TheDemonInside

  It is. Can words describe the magnitude of grandeur before me? Like God’s own cathedral. Pillars made not from carved stone,  but from living flesh, drinking, in the sunlight, swaying and singing in the wind, and every moment, every day, different from the last. Growing and dying, reshaped by the   long   hand of time for a purpose I cannot imagine. But the beauty of it all,  That   is apparent even to a lost soul. I would spend eternity here,     and I have. For even in the moments to write this I have felt the peace of many quiet years soothe my heart,  and the new-made air wash the v

Remember when your life was new, And the sky shone brilliant blue? Days that were so precious then, They now resist recall, And we are left alone again, Like children in the fall.

When time flies fast on old and twisted wing, Raking its claws from eyes, to brow, to chin, Look backward far, on days of distant spring. And know you then, that life shall come again, In strange and glor'ous form; As once it was; So shall it be; as time has ever been.

Riddle me this, Oh wisest of men. Is not the sword mightier than the pen? Does not flesh Yield to steel, And enemies succumb To a strong person's zeal? Why then do you cling To your faded scrolls, Your ancient, yellowed parchments, With their "ideals" of old? Will they save you From the chopping block? Can you shape a shield From quick clever talk? Debating is fine, For scholars and goats, Both bleating all day And gorging on oats, But I long for battle, For blood and for power, To rise above my enemies With great displays of valor! And why should I care If you disagree? Go on and "reason", I'll be deaf to your pleas. You'll bend to

A Humane Choice    There’s a light flickering in the open window and I crawl towards it. It is orange. The color of fire. I am very cold.            The ground is rough and hard against my body. If I could stand it would be easy to walk on the dusty clay; but I cannot so I pull myself along by my fingers tips instead. Sometimes there is a clump of dry grass that I can grab onto to ease the way. There is less and less as I approach the building.            It is a low house. Made from the same clay that scrapes along my chest. Low and round. It is the same brown as everything else and I do not like it.              I crawl until I

In a stretching wasteland, Dry of bones and dust, Where crumbled buildings lay in ruin, Where time is hard and just, In a place of whispering ghosts, Borne on poison wind, There laid down a house, and two robots stood within. Each was red with rust, Both frozen in their pose, Sheltering a child, Now clothing and now bones.

If between the lines you read, In this book are many truths, You may find the knowledge you need, But the stories are not true,

In the cold forgotten temple, on an altar made of stone, lies the broken rusted shards, of a sword made long ago. Thick and silent is the air, in that old lost church, all empty-clean and dusty-bare, the subject of the search. For one yet is brave enough to look, the last in a special bloodline, of the family from whom the sword was took, and lucky now the stars align. The old door screeches open, the shadows slither away, the sunlight brings new hope in, to keep the dark at bay. He walks with purpose through the din, up to the sacred altar, and out of everywhere he's been, this victory makes him falter. Here the legends said, the sword

Above a high and rocky peak, clinging still upon the sky, I stretch out with gentle hands, and feel clouds go drifting by. Below me snow has gathered, dusting needles on a rigid shore, through the misty air an island, I have moored at before. A slightest tip upon the breeze, an upset of equilibrium, and through the crystaled sky I fall, dizzy in delirium. Careening through the emptiness, I tumble on a whim, laughter pulled from my throat, as if a holy hymn. I grasp the sky, bend it to my need, push the pointed precipice aside, and soar toward the sharpened trees. They pierce like spears, up through swirling clouds, covering grey rock, in

Quiet staring faces, Looking in the windows, Cold and clammy faces, watching all of your woes. Cry out they won't hear you, call out and they'll stare, beg for all that you're worth, plead with them to care. Watch their staring faces, Your woes will drift away, you're looking out the window, you're one of them today.