For False Heroes Who Fall Before Reaching the Battlefield

His hands,

Hard,

On his hilt,

Awkward,

And clumsy,

Probably drunk,

Probably in love,

He hit the ground dumb,

With his nice white silken shirt,

And polished leather boots,

And shiny shiny jeweled crown,

His horse even laughed.

The Resurrection of Roman Osric Grey (prologue, part I)

And onto these tumorous remains,

And malignancy and shunning and fungi,

And hatred of all things touched by the light of the Earth’s STAR,

Tatters of clothe and skin (hair and fingernails continued to grow),

I scalpel a heart,

Still beating (since last December),

Beneath four stories of ice,

Decades of self mutilation,

And mildewed, wet, death dreams,

This is your trilogy,

The drunken Father,

The schizophrenic Son,

And the holy Ghost (of your Mother).

I destroy your burial seal,

A powerful mark,

Binding you to your grave,

Holding you to the dirt and the dust,

The door now forced wide open,

Your rambling path cleansed,

All of my breath,

All that is left of me,

Pushed from my mouth (my lips covering your lips),

Into the black hole that use to be your mouth.

Returning

Barely beating,

Blind,

And Broke,

Heaving,

Heavy,

But hopeful,

This tick tocking,

Tacking,

React,

Retracting,

I will return.