Identity of Blood

Behind my shoulder someone is watching me. Keen to keep pace, to guide my steps. Imperfection has made its way into their words, and death flows from them into my life. Death flows into life. Love is to risky, to dangerous. We have to keep close to the shadows, we can’t be seen or heard.
My voice spills out words into another’s life. I am watching over their shoulder, keen to keep pace. My words have always been known to be laced with imperfection and pride. But who could I tell that to? They will devour me like wolves. They will leave no way out.

I see now how the cornered channel their frustrations into their children. Poison is passed from one generation to another. We would die for that poison. We would die for our pride. Thankfully, you don’t have to work to hard to die, the poison is potent.

My ancient fathers spoke of liberty and justice. 

What is that to the soul? 

When do I feel the hammer of liberty and freedom separate the sickness from the love? 

Where is liberty from pride?

I’ve felt pride capitalize and customize the quarters in my heart. I’ve known pride to prey on those sick lives, the ones I loved most. And at PRIDES DEATH, seven more return. SEVEN MORE in its place, seven more bring their deathly stench to replace.

Where is liberty from pride?

When, ancient fathers, would we make it home safe and sound? Where ancient fathers have you made your home? Are we included? Were you going to insure that promise with your heart, and did you lose all sight when you lost your passion? Did you speak false hope out of fear?

Am I dead to you?

Are you dead to me?

Can you feel the cost of  your pride?

 I can feel your wounds now. I see your intentions rise up inside of me. I hear your words on my lips.I understand your dead words and I know what your tired teeth were trying say.

I get it now, but I feel the weight of your losses.

The weight has taken its toll. It grinds against my bones and gives me fury while I sleep.
Further and further and deeper and deeper the anger treads. Down to the darker corners in my heart wrath resides.

Parts of me have died because of this poison! Sacred and sweet parts of me.

God I hate it all.

Dear God.

God, sometimes you burn in my bones like fire. Your ministry of reconciliation is the warmth of my skin.You inspire the spark in my eyes. But days like now, they aren’t like that. They are days when I feel dull and used and torn and broken. I don’t feel like a joyous celebration of Gods glory.

I mean, I still love you. With all my heart. And I want to love those who hurt me. I want to love myself, despite my error. I get carried instead by ghosts and old fumes of denial. Not by you. I have to speak the truth.

I have been ungodly and impure. And I have violated myself with pride and hate and despair.
I don’t want to be ashamed to see you. I don’t want to be full of death.
When I look at you I see a deeper truth than all this brokenness. I see sober-hope but still a spectacular redemption. A family becomes a grand bride, made pure and anew, by the murder of sweet Christ. The death of my sweet brother-king for the holiness of a dead people. New Identities, from new blood. We are born in dead blood, but reborn of living blood.

The truth counters the weight of the trespasses. My identity is not found in my heritage or actions or experience. It is defined by that First Heir of the New Kingdom. 

My Brother-King is the only one who weeps with me. He groans in ways to deep for words.

During these summer nights when I cant hold myself from thinking of death he comes around.
Sweet and majestic and quiet he sings me through.

In Malachi it says God has a book of remembrance. So do I Lord. I will remember what you do.

I will remember your kindness to me.

I will remember your kindness to me.

Giving up the Ghost.

Looks like I've ridden out Psalv-Murons waves. I'm not so scared of the deep anymore. Im not so scared of the ghosts in the sea.

They might hide in sunken mountains and they might have seen the great watery depths, but they don't have my heart captivated when they sink their eyes sink into mine; I'm looking at something brighter.

The cold and lonely type ride upon that salty swelling ocean. 

Sure, there are some treasures lining the sea-floor,

and maybe these weak arms couldn't hold all those gems.

My weak arms kept me warm as I struggled home.

Sometimes we would forget to keep an eye on our hope and the ocean would sweep it off the deck. Whenever our hope was overboard, we had a very difficult time steering our ships. Thankfully, fierce lighting would light up the sky and we could see the colossal kingdom looming against the skyline. We were scared and tired, but we knew that what we saw couldn't be unseen. Blackbird kept her distance, fearing the mountain might fall on her; she could still feel the old origin rubble covering her; she could still feel the weight rolling in her blood. She could never understand the trembling in my hands. Maybe now, maybe now after the aftermath, the tears have made their payments and those painted circles might heal over. Maybe one day it will be crystal clear.

It's not at all crystal clear here. My greater eyes still need adjustment

to discern between my thoughts and reality. Loneliness will still attempt to cripple me.

