“When we love, we tear away a soldier from a zone where he may gather wounds, to a home where he may gather comfort. For there have been many an occurrence, for a soldier to trade away his firearm, for a bandage.
It is so, from being used to being useless, that the soldier who is torn away from a place that may tear his own body into wounds manifold, is now loved in a place that will no longer use him.”
Sickness is a place in each other’s mouth, And alike it all, you’ve shown a trace of a future, Unclean upon the crawling filth, Upon the knees of some horrid Monarch. He’d shown no kindness, It was as the books had wrote, He believed in worships too unclear to see, And made things simple in driest notes. Whoredom is the world with entertainment Combined with the illness Of consumption.
I am in love with my Hell, My place made in paradise, My utopia of a mind, Formed as great disgust to my kind. I splurge as much as I urge Others to eat from my plate. I play a game of marvelous Christianity, Upon the disuse of a man called ‘agony’.
There is desertion next to me, And her voice is the blizzard upon the desert, The coldness upon the dryness, The death upon the infertile, And her tears come down as meteors, Though, fire would not create the lust Needed for a rain of seeds, To sprout green from the white, miserable sands.
A dance between two icons of slenderness, Has me whisper words full of tenderness.
There is poetry in each fragment of gold, Upon the crown to your ivory scalp. I thwart the crudeness you’ve absorbed Into yourself. And, between two pillars of flame, Two folds remain, To hide a show of fireworks.
Of sparks and drops of wax, From a bent and worn candle, A sword embeds itself, Into a bed Of deepest flesh, And drags out the contents of a furnace, Of all remaining blood to the incinerator That may turn flesh to ash.
I would not cut, But simply sink, The blade between bed and bone, And drown in the pages of poetry.
In your eyes, I become lost In darkness where flowers become cultivated By scents and ecstatic sighs.
My annexation is the cultivation of a desert, Where the spread of white, Is the spread of newness upon a sheath of gold. To raise up a tree, From an abdomen soaked in beaded sweat, To see your sparkling face, Of the same way.
For I shall melt all of Antarctica, To see the spread of green.
“Men are each wound on Christ’s form, and each droplet is the renewing of any heart having bled enough to either love or commit a murder; in both forgiveness and committed atrocity, that is what Christ reveals. The pain it requires to love and the resentment it requires to slay.”
Woman is a creature of either care or negligence, where her guilt is expected for its invisibility. All in what she’s neglected, is what deception will take for advantage. All in what she has not done, will be made into guilt for business to utilize in its chaos. Confusion is to Woman, by way of lacking assurance, and her manifested chaos is in the undoing of something. It is her negligence that the businessman will soak himself in, because the businessman makes his home in negligence. In the undoing, in all things unmoving of a world, the businessman makes his home, takes his partnership among the nothingness, and begins to create.
“Make use” of those who do not move, as a man of business will say, and a woman will find greater sweetness in the gain of power than ever she craved upon a time in a home. Woman has arms, has hands, has been depicted as the mythological creatures with claws. As witches with claws, or as sirens with talons. The bird is the matriarch.
She swoops upwards, pulls down the man who climbs too high, only out of compassion. Up the ladder, he crawls. Though, Woman has wings, made for her to fly upwards and drag Man down. To where? To a bed, to her flesh, and to the arms, the wings, that begin to cradle away his pain.
Man wishes to be close to the sun. And, it is his ascension that brings most pain. Man’s curiosity is the next one on line for leadership. Competition, that is; but, to what sun in the universe is Man attracted to? Man is attracted to two sources of light, and he becomes confused when attracted to no light. Both are painful, though the sun will scorn, while Woman will bathe him in the light that sears away darkness.
There is much darkness between Earth and the sun, and Man wades through it, with murk between his toes.
Man has guilt of doing. His doing is forgiven by Christ’s wounds, by the Virgin Mother who never dropped an ounce of blood to birth that pain. Virginity is, therefore, in the place of the Virgin Mother, who has connection to undoing. An “undoing” that would mark the Virgin Mother as the woman who would birth the greatest display of pain for the world, that is not a woman giving birth. In all doing, there is pain; and, in all undoing, there is the relief of pain. The latter would be the mother who succumbs to her guilt of negligence, and begins to care.
“In reality, we walk upon Earth. As well, we walk upon others. Obsessed with reality, we unknowingly walk upon others, through, as well, our obsession with discovery. Discovery of all realities, all things there to be touched, smelled, or tasted, are the senses we utilize when we perceive something in closeness. And yet, such senses of those individual three, are always to be the senses utilized when in that ‘heat of lust’ we describe to be made for ‘blood, sweat, and tears’. From flesh, we bleed, and through pain, we feel it. From sweat, we smell it. From tears, we taste them, as they drain to our open mouth. And, for the other two senses, of sight and sound, we can still be close enough to see, close enough to hear, either the sight of pain, or the sounds of pain.
For to be close enough to touch, smell, or taste, may as well be close enough to be the cause of the injury. For how can we cause the injury without opening the wound, or in the case of discovery, opening the book?
‘Appetite’ is the word we use during when we consume, utilizing the three ‘lustful senses’ in exact consecutive order. We touch the flesh, to smell the flesh, to taste the flesh. And, we are all rapists of ourselves and others at that point, obsessed with privacy and identity.”
