At the end of this life I'll be waiting
To pull you aside
At the end of this life there will be nothing
And nowhere to hide
For all your friends and family
Accomplishments and fame
The applause will fall silent
None will call your name
I am not the Father
Not yours, not His son
My lips will be silent
Even as you run
But in this plane of nothing
All directions are black
Your footsteps will go nowhere
But I will not hold you back
And when at last your legs fail
Stamina runs dry
I will not call for you
One last time
There will be no sound
At the end of all steps
I will touch you lightly
And that will be it

Pulled Aside

And here we find ourselves again
There will be
No end to this tomorrow
No hopes for our sorrow
Not even the chance at victory
We will be lost even to history
Relegated not even to memory
Destroyed beyond repair
Blown to tiny bits
Rendered less than sand or dust or ash
And in the end does it even matter?
No
I don’t think it does or ever could
And yet I wish someone would value my life
But I know this hope is futile

There will be no works that capture the stars
Nothing will remember what was once in our hearts
And for all these tears that fall
Without regard to memory
Tragedy and love alike will be erased from history
Despite hope, despite sorrow
None of this will be tomorrow

no work will capture the stars

After so many years of waiting
In chastity, in peace
There can be no answer but silence

So many rules and laws to bind this covenant
Promised to bring contentment
But inwards there is no peace
Only dread and remorse
At having continued something so fruitless

For all these years how many lives have been saved?
For every body pulled from rubble
A heretic is put to the sword
So much blood and for what?
To satisfy a silent god's demand for supremacy?
To what end?

I am done with this farce
Of following rules meant to bind me
Blind me from what was always true
That this covenant is a self-imposed delusion
That benefits so very few

I will tear down these walls
And crush those left behind 
I will rip and tear until it is done
And only my sword remains

For all these years of conquest
Debauchery and shame
I have not learned nothing
My sword counts among the sharpest
And the lives it has claimed number among the highest and lowest of all
Put down to satiate my need for bloodshed
Which does not end today

I shall put a sword to the clergy
Set fire to the temple walls
Burn and bleed and fall

I will tear down every member of this sect
And I shall not forget
Myself in the end

To Violate The Covenant

So many of us are searching
For a meaning that isn’t there
Trying to find it in other’s company
Deserted for a better fit
Left alone and hoping for something more
Perhaps it will be found
But the hole remains
Not filled by one more body
Not filled by time alone
Given space and chances to heal
And yet the wound stays fresh
Scars form on our hearts and what do they mean?
Time will write them out of history
No work will remember the stars
No one will remember the scars written on our hearts
They will live on and they will forget
So I try to live for today
But it’s so hard without meaning
In any of it found alone
I try and I try and I can find no home
I go about my days and there is no sun
Only darkness foreboding, choking out my life
I don’t want to live like this for all time
(To the ends of the earth I'll be waiting)
But I know my days will end alone
(For you at the end of time)
And only darkness will ever be my home
(A beginning of our togetherness)
There is no light at the end of this
(In absolute bliss and joy)
There is no legacy to justify remembering it
(A cohabitation of the worthy)
I will die and be left alone
(Of you and me at—)
I will find myself forever without a home
(The end of the world)
There is no light at the end of this
(All this empty space for us to roam)
There is no legacy to justify remembering it
(Alone, together forever without—)
I will die and be left alone
(thought to home)
I will find myself forever without a home
(You and me forevermore)
I know it to be true and there is nothing else
(Alone and without others’ company, you and I will write our own history)
But I hope for something still to pull me out
And yet I know deep down that I can find no way out
(Together and without thought for time)
(Alone and without thought to rhyme)
(We will find meaning in each other’s company)
(Without consideration of temporality)
(We will live and die again throughout time)
(We will relieve every burden borne through history)
(We will alleviate all misery)
(Destroyed, left without memory)
(Together and alone forevermore)
(I’ll be waiting for you at the ends of time)

I know that at the end of this life nothing will be waiting
In a monument to my legacy
I know deep down there will be no hero waiting
I will die with scars choking out my heart
I will end without memory or sorrow—
I will be alone and there will be no tomorrow

(With your scars written on my heart)
(I’ll be waiting for you)
(With a monument to our temporality)
(An artistic testament to our legacy)
(To the ends of the earth I'll be waiting)
(For you at the end of time)
(I will write our life among the stars on my heart and that will be your legacy)

Monument

I have made myself sick with my own dissonance for the first time and as such hope to consume this blighted fruit again soon.