Thing is, in my solitude I am still whole. I miss blackbird deeply and I wonder if the wound will ever close,

Thing is, his grace keeps me clean. Its enough for me.

I am giving up the ghost. I dont need a ghost to sing her siren songs to me. I dont need a soul. His grace is enough for me.

Prayers I thought would never be answered found their homes. God's divine will has come into fruition. I see before a Gentle Blue Birthking. He leads down into calm waters and we carry on through calamity. His touch is reminds me of the Single Man of Discontinuity, the All-King. Perhaps the great continent divide sobered his red temperament, perhaps I missed his gentle blue hue, maybe I hurt so bad I didn't believe it was there.

I see now a Gentle Blue Birthking. My All-King lead him to me. As he promised. My heart is getting strong. 

Blessed be his name.

When I am wrestling

When I am rejoicing

Blessed be his name.

The Elders Elixirs were no good

All these secrets I keep, why are they my secrets? How bad does my breath reek of them? Can you hear their weight by the infliction in my voice; is my mask more convincing or am I letting go of these fading fractures?

I see church steps, and I moving towards them. I am holding my head high despite what all the fact I am wrestling with. What is traversing is catastrophic. I never let their images sink, they were too young to factor into this disillusioned heart. I am scatterbrained, unable to hold a thought. My mind leaps away from me, trying to escape a sober reality. I'd rather live in a drunk world, away from the tyranny of my memories. I wasn't concerned with the elixir, despite how hypocritical, how unlike me. The journey was to a void, someplace I felt entirely uninterested, entirely unaware of myself. A place where I lost who I was. Where I didn't bear my name.

It was by these elixirs my name became spoiled. Elders attempted to escape their old skin and children cried out for anyone to know them. I was born among them. 

Sometimes, on the darker days, I feel as if I have wasted all my time crying out among them. Truth is, the lake is dry, the sorrow is fresh out and I dont think you'll find anything if you come back tomorrow. I could hold on to it all, but what would be the point of that? Never helped me in the past. Won't help me now.

No, what I want, what I need, is new light. The summer light. I want burnt cheeks not the beakers and elixirs to cure whatever dysfunction is going on with my family. I want to drink lemonade with my grandparents as I learn to carry compassion with me wherever I go. Always having some for the blackbirds who come my way. I want to walk up those church steps, and live in that sanctuary, receive the brokenhearted, offer the sober-hope.

No, I never imagined as I child that I would stay up through the night, stirring my madness and lust, speaking in strange phonetics, wishing the demons away. Sure, I always knew it would be a rough walk. Suffering doesn't change as time goes by. Neither does this sober-hope. Guess thats all I got to put on these secrets. Cause the elders elixirs were no good. I know. I tried them.

Hit the reeds

Pull your car over. I need to get out and scream. I need to let it all out. Cause I can't pretend like it never happened. I can't pretend that suffering isnt going to occur. And I cant pretend that it wont return after its done with me now.
I need to run out into the field and feel the reeds hit my hands. I need to walk this out, pace till I can find a definitive place for all the wrong turns. You may never need to catalog evil, but I need to sort this sickness. When you lose the luxury of pain being temporary, you need to know where your prayers go.You want to know where your blood flows when you pour it out for others. You want to be honest and seek truth, you just gotta keep praying as your pushing your sweaty hands into the dirt. You can't hyperventilate. You have no time for defeat. You have to move on.
Hit the road. Play me that song that burns my lungs. Let me pound my fists upon your dashboard, just enough where your airbags might come forth. I can hyperventilate here, in between the beats. You wont ask me about cause I'm looking kinda manic now. Just know buddy, I'm not ludicrous, I dont think I'm even ridiculous. I'm struggling. I'm wrestling. I'm burning for answers. I'm burning for some retribution, for justice and victory. I can't slow down right now. Not now, when my brothers backs against the wall. When my sisters mind is a playground for animals. How can I keep mute?

But if I speak, how could I defy the mold. How could I reach further than these governing ghosts?

 How can I trample the only notions known?

I will look for you. I will wrestle with you. I may come out bloody and torn and fractured

But I will know you. And I will have my soul.

It is not theirs to take.

Questions about Time Travel

White Grizzly has returned from his hiatus.I wonder what I will tell him. I wonder if my secrets will flee from my lips, or whether my second nature will seal me up proper.

