Once, I Knew Myself

Twist and try
I hold the sky when I
Run
And fly to the sun
It's so hard
When part of my heart
Says "stay grounded"
But
Pounding my chest
Isn't exactly
The best
Way to address the problem.

Digging to the source
Of the course
Of the stream
I can't scream in remorse
Only sob in,
Gentle
Internal
Discourse.
Yes, that's what I mean
Because dust
Has no sheen
And I must lie fallow
Rust forms a crust
Over what's green.

So I tried
In beautiful, awful
Suicide of the wide-open
Mind
To embrace the side
Which is kind
But I lied when I turned
My face,
Said "I died"
But I yearned for
A peaceful space.

Sleep comes slowly for the weak.

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.

Message in a Cyberbottle

The words from the future,
Of your long-dead wife,
Harvest the sheaves,
Of the heart:
A hallucinatory scythe.

True, the pain is imaginary,
But my mind is all I have,
So oft I am more wary,
Than necessary.

So:

Here lies the love,
That I hoped to posses,
When in fact it disguised,
The love to undress.

The bruises don't heal,
When consoled by a friend,
The abuse will repel,
Lest a friendship end.

And although my mother,
And sisters,
And brothers,
Were prone to love others,

I love only myself,
And my self is my cover.

All death is just,
And all life, gifted grace,
Continue, continue,
Lest you fall on your face.

Continue, continue,
When you're slapped in the face . . .

The Congregation Rests

Four thousand dead now,
How many more must follow?

In truth I feel faint,
Though I know my cause is just,
My heart beats slowly.

It is shameful love,
That supplants my boastful voice.

That brings my knees down,
And despairs my closest friend.

Truly this must end
And I will do my best
So, the congregation rests.

Violence

Caiphus: If men are inherently violent, then what affect does the efficiency thereof have on our perception of violence?

Moralam: It is true that all men are prone towards violence; furthermore, it is also true that, given the lack of a spear a man will turn to a stone to bash his enemy's head in. However, is it not true that the death by spear is a more humane death?

Caiphus: I believe that that is a misleading phrase - there is no such thing as a humane death.

Moralam: Explain.

Caiphus: How can death be humane at all? Is not all forced death a violation of life, and therefore painful to the environment in which we are immersed?

Moralam: Death is a natural part of life - there is no question of death's certainty, only of its timing. Even death by old age is a death caused by some rapid change. It is just as forced as when one's life is ended by a weapon; therefore, all death is violent. Because all men are violent, and prone towards violence, it is fitting that their lives should end violently. Given that something "humane" is something that represents the epitome of human achievement, and that there is only one sort of death possible, a violent one, I know that the absolute best possible death is still the worst, and this makes it impossible for one kind of death to be better than another, except in the instances of pain during life.

Caiphus: So when you speak of a humane death, you are making reference to that death which is preceded by the least amount of suffering while that person is still living.

Moralam: Yes. Now, to return to what we were discussing: does more efficient violence begat more violence, or does it simply make deaths easier to bear?

Caiphus: Are you arguing that efficiency makes deaths more humane?

Moralam: I was considering it; however, after much deliberation and examination of the evidence I have found that it is the cruelty of the man behind the weapon that determines the suffering incurred, and not the efficiency of that weapon.

Caiphus: Indeed, even the smashing of one's head with a stone can be merciful when compared to the ritualistic tortures of the spear.

Snakes of the Open

I felt a dream in the evening,
It passed through my mind on the wind,
Initially I was unsure,
And my mind coursed with a dirge-like din,

The wisps of tangential manifestations,
Slithered about my fingers,
Chills through my spine like shock waves flowed,
To snare my mind in the undertow,

I wish now that I had succumbed,
Although it was harsh and disarrayed,
As dismayed as I am,
I know why I refrained,

The nightmare I had,
The nightmare I felt,
Was of you.

"Come . . . see the violence inherent in the system!"

My question to you all: what system has not yielded violence in one form or another? Or even better, is it the systems that are flawed, or the people attempting to implement them? Obviously rhetorical questions, but the point stands valid. In truth, violence is the ocean surrounding our tiny island of humane desires, quests for truth, and open mindedness. Even the tiniest wash of spray maddens us with our desire for the forbidden, self-destructive salt water: and how can we dip into it without our clothes crusting upon return? It is for naught I say, to cleanse oneself in a pool of filth, even if one desires that manner of filthiness. The filth does not change, only one's perspective on it.

But on the other hand, there are ways to use violence to one's advantage. On our small island, a villager is condemned of thievery, and is forced to consume a cup of this seawater. Driving him mad, he beckons for others to follow as he leaps into the sea, never to be seen again. And, drenched in the waters of evil, the councilman turns on his friend and bashes his face in with a stone.

There is no sanctuary from it, only death.