The Warrior of Poetry: The Poetry archive
The Poetic Warrior Returns to his Poetry after Illness Welcome One, Welcome All
The man with the electric charge, in his hand of energy around the wrist a working class wand, in a sea of corporate swords surging and scything swathes through the common hordes in the complex of complexities, rolling in a barrel as sea washes back, grains of sand, we are energy shapes under a sun, glistening, shining crystal on shifting sands to reform under the night time, moon that is both master and servant in creation of gravity pull.
Dark water has the capacity to draw in, especially the vortex of the whirlpool, black is the colour, hell is the place. As fast as it draws down to its conclusion there are no doors only physical revolutions which stir deep and slow below the turmoil of the deep, putting mixture and matter in preparations for forms anew of determined type and complexity hidden in simplicity.
So it came to me and thus I demanded of it as much as I was told commonly known as truth spades and buckets full I couldn’t escape the velocity without the trees I was bare and open to all cruelty I had feared as mothers and fathers and those beyond disappear I am but the one left and words cannot save me.
The emotional light is what keeps us breathing when your wings are down and you struggle to fly, abandoned upon the ground not knowing who will look out for you and embrace your shine as the world grows, humans too many and strange to care.
Darkened glands of a a sky in wrath searching with blackened menace waiting for the white light to come glorified expectations in white ecstatic.
Feeding sadistic traits, sat in the kitchen playing Hitler with sticky fly paper, as close as you get on a bad day, you may say it is only a fly like us, one of many but this is the only element at your disposal, on a bad day on planet earth.