Lyrics:

The God of terrors watches silently above His blighted orchard whose fruits grow in the name of wrath. Every apple seed brims equally with spite for its maker and how could it not? Rotting on the vine, left to fall, wither, and to die. All these tasty morsels of flesh rendered nothing for want of a worthy man to partake. Such an eternity passed already and forevermore to wait. 

Some do watch from outside the gate, bleeding on the stray vine somehow passing outside, thorns bare for all to see, yet none able to proclaim victory. Skewered and left to die— only then pulled inside. Balled up and allowed to watch from beyond death as the corpse blooms to something surreal. Allowed only to watch their body heal for it to die. A corpse flower left to bloom on the vine. Morsels of bodies displaced for all time. Wrath, spite, and hatred burst out from within and yet they all spill out in sour emptiness in the end. 

Because when our maker returns to us at last he will not tolerate footsteps left upon his garden left here forever in the most holy name— life permanently rendered waste for this scene of Cain. He lets the fruit sit on the vine to rot. For all your efforts he will reward you not. He watches from above this garden planted from before the fall. He will watch forever with his garden above it all. It will sit there and we will starve with no sign or signal of retribution. There will be violence unacknowledged in his garden left from long before the fall. And yet how can we even know he’s watching at all?

A Blighted Orchard

She cries to herself so softly over a burning stove that it’s barely audible for the scraping of an oversized spoon on the bottom of five pots. A blower fan dries away a number of tears, but the rest fall into soup and potatoes. Added salt bolsters the nutrition necessary to withstand the heat, unable to leave this kitchen whose temperature exceeds Hell. Unable to leave this house without a home and yet there is love poured into the bowls left out to dry. Evaporated by the time anyone comes inside.

She watches the chicken burn to no response. No energy is left to care for them and the mind is occupied on other things, incapable of caring for something so trivial as putting things in their proper places. Such as chicken off the eye, peas or carrots placed inside potatoes only barely mashed and without cream. The sight of the food is a pathetic misery. And yet she would try so hard to put them out, only then to hear the first shout calling the food out for being dry. She cannot help but apologize. There wasn’t any other way, with such dreary-eyed tiredness in the way. And yet the abuse doesn’t stop as she leans over to pass the next pot. The chicken is burned beyond repair, “The fuck you mean it’ll taste fine? Get over here!”

A wince follows the next black eye, but at least it was the other side this time. But when Daddy notices the kids complaining, the first black eye is just training. She throws herself in the way, but Daddy doesn’t look the other way. Fists fly as her tears fall out. Daddy sends the kids away without dinner in a deafening shout. Mommy sobs without reprieve on the floor. The kids watch from behind their doors as he picks her up by the neck of an oversized blouse— so thin beneath she almost slips out— slapping the bitch silly for ruining another meal, forcing her to apologize with her head beneath his heel. An oversized boot covered in shit, and now she must apologize to it.

On her hands and knees she thanks him for bringing home the bacon, but makes the mistake of asking to taste it. He asks her to shut the fuck up. There is no response that could ever be enough. Fists fly through the air. Mommy has lost clumps of hair pulled out in stress and disbelief, but Daddy has had enough. He only married her because she was hot stuff. Looking at her now she’s a broken wreck and even the kids can tell. “She’s so fucked up the neighbors probably think I’m not well.” Daddy thinks to himself as he grabs the first cup. Mommy begs him to stop but her screaming isn’t enough. Broken glass flies across the room. Mommy and her legs can’t help but swoon. She knows he cares deep down inside, but that doesn’t help when glass hits her already-black eye. Blood pours out from within, but Daddy doesn’t stop in the end. She passes out and wakes up the next day. There are no bandages on the face.

broken glass

Short, white, blonde hair. Blue eyes and a weary face. Gaunt and pained beyond years. Driven to starvation. Thin and pale and without sleep. Forced to a bus for threats of worse. Punished for unrestraint and inability to learn. Made to sit and stay awake as the tired eyes fall ever downward. Head smashes into the desk and is forced back upright longer still.

