Memories are ghosts,
haunting every burgeoning desire.
Dreaming up new religions,
anointing undeserving hosts;
none whom can inspire.
Guilt trips me at every turn.
"There are no strangers here",
only fragments of time littering the path to a graceless eternity.
The way home I can no longer discern.
Lost in the sweet addiction of visions that blur the mind,
and tempt the fear,
this can no longer be.
Brush away the ashes, roll aside the sacred stone,
"He" is risen,
an atomic explosion of a chaotic sunrise.
Witness in near perfection, this blind resurrection,
of harmony's misguided attempt to atone,
& the careful retelling of unimportant lies.
"Bring out your Dead!"
"Bring out your Dead!"
Silence from a mind in constant wonder,
is this the rebirth?
Is this the love once promised?
We are all but passengers on a deserted train,
headed for nowhere, melted down,
& bled dry.
In deep trance,
paralyzed, lobotomized,
no purpose,
no will to become...stronger.
Summon the holy one!
These are words written upon the winds of vain reply.
Kiss the curse they invoke.
I am no healer.
I am no forever spirit.
I am, no longer.
Art by Georges Rouault
