The One Who Stays

The One Who Stays

the One who stays

It’s all static on the radio and wavering connections on the television, but The Light cuts through like a double-edged sword. 

 

It’s all meaningless cacophony, but He’s The Melody in the mess, The Voice That Speaks to the night and does Not Falter. 

 

All the others come and go, but The One Who Stays is by my side.

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Leviathanic

Leviathanic

leviathanic

We were running through the tunnel, flying over the rusty tracks in the darkness, out of the leviathanic cage, fleeing for our lives and pursuing The Unwavering Light at the end. We could hear the snakes slithering and crawling and stalking up the brick walls of the tunnel, hissing in undead tongues, whispering to look to the right or to the left, anywhere but straight ahead. Anywhere but straight ahead. 

 

Have faith, let’s go, run hurry. 

 

But the one beside me let his eyes slip, and he looked death in the eyes, and soon enough his feet were slipping too. 

 

We ripped him from the tracks and kept going, closer and closer to The Light at the end of the tunnel, running with The Light right beside us all that time.

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It’s a cultural commentary, a protest against the conventional wisdom, and a call for something more.

Down in the dark

Down in the dark

down in the dark

Down in the dark of the wood, down with the decay and the vermin and the maggots crawling among the remains. Bones, white turned black, crumbling in the dirt at the gnarled roots, running through the earth, back to beginnings that had long ago flown away. Graying lichens inching up the wrinkled, weatherbeaten sides of the tree, stopping short at the heavy branches that stopped trying to look for light. Veins carried a now-quenched fire, once when grasses swayed and breezes rolled over the hills. Moths fly up the branches, past the thorn vines, up to the tips of the leaves, where the dark of the wood is a little harder to see. It’s not the same as it used to be, but the moths look a little more like butterflies in the light coming out of the silver lining in the clouds.

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Fire burns and swords sting

Fire burns and swords sting

fire burns and swords sting

Yes, life is great here, I’ve got everything I could ever want, I—

 

She looks at my scars, ripped and torn flesh.

 

This Earth has not been kind to you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No,                                                 no it hasn’t.

 

 

Some of the scars you can see, some you can’t, some you’d never understand, some I wish you couldn’t. But hey, fire burns and swords sting, that’s just the way the story goes.

Trust me I’d erase all of it if I could, but it’s written into my skin with a permanent marker these old eyes are gonna have a hard time seeing straight again.

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Candlelight renegades

Candlelight renegades

candlelight renegades

Candlelight renegades in tailcoats, sweeping the ballroom and whispering secrets to save the world, anthems muttered under the breath, under The Eye. The tides of war are rising, higher than the prisons, it’s over our heads but we’re not going under, not yet. The shot heard ‘round the world is calling, and away I must go, through smoke and blazing lights in the dusk. March on, mighty men of old, Atlas is heaving and the waters are aflame with insurrection. Ben Franklin turned up AC/DC real loud and Paul Revere put on the mixtape as he rode through cobblestones and what-ifs. 

The minutemen lined up, locked and loaded pens. The plume gets more accuracy and range than the long rifle, so they’re standard issue.

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Let’s hit the asphalt, run it to gravel, to dirt, to the open frontierlands at the edge of the...

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No page numbers. No titles. No table of contents. 

It’s a cultural commentary, a protest against the conventional wisdom, and a call for something more.