So Follows the Farewell Ferry

And there's the call,
For the final fall,
A twist, a wrench
A foul stench,
And then the curtain call.

And there's the mission bell,
Heralding the start of hell,
They are too dear
To keep me near
So I carefully choose where I dwell.

And then the crying lamb
That bleats through bleakness grand,
What horror throws
Its painful lows
Until you cannot stand?

It is the teary face
That ends the human race
What games we play
So we might stay
In our feigned creator's grace.

It's hypocrisy
For you and me:
But you and I
Can't explain why,
We show but cannot see.

What does a glass priest do?
He composes an ode to fragility.

What does an iron soldier do?
He learns to love with his weapon.

And what will become of me?
For I am a glass heart trapped in an iron body . . .

Wonderful World

Well you see friends shakin’ hands,
But I demand that you point them out.
Sure, my friends shake,
Right before they grind up real close
To get a better idea of what they’re missing.
Maybe now the chemical cocktail will take them
One step closer to nirvana
Like it did the first time.

My soft drinks are green, red, and yeah, blue,
And it’s the soft hands that drive a hard bargain
With a hard needle that pierces invisible flesh,
So now my head’s up in the clouds,
But it’s like eternal rain,
As little droplets run down my face,
With the pit-pat of moist feet.

Always with the lies . . .
Maybe it used to be that way buddy,
But don’t gimme crap about lighting up
It’s the only light I’ve got.

Someone Has the Moody Blues!

Dark,
Darkened darkness ensues,
When I feel the
Blues.

Long,
A great length of time,
When I cannot
Rhyme.

Feel,
Feeling fear of my own feeling
It leaves me
Reeling.

Left,
Now I am gone.

Lost Eyes, Lovely Eyes

Without support a leader falls,

Lost eyes, lovely eyes.

Only silent do we differ,
When clamoring we're all the same,
Just noise, just dust,
Only dust in his eyes.

Lost eyes, lovely eyes.

United we are lost again,
Each one, alone,
This is the plan,
United we will die again,
Though once it served us well.

Lost eyes, lovely eyes.

I look into your smile,
I am dazzled by your grin,
It only hides,
Your sin.

Not mine.
I still see mine in your eyes,
Lost eyes, lovely eyes.

Jihad United

Frosted mountain filled with cheer,
Dwarven men meet often here,

Exhibit each, their deadly prize,
Before another's greedy eyes,

Gladly one will pay each price,
Illegal goods an exotic spice,

Within, without,
With silent doubt,
Marauders creep and sign,

Communicate,
The mountain's fate,
Through the darkness grim.
Many men will lose their lives,
To rid the earth of sin.

One, not one, regrets their choice,
As they scream out with one voice,

And leap, at last, into the fray.

Almost Blind

What a fortuitous exchange to hear,
And ever closer the smell of fear,
But only any simpleton can see,
That eyes, cold eyes, are failing me.

What good are those,
Who oft behold,
But ne'er do stay to help?

And who can lie,
And say that I,
Have not seen the truth?

I bring to bear,
The senses bare,
That naked, see the light,

But even so,
I taste my death,
When I find I see no right.

How clueless I am in my senseless cries,
But you all know I've been wronged,
I know!
I can!
Argue until,
I realize the uselessness of eyes.

Religion, Faith, and Spirituality

Caiphus: What is the relationship between faith and religion?

Moralam: Religion is the unfortunate byproduct of mankind's attempt to instill faith in others. Unfortunately this is futile: it only summons the barest mist of faith to hover about for a while, concealing an individual's true nature.

Caiphus: But what of faith?

Moralam: By faith I assume that you mean spirituality, that being the search for any ultimate truth. This search may take many different forms, but can only have one outcome. If this were not so, then that truth would no longer be ultimate, and would therefore be useless.

Caiphus: How does religion come into existence then?

Moralam: Religion is created when an individual believes that they have come to the conclusion of this spiritual journey, and therefore have nothing more to seek.

Caiphus: How sad.

Moralam: A better word might be pitiable.

Love and Life Lost

Oh how I long,
For dawn's lovely grin,

To wipe out the scourge,
Of dusk's only sin,

That it brings back my life,
The one I tried to rescind,

When I would spend many nights,
Sitting 'lone in the dark,
Waiting for the day to begin.

Shadows Shift

Darkness,

Here it comes

Darkness,

A cocoon in which life gestates

Darkness,

Building blocks where
Demons assemble

Darkness,

Buildings black which
Demons resemble

Darkness,

Building blocks which
Demons assemble

Darkness,

A cocoon in which life reinstates
Life and death will correlate
When Joy and Love meet Fear and Hate

Darkness,

Here it is.