I want to seal it up from everybody. I know this age is green, but bricks keep dropping like rain. Its not proper for this to continue. I was supposed to have made my escape long ago. I live in between mountains, in the valleys and the crevices. Its where I was born and its where I made my home. Every year I ascent those mountains, but I never stay, its so cold up there. Its warmer in this lonely town.

Sometimes, I wonder if all the grandeur I dream of will be looked at by historians as an irrelevant footnote. I'm always dreaming, always left in that dark wondrous neverland. Where history doesn't mean a thing, and I am not stuck here. I am in a hopeful future. Its hard to resist acting towards that future as soon as I awake.

I think the Man I am in my dreams is a different person. He's in love with everything. He really is a torchbearer. He has a light about him and his story compels.

Right now I hate everything. Mostly because the cancer reaches everything. The smoke arises from my foolish mouth and stains everything I speak into. Its like a cigarette addiction. Sin is like cigarrettes. Thing is, no one finds my smoke appealing. It stains homes, and churches.

I dream of a day where my breath is purified. But there no cure for sin. Just death.
Even when gazing upon the king, its in the back of my mind, gnawing away. I will look away, divert my gaze.

There is no cure. Sainthood is allusive. Must I always question your grace? Are the transmissions turned off? Why do I feel like I am the brides disease? Why do I always feel this way?

Blackbird, you would dream it all away. Sometimes I feel that way too. I just want them to be true. Not dreams. I hate these dreams.

Heartless Ghosts

Your just a ghost trailing me. You're always waiting for me to slip so you can steal my bones and feel the remnant purity crumble in your hands.

So now, I watch for you. I keep a notebook full of my paranoia. But I will bring it to court on the day I see you. And someday I will hunt you down, and I will bash in your teeth and I will set your lungs on fire.

You heartless ghost. You drive such fear into me. You heartless ghost.

Staying on this planet, suffering is standard. Where am I to go, how am I to leave? These bloody hands are my memories. When I get stuck here, when I am waiting, where are your promises stored? What canvern must I search, from what fountain can I draw hope?

I have been decieved my King. I am waiting for the breeze to touch me again. I am waiting my Lord, for the rage to quit its game. I wonder if this is what you intended for me? This old and hollow forest isn't my home.

My home has no witch overseeing my heritage, in my home, witches don't curse my family name. Its hard to believe that home exists. That it is somewhere. The idea that somewhere I dont have to hear the bloody cries of my family.

Though I fear, that my family may cry eternally. I don't know. I do fear.

I fear that witch may have her day, that she may have her way. That my torch wasn't built to destroy. And that blackbirds gaze wont hold her back.

King, if I were blessed, if I could ever ask for blessing, for favor. I would ask that THAT WHORE OF BABYLON, not lay her hands on blackbird.
I shutter when I remember my vision of her hands on blackbird. But I understand your message.

Dark cannot stand within the light.

At times, even that is abstract to me. But you would always wrap your arms around me, protecting me. I can feel your warmth, your security. Even in these hollow woods. Haunted with these God-forsaken memories.

Though whenever, I search for you I find you.

And I wonder, how God-forsaken are they?

Quiet sweet submission

My outlandish preaching has been reduced to floating prayers, silent and often unspoken. My love will be quiet now. I will be very quiet. I will pray in my room with my door closed, the lights off and my head on the floor.

Romance is dead in me,

and she will sleep now, 

and one day

she might wake.

But sitting in the quiet with my king, it's there when he speaks. In the long fields with an old book in my hand while my sensationalism is dead and apart from my flesh. Thats when my king tells me his tales, thats when I understand honor, and I get obedience. And, man, I battle for those times, cause I got a fever that wont break.

But they come. They always do.

And his songs and melody doesn't seem to far away when I quiet down. His direction is not too hard, when you got the flame of his hand piercing your heart. When the kids ruffle your hair and put a little fire under your feet, you already got somethin burning you to a truer blue; the rough sun doesnt kill you the same. The beatings all come with bandages and you know her sorrow songs are not the end of her.

Somehow, love is born from your rough heart.

Somehow you are capable of that.

You thought you were always gonna be sick and perverted.

You thought your love would always be laced with lies.

But not in this kingdom.

Not in his kingdom.

Submission to a Pure King. To a righteous authority, its flying, not falling.

Fly girl.

Here is my prayer.

I need to strength from my body. Strength lost from a lack of authority in my life. I NEED mentors and strong men to battle with me. Reign over me lord. Reign over me.