Good men do nothing
And as such, are worth the same.
They may recognize the war,
But they prefer the game.

Bad men do things
Because they can
There’s no one to punish them
Or prevent their hand.

Women aren’t afforded
Reductions of like divisors.
Given the state of men
We may only be victims or survivors

Based not on what we do,
But what we will take

And what we will not.

Some phases, my thoughts are sheer
Drifting as simple cotton clouds
Reflecting on still waters clear
Stately, demure, unbowed

In quiet, single-file procession.

Other rotations, expression compounds
In capillary network transmissions
Tangled complexities abound
In spaghetti-junction compositions

Chasing ideas and tracing confessions.

Sin is a condition of pollution:
Inherited, genetic dysfunction,
Cellular, resistant to ablution-
Compulsion without compunction,
Comprehensive disrepair,
In like-form replicating,
Producing blindness and despair
Reducing and translating
The language of God the Creator
Into false contexts
That install desires as translators;
Reducing the Marvelous and Complex
Into barter and trade,
And self-adulation or justification,
Poisonous comforts; the rebel Made
Straining to distort the Maker, the creation
Pushing against Creator through passive valves
Designed to protect the course
Of humanity entire, no salve
Contains potency of equal force
To overturn the quantum condition
Of spiritual necrosis and hijack,
To resurrect our haunted cognition-
To bring the children back:

None but the One balm mixed
Of the only remaining incorruptible,
Undiluted, undivided, Divine DNA-
The only drops of Pure Priceless Blood:
Communion.

The antidote to the corrupted.
Available through a real system
We cannot now test and exploit-
Mirror-realms influencing each other,
Unmeasured of yet on our side.
Entanglement sharing properties
Pure through the affected to the resistant.
Transubstantiation:
First guilt to scapegoat,
Goat to quarantine and purge,
But now,
Himself to elements to ourselves
Cured in dribs and drabs
By the shared exchange
Conversion spreading like smolder
Mingling the whole with the fractured
Entropy double-backed and driven out
In a militaristic, subatomic regeneration
Hidden in plain sight
Opening a world the world can’t see;
Faith: a fiat of uncharted power
In alignment with the order of His intent-
Our own effective, material coding;
Adam naming what is.
Faith communing,
Unlocking infinite potential
By the morsel and tablespoon.

And in all these musings, I know
I’m but a child
Groping through the dark matter
For the wise and holy Light.

In Memoriam A.H.H.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
“So runs my dream: but what am I?
An infant crying in the night:
An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry.”

Spilt blood
Cries for blood spilled.
The neglected wound
Does brutal wrath instill

In even the meekest soul.

I purpose tonight
To wall out all men
To never again
Yield to the blight

Of their blind, self-placating reality

Pleasured by lack of sight
Tromping in the delights of their sin
Returning again and again
To the stained impotence of night

In abdication of God-given responsibility

Laughing in merriment at those
Who must shoulder their abandoned loads:

A decadent city built on the backs of widows and orphans

But God inhales.

Oh My God,

I feel so alone.
Please hold me close.
So much is at stake.
Please don’t let me break.

Help me be strong like You.

I have no one else in the whole world.

I still miss them.

All these wonderful things
Don’t make me less sad.
I mourn the moments I loved,
The life I almost had.
They bustle on
Like I was never there,
But in my pangs,
I see I still care

All on my lonesome.

Father, forgive me
For voicing my accusations
Where I hold no ill will
I am grateful for the occasions
That have woken me to reality
And propelled me into the fathomless
Depths of faith-sight and wild trust:
The public death was a catalyst;
The pain beyond my thresholds
But You held me in the grave,
And You hold me in my new steps-
Only in Your hands can I be brave.
I’ve spent all my years
As a terrified little thing
The crushed flower that blooms;
The caged bird that sings
And I face the storms alone
I know there aren’t any in my corner,
But You lead and guard my steps
As I march amongst foreigners
An unknown substance.
I feel You in my soul
And I can be strong in You-
In You I am whole

Even after mutilation:
Public humiliation

Your promises rage louder than these.
Only never leave me,
Never be

Silent again.

In the throes of dismay
I couldn’t see through
I couldn’t imagine the pain
From a birds’-eye view
I underestimated
The things You can do.

I repent.
I exalt You. I yield to You.

I’m still en route
And the journey is hard.
I’m still alone,
Stretched thin and on guard,
Publicly condemned,
Mocked and discarded
My vulnerabilities ridiculed;
Any strengths disregarded

But you establish my humble steps
And keep me from snare and stumble.

You lead me through a foreign wilderness
In more than tenderness,

By the light of Your great hope.

Creation
A single, multi-faceted
Exquisite masterpiece
We touched with sin and shattered
Light and sound and matter
Into fragments

We can’t process.
Refracted, but entangled- intact.

We took His language
Spoken in unity
And shook the vowels free
Scattered and muted, seemingly,
Yet His word returns complete
Every atom a divine syllable undefeated

Rejoining like raindrops,
Restoring,

Never returning void.