Black Sheep…Broken Throne

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I have been thinking about…sin, as of late.

When it ends?

Where it begins?

How it hovers around from within?

A snap of the bony spine that breaks when seated.

Why did someone else place their misdeeds…in my mind?

Why the cheating hearts of childhood passed down a broken a throne?

Madness Child?

A title handed down…for me to own.

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I have been thinking about sin…as of late.

How it is meant to control.

How it is a hand me down…stunting the soul,  as it grows.

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in Eulogy of the Father

Alone in the girth of thought…

treading into the badlands and the good.

I make a pilgrimage pass the stations of the cross.

A pair of still in life…eyes, watching my every move.

After a deep contemplation…sin is what it is…synthetic.

I am not the carpenter of this ill-fated altar!

Cardinal wine and jewels and mythology shun me.

What is constructed has been done so…

In eulogy to the…Father.

Holy Insecurity

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No certainty.

To the reliance of reflection I see.

Thus, what of the transformation into an iron cross of discovery?

Un-anchored spirits from forbidden doorways.

Youthful were the vestiges I held to the light.

Now they are only recollections of disappointed blasphemy.

How true these reflections in me?

How honest can the hues be?

Could not account for the strolls around…

the Good News Bible.

Though,

Revelations dripped prosperity.

However grappling were the allegations on the pages in between.

The blotted ink left simple transference of someone else’s insecurity.

What honest there had been left to reflect upon?

Holy insecurity.

 

 

Commandment of Remorse

Ashamed?

Disrepute?

How best do I measure you?

Is your worthiness…

A cost for virtue?

Every trace of my being is laden with the commandment of  remorse.

Magnificent is the blood on the hands that intercept its due course.

How typical your response!

‘We all do things we are ashamed of!’

What is the heft to the callous fist of hate?

How much the price to impede fate?

Such is this weighty scale.

Thinking too much.

Or, not all.

Intuition’s downfall.

So little given to the limitless air.

When trading  in love for despair.

How much for a wicked deed?

Before it outgrows what forgiveness it needs.

 

the Contempt of a Father

A promising death is only for the descent.  In the dwelling of youth…it can transpire as…heaven sent.

No words can portray…Faded figures of dismay.  Knives wielded and the blood of innocents only pictorial for display.

Desolate in the scene of a heart.  A woman, a man, a child…within a nowhere land.  Endings, that begin with no start.

On the sunlit days.  Where one would speculate on times past.  Increments of incidents…That go on for generations who live near to a darkened cast.

The young are isolated, upon rare moments of ill will.  Subjects to unknown origin’s jagged pills.

To die a difficult and disturbing demise.  Over and over, a child’s reprise.