a severe pummeling

when we reach for our innermost
we realize it has taken a severe pummeling
of monotony and void, spiritual frost,
and we ignore the cost of these barren fields

long time ago, we discarded swords and shields,
along with ploughs and fields of hunger,
but in the process life became a distant dream,
in darker days, a rarer to see sun gleam
(we no longer really care)

as a long long night descends on us
we withdraw inside our yet unscathed skin,
a blank journey not worthy of chronicle or saga,
history or mystery

we see no sin, pinned to our old habits, and haggard,
we busy around in coldness, but
the big nothingness is everywhere
and we secretly, unconsciously, desire war,
authority, strength and common purpose,
rituals of lost epochs we keep an animal memory of...

the hatred rising will relieve us of all those things

sad ghosts

the sad ghosts of rites of passage gone, mocked,
their semblances by modern diseases pocked,
are some days still visible in the red of dawn.

it is a knowledge that is reserved to the few,
those making the effort to reassemble anew
in the creator.

a truth revealed for a few minutes,
such a truth as only the heavens
can contain it.

it is our duty to retrieve those fragments
floating above our godforsaken cities
soon to be under the void of the curved blade

Trembling I consider the bottomless deep,
a unstable rope stair to a ethic life, to be reaped
by embracing the aesthetics from our culture's cradle.