poetries & confessions.

As Mercy Magnet draws you off
with its innumerable forces,
the irony is laughable
to ponder our remorses;
for, as we think our sorrow
at the parting of our courses,
'Tis yours the words of eloquence
come to mind on their importance.

For years of service, toil, and grace
amidst the running of the race
to call lights and the face
of those to whom the look of yours
was peace, Thank you.

More or less I understand
your mouth so mighty and handsome:
In the arms of a shorn haired Samson.

In Timnah riddled in robes of the south
and that rotting lion's yawning mouth,
whose welling eyes and welling crotch,
will welling, putrid air be lost
to burst of hide and hive explode
to swarm of needles, teeth. And blood,
in blushed mist of rising souls,
steaming streams departing, rose
for an honor cold
as their hot deflated molds
fell in Ashkelon of Philistines
for your mouth full of bees;
Eater with a mouth full of honey.

Outstretched, wounded,
span hung and pounded,
yet reaching, resounded
through commonwealth astounded
and the Gentiles allow-ed.

Wait, there are monsters there.
They’ll cut into your heart and
pull out all your insides in the dark.
They aren’t sorry there.
They don’t know the word.
If I were you, I’d be pretty scared

to be where you’re going,
to know what you’ve known,
to flip that switch and bed down.