Gothic Irony

Metal laces
Twixt shining bullet holes
Snake in and out
Like a two-headed demon
My hands
Strangle and malign
Subdued, the many mouths rest
As silence
Like snowflakes
Falls

Conciseness

His face is bowed in masked, unknown worship, casting a shadow deeper and darker than darkness ought to be. He does not move, for in movement lies light, the source of which burns with sun-like intensity. He is slow, he is inexorable, he is deified, for as he stands in the presence of the light he becomes one with it, however briefly. And so he is slow.

He does not look, but the light makes him see. His life is a museum, his sins exhibitions, scenes in a violent tour of his soul. Nothing escapes the light and nothing escapes him, though he is slow.

Resistance is impossible, though the shackles of the light grow rust like mold. His ankles, bruised and chafed, have turned to pudding on his bones, and his heart cries out with joy. He appears downtrodden only long enough to allow himself the time to consume his darkness in cannabalistic survival. He is preparing himself. He waits, that he might strike.

Into the blinding star, within the core of the fire he sinks that he might rise again, triumphantly holding the heart. His suffered knowledge is not in vain, for he has now the crushing strength to drown the light in blackness, himself overcome and destroyed.

Limitless Vision

Eyes.

What do they mean, what do they represent? It is everything except a person's eyes that indicates mood and emotion. The many temporal muscles that make up our face dictate to our observers our reactions, so why do the eyes play such a large part? Even focus of the eyes is shown by squinting, the eyes themselves remaining almost entirely static. Is it the dilation of the pupils? Our subconscious minds may be capable of detecting those subtle fluctuations in pupil width, perhaps it is this that causes us to be so obsessed with eyes.

Eyes...orbs of pure emotion. Without the eyes we are not simply blind, but others are blinded as well. It is a mutual blindfold, a two-way mirror, a kaleidescope of congealed shapes and colors, a fiend who displays our innermost desires on a crudely-written poster board message.

I look into your eyes and I see nothing. A blank brick wall greets me, chains and long-forgotten cinderblock littering the broken ground. This should not be, why am I so blinded? Was there something I missed, some abstract memo, some coded secret that I was unaware of? I feel imprisoned outside these walls . . .

We climb the walls because they are there. What an awful reason to learn about someone. Personalities are not set up for your conquest, they are works of art subject only to the viewer's interpretation, not modification! Psyches are not reverse engineer-able. When you break down a mind you will never be able to restore it to what it once was, for God-like abilities are reserved for God alone.

How angry I become when I consider the selfish motivation for such behavior.

Pity Not the Ignorant

Intelligence is based primarily on focus.

It has become increasingly obvious to me that even those who are ignorant are rarely unintelligent. Naturally I am not alone in this conclusion, as was seen with the sudden rise of the buzz-phrase "emotional intelligence" for a few years. Indeed, I have come to be of the opinion that focus determines whether or not an individual is thought to be "smart". Consider, if you will, the example of the social butterfly whose frequent goings-on distract them from academic superiority, thus yielding the inevitable result of poor or satisfactory grades in school. This metaphor is simple in nature indeed, but let us expand it.

Our socialite's name is Fred. Fred loves sports, being outdoors, and hanging out with friends. Fred's problem is that he's failed two of his classes this semester. As a result, his parents have banned him from all social activities until he brings his grades up. Two things can occur in this instance. In one scenario, Fred's focus does not change; he sneaks out during the night to attend gatherings, continues to practice with the football team, and walks home after school. His focus remains stagnant. In another scenario Fred realizes that the quickest way for him to return to his previous lifestyle is to shift his focus. As a result, he begins studying daily and brings his grades up to a satisfactory level so that he is no longer, as it is said colloquially, "grounded". In this scenario, he changes his focus just long enough to bring about change, and then reverts back to his usual self.

Intelligence has for quite a long time been determined via the transfer of knowledge. If you can answer a question, that makes you intelligent; the more difficult, complex, or numerous the questions are, the more intelligent you must be! The truth is, however, that this is not the case. As I'm sure many of my readers realize, academic grades are not always the best measure of intellect. I propose that this is because it is an individual's focus which determines what they are good at, and skill is one of the primary indicators of intelligence. Even being a "jack of all trades" is a compliment, as is being "verbally proficient" or "a great quarterback."

Consider again the example of Fred. In each of our imaginary scenarios, Fred's focus remained relatively unchanged. In one his focus was stagnant, and in the other his focus flickered briefly, but only to obtain the larger goal of maintaining his current focus! Because of this, Fred's lifestyle and personality remained unchanged. In this case his focus is entirely egocentric; he has always enjoyed certain activities, and so he attempts to make these a priority. On the nature side of the nature vs. nurture debate it is logical to assume that if Fred changed his focus and attended law school as his father desired then Fred would be miserable. This is a reasonable assumption to make, and I would not disagree.

