You tell me I am godless,
But I have more gods than you,
You say I am a sinner,
But its your foot in that shoe.

You claim I have no faith,
Yet everything is sacred,
You label me a satyr,
But its your love that is tainted,

Then you call me heretic,
Apostate and blasphemer,
As you hate within your empty church
Pretending you’re a believer.

But that darkness in your heart
Does not exist in mine,
And while you rage at my beliefs
You only make them shine.

aging in silence
a dusty old thought,
lost and forgotten,
resurfaces
for a brief
session of peek-a-boo

mysterious as youth
small as a sparkle
yet, echoing through
the quiescence of reflection;
boisterous as a precocious child

'tis but a trifle!

but in this enchanting moment,
beheld, once again,
as a gem of epiphanic vitality.

the shadow caste
is thin but long
in ancient rite's
masonic song

the idol wards off
Ra's good light
in confirmation
of the night

villagers
in sun below
bail the harvest
export to go

Daylight burns fastest at day's end
as sun sprints toward the western trees
and shadows stretch before they blend
while light spears shrink to a mere tease.

I think of this before the fire
as it blazes late at night,
how hottest flames quickly expire
once they've shed their brightest light.

Even combustion of decay
begins slowly but ends up fast
until it comes that final day
when wood crumbles into dust at last.