Harmed my Amor

You speak, the words I hear,
It sleeps, but awareness draws near,

You harm, the one I love,
Now alarms, this thing is no dove,

It’s awake, you’ve been a fool,
Rage to slake, He will be cruel,

Now pain, will be your lot,
Little gain, from what you bought,

Your blow, to my amor,
Will show, what was hid in my core,

I’m not, all softness and mercy,
Though I ought, some say, to be,

Your bones, I’ll grind,
And moan, you will, in darkness blind.

Lightless, and alone,
Unless, my rage is stifled and not shown.

Despite my fury,
For what you've done,
To the one,
Who loves me.

Fall Like the Rain

The scent, a damp musty smell,
Which greeted as raindrops fell,
As we too have fallen from above,
Not for glory, virtue, power, or even love.
Nor were their times of correction, of reflection,
For simple was our mortal transgression,
This thing that made us tares among wheat,
That no matter the feat,
No matter how hard we fought,
Or how much we sought,
Only one fact remained to greet,
Us on our fate, we are obsolete,
That is our sin,
Destroying from within,
Not that we were unloyal,
But that within this coil,
We were outdone by our fellow men,
And thus cast out as in sin,
And in our pain,
We fell like the rain,
Except for this one thing,
We were caught by the King.
Placed among His holy ones,
And not called failure, but sons,
Found worthy not by might,
But by faith in the right.

Flying Four

Upon a blue sky,
As they soar and fly,
They are always there,
We only have to dare,
To turn upward our sight,
And look upon their flight,
These kings among the flighted fowl,
In whom there are no things foul,
Is it eagles I so describe?
No I will not leave you deprived,
Of these winged kings true name,
For they and eagles are not the same,
They are named Hope, Dream,
Faith, and the quartet’s cream,
Their captain, named Love.
A fierce falcon and gentle dove,
Have you seen them fly,
With such beauty upon the sky?

Mimeography in Flesh

Drip, drip, drip,
Comes the flow from the slip,
Of a blade,
As it slowly wade,
Through the smooth glassy surface,
That once bore the grace,
Of being unmarred,
Yes even unscarred,
Tender flesh,
Now crisscrossed by a mesh,
Of slips and lacerations,
Of cuts and macerations,
The drip, drip , drip,
Pooling from chest, face, thighs, hips,
The carving, the crisscross,
Checker-boarding, removing flesh like dross,
Slip, snip, Slip,
Comes the sound of poorly fixed rip,
As needle, thread, and scissors patch,
On pieces that are but a poor match,
Snip, snip, stitch, stitch,
Trying to emulate the famous, and rich,
Self loathing vivisection,
To try to achieve another’s ‘perfection’,
Trading your flawless unique flesh,
For a tattered, wretched, mimeographed mesh,
Society’s collage sewn into your individuality,
Scarring, marring, tarnishing all you could be,
If only you hadn’t sought to be cachet,
And instead to let today,
The master paint your canvass alone,
Then the masterpiece, you, would have been shown.

Men or Mice

Once, twice, thrice,
Here comes the slice,
All must pay the price,
To be among men not mice,

For each one,
It’s a different race to run,
Are you listening son?
We all have to get it done.

Some have to kill their pride,
Some learn to open wide,
And no longer to hide,
But there is no free ride,

Some have self to kill,
Others to temper anger with the will,
And yet more to drink sorrow’s fill,
In order to summit manhood’s hill.

But if you want to be one,
Counted as having done,
All there is in this race we run,
Then listen up son.

This is the slice,
Within you is the hidden price,
Your weakness you must dice,
To be among men, not mice.