The Executioner’s Axe

My speech for freedom was a success,

and thank darkness for a cloudy night.

For I could not afford a single soul to see my face as I stood,

de-masked above a dying crowd.

 

I roared about the actions necessary,

should we desire an end prettier than the starving crows…

though thus urging riot I simultaneously guaranteed a revolutionary’s final date with my counterpart’s sharp claws.

 

It seems to me that the powers which confine us,

are afraid as wild youth as it nears its end.

Natural life will always be the outcome.

What is up has got to fall; and isn’t that sometimes a reason to be quiet?

 

When one whose life is so alight that they react to their ‘nurture’,

they will burn a fire in the hearts of dead-men walking.

 

How this army will march united… I wish I live to see.

So that my eyes may dry and hate subside –

my axe no longer need divide,

my self in two as one who raises freedom and beheads it all the same.

 

My axe chips as does my soul whenever a revolutionary’s crippled.

This is how an executioner prays:

LIVE LOUD.

FIGHT HARD.

EVADE SOCIETY’S AXES AND BRING LIFE BACK TO ALL MY DYING PEOPLE!

Python

There is nothing in this world but mist,

blanketing over exposed convulsions and…

lulling our lungs to calm against our raging will.

 

Calm is a universe,

so separate from this -me-

so presumably occupied that it is left to loneliness in Her sadistic romance.

 

Worn out;

Our eyes struggle to make home within our mist,

they remain closed in wakeful struggles –

never seeing the colors surrounding our often too narrow grey paths which;

in the arrest of guilty breaths all lead to one central eden.

 

This guilt,

this… gift;

received with so little resistance is often no more than a domesticated python.

So why not tame it?

Re-name it… make it yours… own it and see;

a python does not revel in eating souls as a hobby.