The Backwoods

Alluring chaos spins
Cycles, stumbling stupors
Im drinking in the atmosphere
trying to drown these sober thoughts

The brunette at the bar is biting hands
And locking eyes
The laughter rings loudly through the room to mask that craving rooted in the solitude.

Nobody wants to be alone tonight
Nobody wants to be alone.

The madness and flurry of hands and intentions darting throughout night,
trying to make contact,
trying to reach that private place we guard ourselves.

We want to be trusted
We want to be careless

The chorus of desires screaming in unison.
Just touch me.
Just touch my heart
Just caress me.
Just trace my skin

Dont expect too much of me,
because ill settle for the illusion of love for the night.
Ill pretend this is the best of life.
Ill pretend myself worthy
I'll pretend myself a monster hungry for your flesh.

Feed me.
Feed me those illusions
Keep me satisfied with the lies.

What's the value of a good man in a system of lies and deception.
The spiders chasing butterflies in hopes of draining a fleeting taste of innocence.
Feigning harmlessness in webs of subversion and perversion.
What's the price of love when its diluted like well drinks in a dive bar.
Bodies press into impressions of themselves.
Where daylight is a disinfectant,
There's nothing but shadows filling this well lit room.

Whisky on the Rox.

She speaks her story with blurred eyes
Scars of yesterday still have measure in the mind
they still run deep on the soul. 
Her broken smile tells me how badly she wants people to stop hurting each other
She just wants them to be kind to one another.
She shares her curly fries and shifts her weight to the side
"Why can't people just be honest" she laments. 

I'm drinking in the totality of the bartender 
Her whiskey colored hair and her sparkling brown eyes. 
She holds herself devoid of idealism nor delusion
She holds herself with a broken sense of hope. 
She's a mess of sex and desire, 
of pain and fire,
and I'm quietly assessing how flammable I am.

The ascriptions of nobility and godliness are barely legible in the rusted armor of an aging tired soldier. 
I'm attuned to the  magnitude of my vulnerabilities. 
My weaknesses beating louder than the bass drums on the karaoke machine. 
Im pouring down poisons of flesh and soul.
Why can't people just be honest? 

 

There be dragons

I'm walking among dragons, hoarding generations of wealth and standing on the bones of the freshly passed. They exhale fire and contempt, the familiar bonds of blood are regarded as a curse - for the poor have only love to spend, and they do not value such exchanges.
Dragons root their values in the economy rather than Christ.  They boast of pensions and properties as they split checks and look down their long smoke filled nostrils.  The scales over their eyes are imbalanced in their perception and reflections.
The Dragons make war with those that hold to the testimony of Jesus and the commands of God, with all the love of the heartless,  with all the flames of societal purgatory

Dies set cast

What words can be said for the ways wandered by those whose bitter lips cannot speak a name aloud. What prayers can be said on behalf of the miles trod of those who would steal blessings from their own futures, savoring the sweetness of sin before it turns to ashes in their mouths. What calling be spoken for the lost wolves running free in the woods, that have begun to tame themselves.   What cries can can accompany the sorrow filled night of lonely hearts seeking validation from another? What whispers can be spoken as light to a man who’s just lost a brother? What curses can tame the tempered flame of a judge of righteous thunder?   

Pain and cost with friendships lost, dies set and cast of memories last.

The Martyr Charlie Kirk.

What fertile soil of God was he who stood firm on faith and conviction to speak.
The leaded seed meant for death burrowed into him to steal his breath
but, it was life that blossomed at that trigger pull.
It was the harvest of convictions that sprouted as drops of the spirit of God rained out.
They sought to prune a vine but raised a vineyard of fruit in His name.

Man is but earth in the purpose of God to be molded and shaped for His means.
A life lived well is a testimony.
A death died well speaks to his calling.
God is glorified, and glorified, and glorified.
Death is not the end of life this way, but the beginning. 

1000, Cuts

My soul has papercuts from flipping through these scripture pages. 
Each word is life that is simultaneously bleeding me out.
The houses of God are filled with these books and these pages.  
Men standing before you on an elevated stage or screaming razor blades from the street corners. 
Some trying to sever your ties to sins, others trying to sever your money and time. 
There's a boot pressed to my chest in sorrows and the weight feels like solitude.
My breath of life is shallow like smoke in a house fire. 
I am suffocating in my hope, and my love for others. 
Like a weeping mountain top prophet i ache in my purpose.
Like a man with a forgotten face I bow my head in my own shames. 
My eyes look outward to a call back to God, and inward to all the ways i'm not like Him enough. 
I eat these words like bread and I cough out my prayers in repentance. 
The Word of God is the death of me, and it's Truth the only thing that tethers me to life.

Call down fire

 A voice that speaks within my own sound reverberates in my thoughts. The counterfeiter has taken my mind and through the sorrow and grief and solitude that I feel within, he taunts me. "Its only a matter of time until you kill yourself" he, as me, says to and within myself. 
He's sometimes accompanied by the kingdoms he's holding in a choir of disapproval and reminder that I , myself, am not a particularly righteous man. I am intimate with my sins and the chains that hold with contempt. 

God be true and every man a liar. 
As Elijah weeped for death after God called down fire.