In this case I have presented the idea that focus strongly affects what we consider intelligent. If Fred shows himself to be exceedingly clever in sneaking out at night, we may assume that he is very intelligent (if misguided). Because of this I am led to the following conclusion: the better someone is at focusing at various levels, the happier they will be, and the more intelligent they are. My conclusion, in so many words, is that intelligence is inexorably hinged to joy.

There is more to explore on this subject, but I will leave that up to you, the reader. Ponder this:

If intelligence and joy are directly related, what manner of relationship is it? Does the generally unhappy individual develop a superior intellect for the purposes of maintaining focus on the things they enjoy, or is it this superior intellect that makes it so difficult for this person to enjoy life? Is this theory in conflict with the statement "ignorance is bliss?" Where does the bulk of intelligence development lie, nature or nurture?

Freedom . . .

I've been locked away for too long. These manacles dig into my jellied flesh like rats gnawing on that last bit of bone. Red and white were never meant to mingle in this fashion, and as more food scrapes its way down my parchment of a throat I realize that I do not miss my eyes.

I'm not lonely. I think you'd have to know what it's like to be with someone to ever be lonely. I don't miss what I never had. It's a strange feeling, this mental castration. I could rip out into the open, tearing my own hands off, and yet I think I would never really feel. That's why I stay here anyway. Because there's nothing I can do.

I do miss her. I am lonely. I scream but no sound comes out, I am strangled by my own ineptitude. Why did I sacrifice my voice? I remember, but I do not recall. Is it so impossible? Is my duality a cosmic experiment? Yes, an experiment . . .

Fragments . . . misshapen features . . . a face . . . a voice . . .

All these and more have fled from me now. Now I can wait. I'm good at that . . . something I'm good at. How nice. I feel . . . nothing. No joy at this skill I possess. No thrill of excitement courses through my heart as I scrabble desperately for this one paltry ability. Excitement . . . how do I recall this? Perhaps I have known something before this . . . what I am now. Perhaps . . .

Perhaps I was more than I am.

Lust

Conquer synapses through chaotic seances,
Vainly I attempt to collaborate my mind,
Collate and collect and try my best to divine,
My intentions, contentions, my attempts at ascensions,
All mesmerized and hypnotized,
As my mind writhes in the dry stream bed.

Painting my face red in agony,
Clawing desperately and disparately,
Unique in methodology,
Neurotic in doxology,
Satiated in psychology,
Incorrigible in pathology.

Yes, I lust,
Indeed I do,
The flames of passion leap high for you,
Not a person or place,
Not a name or a face,
The thing that I love,
The thing that I crave,
Is the vapor of fact,
The wafting allure,
Of information et al
However impure,
Or righteous in nature,

It is this knowledge,
That is my mind's suture.

The Words

A tune not put to words,
For any sorry soul,
For feeble words cannot express what lies inside me
A joy,
A story yet untold.
Feeling, warming, breaking, breaching,
Love, joy, warmth, before me beseeching.
I need only grasp forth,
I dare not wait,
Lest it be too late,
I capture my fate
And soar
I live for so much more
You'd hardly believe that this much is true,
But if it were not
I'd never speak with you,
I'd never have known
What it is to have flown,
Fly,
Flying

How difficult it is for a woman or a man to expose themselves, where not even the very core of their being goes unscathed. Are we truly so sensitive to the light, or is it the one who carries it? Woe, woe unto those who shine the light in the dark places, for their reward is punishment. Whoever carries the light is decided to be evil, though the light make clear many things, both good and evil.

How difficult it is for a woman or a man to embrace the light when it comes, to let it shine and pour into the depths of their soul to wring out the bad and scorch the evil with its burning intentions. Is it not also hard for the good to be exposed? For what woman, what man can live with her or his good on a pedestal. Who among them will not build that pedestal of unholy pride, of unrighteous fear of rejection, of hatred of others? No, it is better for the good to be buried beneath the light, that no-one may see any but evil in those with pure hearts. Better to be thought evil than for evil to live in your heart.

How difficult it is for a woman or a man to learn to love the light, even when it is hidden, for when it is hidden we forget it is there and return to our evil ways. When we cannot see the way we must stay the course, for it has already been laid out for us. If we turn right or left to seek the light, will we not fall? Likewise, if we pursue the course without the light's direction, are we not doomed to failure? Life without the light is impossible, nor is direction prudent whilst blind.