort around me,
So terrifyingly lovely,
Let this whisper shout,
Resiliently.
My virtues and strangeness I held onto,
As did you the world.
I hated the world, vacant of relatable,
Puzzling, complex parables.
And in time, the word,
Vacuous and hostile to what I most cherish.
“You wont let anyone know you like I did,”
That’s not a threat, it’s a statement of fact,
If it wasn’t just, I would have revealed my awareness:
Grotesqueness, sexless lusts,
As pale, limpid, scents of beauty,
Upon a parchment black,
In a mandala, hierarchy,
To your fading, perfect face.
Look at my face in the “fire”,
Or with thieving friends, those not “hip” (to what?) may say,
Do I regret not telling you I anointed you as holy?
Was it chance the seasons of eleven were set out that way?
This is nature, a natural reaction,
To me giving you, superior,
The position of the Sun.
Against all guidance,
This way, I took advantage,
Because of all who mattered,
You were the One.
So swimming with my proud friends was fire?
As a solitary soul, let my wax expend, expire.
It seems my Amaterasu was holy and right,
The fact if her letter is a vital sign…
You saw as dark as I could get,
Let it warm and permeate the void.
You took me in, an orphan,
With a shared, strange, deformed creed,
In his heart, in his mirrors,
In his ways and his accent and deed.
I will reveal with my flesh wrenched open,
Making light is no lasting comedy,
Petals burn with vacant hostility,
To no one.
I wrote this in my head all day,
If more come, there shall be more swansongs,
So may they come my way,
Heedless, headless,
Without masters,
You deciphered the metal of the gun,
You took it and run,
Bullets and fun.
You called my spiders, flowers,
You announced the sadness,
And gave numerous visions I won’t give breath to.
Sensations I will delight in silence, too.
Will anyone let my perversion suck the sky’s starlight?
Will you let the crab briefly become a butterfly?
These are Richard’s Words,
(For clarification),
I sit in the only seat of this wounded chariot,
I sit crass, and beaten, broken-out,
(A sign of home).
Tonight I received guidance:
What it means to conceal spirit, for mesh.
It is about escalating relatable spirit through flesh.
The spirit you won’t slice, as I have faith your sword will,
What’s in my flesh, within me still.
You had it all worked out twelve years ago,
And you knew I needed to do my strange savage in reverse,
In the snow the wounded king makes his throne,
By myself I am least alone.
If you weren’t myself in greater opposite,
I would have popped you in the Jesus pocket, instead,
Allow me to degrade who i was, for the sake of love,
To put it lightly.
I wish i could give sight to those that read the “godly”.
That book of prophecy, annoys me still,
I Dread the process that will force the quill,
As i Love being your lyre,
Framed with my guardian, who is higher.
Four-twenty,
Four-twenty,
Everywhere I look.
If I made the cut too clean,
Let me save those lesions, for another book.
The Humble Rock Dove 