The Angel’s Demise. 

Darkness and sadness,

wildest of madness,

that’s his prey.

Pitless self pity,

mourning mortality,

suffering silently;

the hunter awakes. 

Ambiguously going on,

Aimlessly along. 

     Just hands. 

    No hearts. 

    No persons,

    Just parts.

The black angel plays cards here. 

Twiddles his thumbs and

dances a smile-sneer. 

Waits. Imagines,

some things of old fashion. 

Licks at his memories,

shakes, and then visibly 

projects his thirst into my mind.

Projects me his sign. 

Rejects me in time. 

Misplacing memories. 

Displacing things in threes.

Hitherto I’d hide 

exposing my soul only in rhyme–

all whispers. Some truth,

hidden in lies

nestled closely in lines. 

Temptations cut up and slice me. 

Outlining too nicely,

the impressions and have-to-bes

rattling loose inside me. 

In a moment; tranquility,

In this moment’s insanity,

Disguising the tears with the red,

fight the fears and the dread, 

While so subversively, he sings. 

And Oh! The peace that it brings. 

If I could loosen my grasp!

Make peace with at last.

If but for only this one small thing,

the one fact that remains,

l see nothing new on this table.  

And nothing old I still can’t handle

No, not yet. 

There is no grave

no yesterday,

no place,

No insurance that saves

nor collects tips 

for the brave. 

No nothing to say

which no nothing can displace,

or so dark and so horrid

which death can erase

or discard of. 

Anything, anyone can start over,

with determined eyes and 

perspective mind;

the power of will. 

Beating  softly, haughtily,

greedily, but still. 

Excited; giddy and silly. 

Making real of the really. 

Taking freely the free. 

Forsaking all things quietly. 

Swallowed up by the easy. 

Pinned down by the pleasing. 

Perhaps tomorrows,

will be first of few sans sorrow. 

An empty canvas, so stark

Ready to fill with the dark. 

Without horrors and habits. 

Lacking the traits of the west,

sacking the old ways of the past.  

You never can tell

exactly how long

it will last. 

How quickly 

it will all end. 

Just wait a while, then 

hesitate. Smile, just about when

his cards begin clicking and clattering

making flippant his flattery. 

Smoke curling from under 

his deep black-hooded hunger. 

Chivalry. 

Clove! Oh! Roses!

But, they sure do allure me. 

“Here kitty kitty

You sit so pretty.”

His promise, sticky sweet,

personal, discrete.

But, to distant memory, he’s author. 

Too distant a memory;

the father. 

Caught in the wash and the spin. 

Caught up by the thorns once again. 

A strange feeling, 

Perspective. 

It aches. 

An elective 

of hate. 

The left overs 

of all give and no take. 

It’s all brewing, 
desperation stealing and screwing 

the inspiration it gives. 

The inspiration; it leaves!

His perspiration, I breath.  

Close my eyes,

see the dark side. 

Visit dim-lit castles 

of lower level paradise. 

Back over coals, he does rake me,

Through crimson seas, he does take me.

Where the tide eagerly awaits me. 

Laps at me, tastes me. 

Eats me up, hatefully. 

Chapped and burned,

blistered and torn by

a fireball in early morning. 

One shiver, one cry,

Forcefully,

opened eyes. 

Scared but alive!

Burnt up, then revived. 

With one thing on truth’s side:

In smoke he may hide,

but in ashes, I rise!

So,

Fuck you, all your fuckery. 

I mock you with your mockery. 

Can’t fool me with such foolery!

The promises you make in the day

are not bonded past grave. 

They’re worthless and wasted

on those who cannot taste it. 

A liar whose lies 

stand on the promise and prize 

that cannot be redeemed. 

Cannot be released,

until quite naturally 

we find rest in our peace.  

Thirty-five times here,

I’ve still got no lines here,

And maybe it’s not time here,

Not for me. 

Not for me. 

I’ll be just fine here. 

I’m still alive here. 

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