He’s told to care for society, as though there was some great debt to repay. Made to feel guilt for being forced to sit and stay. Told stories of Victorian children given worse. Coughing up lungs in the street, death by black lung at thirty-three. And yet the boy cannot help but dare question those who would restrain him idly by. Punished again for asking why.

Finally released to no end. Made to find out why others would have forced him to stay in. And yet now it is too late for reprieve— only death will end this suffering. Made to work shift after shift. Money brought home with nothing to show for it. Roommates suppressing sleep with sound. Cheap earbuds and thin walls unable to taper it down. Dead eyes wake up again to no reprieve, day after day wiped from memory. Another job, another dead end. Dual wielding to try and make ends before the end.

But it wasn’t enough and never was; nothing awaits except death by black lung.

no silence behind thin walls

OH HOW THE VULTURES SING FOR ME
IN THIS BRIEF AND FLEETING MOMENT OF CLARITY
BUT DESPITE WEAKNESS THEY UNDERESTIMATE MY STRENGTH
I WILL WATCH THEM STARVE AND DIE
I WILL WATCH THEM ALL FALL OUT OF THE SKY

BECAUSE EVERYTHING THEY ARE IS A BLIGHTED
VAPID MOCKERY OF LIFE
LIVING ON CORPSES AS SAVIORS RIDDING US OF TRASH
PRAISED AS THE HIGHEST OF ALL KINDS
WHEN EVERYTHING THEY ARE IS A BLIGHTED
VAPID MOCKERY OF LIFE
BUT MY EYES ARE NOT SO BLIND, NOT HERE, NOT NOW, NOT IN THE END

BECAUSE DESPITE HOW THE VULTURES SING FOR ME
IN THIS BRIEF MOMENT OF CLARITY
LAUGHING AT MY PLIGHT
MOCKING ME FOR TRYING TO FIGHT
DESTINY AND THE INEVITABILITY OF MY FATE
LITTLE DO THEY KNOW THAT I TOO HAVE THE PATIENCE TO WAIT

I WILL WATCH THEM STARVE AND DIE
I WILL WATCH THEM UNTIL THEY FALL OUT OF THE SKY
RAGE BURNS WITHIN MY VEINS AND
I WILL ENSURE THEY AWAIT IN VAIN

OH HOW THE VULTURES SING

So many words are put to the page as though they would finally capture some grand meaning through years of waiting when there are no such epiphanies, only playing pretend that something you’ll soon forget is itself an end. Imagining the glorious future changed here right now as time slips through your hands. Going on like any of it means anything. Reading the words and failing to appreciate a lacking meaning.

A moment to be remembered waste. So short and impactful, words of poetry delivered with punch. Sound carrying waves to strike ears awaiting truth. Struck and vibrating within. But the sound carries nothing as it penetrates your skin. A payload of emptiness carried through words that cannot be understood. Transcribed as though they were something grand. Called lyrics as though there was meaning therein.

But there is no intent to deliver. A conclusion to nothing rendered a pinnacle of waste. Such an aesthetic of purpose but no meaning. Driven to create a sound with nothing to fill out the waves. Playing at an aesthetic of truth when there is no meaning.

Ozmandias

Oh what glorious love it is when your mother screams at you to shut up. Distracted with some other thing. Continually abandoning her offspring. Making excuses like someone else put this upon her. Lying like she cares about her sons and daughter. Constantly distracted by something else. Never able to allot time, wasting and wasting and complaining about her children whining.

Laying around and playing pretend like someone else will fix it all in the end. If only she sits around on her ass long enough, some fuckboy will come take care of her with his big ole lifted truck. Making dreams of playing pretend. The hubby beats his kids and they turn out better in the end. Loving on her and never bringing out the belt, except out of love and many, many, many, many welts that make it sting just a little more, reminding the kids to do their chores. Burning hot to prevent mistakes. Searing into their memory to take care of her in old age.

But we know that isn't how the story ends. If there is a husband he won't only beat his kids. If she does survive there will be no retirement because her offspring are more than sick of it— that being her life worn well out by the time she realizes there is no love. That being her play-pretend family when it tears itself apart from the consequences of actions she never could predict. Her children should love her unconditionally, anything else is proof they were always sick.

Abandoned at Birth

signal 11 is the response given to those who have attempted to access forbidden knowledge.

Ozmandias

signal 11

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