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Archive for the ‘Villanelle’ Category

X,Y Axis

That is when we saw their faces
opposed to ours, within me the beast
turned away from a peaceful stasis.

The nature within us traces
a line. We bow to west, we bow to east.
That is when we saw their faces.

They spurned the offers of our graces
and, having sensed the meaning of the feast,
turned away from a peaceful stasis.

Eyes, once open, became veiled spaces
hiding behind perceptions ceased –
that is when we saw their faces.

Around this tale the earth chases
the shadow called night, a day released,
turned away from peaceful stasis.

We hate even our most sacred places
their store of martyrs having increased.
That is when we saw their faces
turned away from a peaceful stasis.

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Sound Waves

The prospect of silence frightens me
Stone, upon stone, upon stone
Human beings are opposed to tranquility.

A man, having lost the wind, dies at sea
waves crash, bringing his body home
The prospect of silence frightens me

In the garden cave we were all free
Left unshackled by the unknown
Human beings are opposed to tranquility. 

A feast of ash leaves me hungry
Fire having removed the spirit grown
The prospect of silence frightens me. 

Perfection is another form of heresy
to worship something we cannot own
Human beings are opposed to tranquility.

The fate lies in the seed, well before the tree
bone upon bone upon bone upon bone
The prospect of silence frightens me
Human beings are opposed to tranquility.

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The Other Man

What comparison can be made
to a man with lines written on his face,
his feet forever displayed?

If only my birth could have been delayed
So as to hide me from his shadowed grace.
What comparison can be made?

He walked as if his name will never fade
From book, or clime, or empty space
His feet forever displayed.

Next to his, my work is a chthonic shade
Locked in a forgotten place
What comparison can be made?

His name written on the day
The ink of his pen with blood replaced
His feet forever displayed.

His undoing, an enemy’s grenade,
a poem written with force and haste.
What comparison could be made?
His feat is forever displayed.

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What was inside is out again
like a story gone too long unsaid
It might be hard to put back in.

Mother arrived to tuck me in,
her kiss removed monsters under the bed,
what was inside is out again.

The mechanic arrived like a seraphim
The engine, having been shed,
It might be hard to put back in.

The doctor informed them without a grin
the patient having long been dead
What was inside is out again.

He died alone, but without a sin
His body emerged from death unled
It might be hard to put back in.

The sword grieves, but not the pen
Many wonder if the word has bled
What was inside is out again
It might be hard to put back in.

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Pride, not hate, was why the angels fell
Below the humans of the earth
The tower they build will be their cell.

The dead bodies are too useful to sell
Bone and flesh fuel the tower’s rebirth.
Pride, not hate, was why the angels fell.

The devil isn’t as far away as hell
his poetic eye sees their pain as mirth
The tower they build will be their cell.

It’s helixed staircase will fit to tell
the universe that their potential knows no dearth.
Pride, not hate, was why the angels fell.

Fueled by anger that mercy cannot quell
They have known only its spiral since birth.
The tower they build will be their cell.

It bares the name of the mother, Babel
Her sickness cured in their sick berth
Pride, not hate, was why the angels fell
The tower they build will be their cell.

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The human genome was yet unknown
and justice was just a luxury
When I got caught stealing home.

Shakespeare was a prophet for the church of Rome
building a globe to bring rich and poor to equality.
The human genome was yet unknown.

She was dancing in the bedroom alone
Her eyes complex, like sonnetry,
When I got caught stealing home.

Her blood flowed from Sobieski’s throne,
from a time praised for its chivalry.
The human genome was yet unknown.

She was showing me how to atone
with poetry, not with thievery
when I got caught stealing home.

It turns out I couldn’t steal what only she could own
I need her to give me a reason, an apology
The human genome was yet unknown
when I got caught stealing my home.

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The brain is still a mystery
that we cannot understand
and the heart cannot give ministry.

The eye abhors its odious symmetry
such that seeing is not believing and
the brain is still a mystery.

Such problems are mated into our ancestry
who knew that lips cannot command
and the heart cannot give ministry.

Even to the man of artistry
who recreates the world by hand
the brain is still a mystery.

This citadel, whose abyssal entry
Bores through the Underworld, is beyond this land
and the heart cannot give ministry.

Despite the martyr’s misery
and the conquerors demand
The brain is still a mystery
and the heart cannot give ministry.

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