I turn around to repeat, In careless repetition, All vows and emotions, upon a plate of fate, You deny what was offered, From a dying God, From a man with all the might to his fight, His eyes were upon you, And faced the enormous creation, Of a statue in what he’d not undo, A love from all broken strings, Upon one delicate harp, Upon one frozen heart.
I fought to cleanse the hate from my plate, From the dish that served rather coldly, All the misfortune I spent for a night, For you to eat up my words.
You are the child at the feet of God, Born with wings, aflame, Though, are crawling with those who are lame, There is idleness to your eyes, And serpent shapes to your fingers. I was born to love and to swallow tears, Puddles glisten in my palms, Overflown upon what gently lingers, The subject of pain placed at my heel, Born to desert, and gracefully feel.
Your eyes are the scorn in the desert, The desert wind under my command, Is all to make me a man.
The faces in their frequent shadows, Their hearts in puddles so shallow.
Face me, dear woman, with torn heart, All memories come barreling down, Upon the corner of our wilderness.
In the meadow of a tearful love, Where droplets of dew form on grass, There is your face of its gentle sight, For my truest love made to last.
Is this an attempt to forget a past? Such should be seen by all as an attempt by an Atheistic community to forget what religion spoke about, though still occurs. How do we define an afterlife?
It occurs today. We see Hitler and Stalin even for the genius they have somewhat shown in their time. We analyze their spoken words, for that is because we do not define a life by failure. The only failure that doomed both Hitler and Stalin, was the one that killed them.
Even among the most evil, we attempt to drag out even the smallest memory from those sorts, that reveals even the smallest fragment of goodness. For that is how an afterlife is defined, by the ‘eternal love’ from a memory that cannot be small. That is because it represents an eternity from something we always relate to when history repeats itself. Once more, we do not define a life by its death, but by its life, and the memories of good from even the most evil.
We prevail in every scenario, before we fail for the failure that kills us, because what has Darwin noticed besides the primary goal for each organism, which is ‘survival of the fittest’ or perhaps just simply ‘survival’? The one failure that kills life, is the only failure a life will ever experience. And those memories are cast as ‘eternal love’, an ‘afterlife’ for the person of even the most evil intent, to be remembered for their life, not their failure.
We study Hitler’s speeches, Stalin’s speeches, and many call them genius, because we are at a stalemate where we cannot speak ill of the dead, without defining ourselves as what goes against survival, which is cowardice.
And, in that love, we are eternally strong.
It is that realness of what we suppose does not exist, because what has been buried is inevitably forgiven by life, never remembered for failure, but forgiven for failure, and remembered for even the smallest increment of goodness.
What does Atheism have as as argument for this? What can an Atheist say for what they commonly do? It was Darwin, who has been called a Blasphemer by religious folks, who dubbed the term ‘survival of the fittest’ in what has been stated, here. It is science that makes analogies of the dead, though play directly into God’s hands.
For what good does love have, if it is not upon the ground in which we walk, in the soil where we have buried something to supposedly forget? It does nothing.
Love, upon religion, is condemned for its relation to the past…
“I have come across those who state to never trust those out of caution for a world too distrusting, though their state of distrust has only come about from frequent experiences of betrayal. It should be made into academia, whatever mindset causes a person to be attracted to those never meant to be trusted. Those with bad hearts, are spoiled apples, and they end up spoiling the entire batch, as the saying goes. And yet, where is the belief in the word ‘proof’? As trust is earned, so is distrust. One proves themselves able enough to be trusted, or unable enough to be distrusted. Both require proof, and so, where is the wisdom in stating that a person should be immediately distrusted, though perhaps even treat that same person as a friend? Where is the purpose, when around someone said to be a friend, to cast wary glances in that friend’s way? Such only causes that friend of the distrusting individual, to be hurt, until their own heart turns just as spoiled as the distrusting one. For that is because this ‘perpetual state of distrust’ is merely a subtle form of betrayal.”
“Many will point out, and many more will say for others to point out, and we can then be lucky we only point a single finger out of our ten, when we are pointing at something. What this means, is the viewpoint, being fragmented when one will say, ‘All are entitled to the interpretation’. Though, to what extent does the viewpoint become another viewpoint, among eight billion others, until it is merely a fragment of the whole mirror? Of a singular sight, and were all eight billion people upon this planet to hold their own viewpoint of that one sight, it merely turns whatever was significant, into smaller and smaller insignificance. We then begin to grudgingly point to each other, and make viewpoints of others, for that one viewpoint of a single person to also become fragmented. What all this does, is deter a human from closeness, into a distance. We no longer peer into the mirror from up close, into a person’s eyes from up close, to see what may be commonalities between two persons. We lose, not sacrifice, romance and love, in this. We lose the meaning of marriage, into believing in ‘expiration dates’ for those romances. It is pathetic. Many would die for an eternal romance, and many more will die because of a failed one.”
“Where a man has his genitalia for annexation, it would be when he annexes the woman down south, at the southern tip of her, as the Earth and all of land, so that all of Antarctica melts. Conquer her heart, first, all of men, before the annexation; because, should a man do the latter before the former, her lust will be a blaze, will be absorbed by her, will be spread outward from her, to make an uncontrollable inferno that all will desire to be burned by.”
“There is great strength resonating through a woman, when she is continually deceived. Allow a woman to work, as offensive as that may sound, and she will be continually deceived, through what deception is ultimately defined as. Deception has the definition of ‘usage’, to pull a human away from a home, and maintain continual usage upon the subject, until they are worn thin. It would be the same as pulling a potential slave from their native homeland, and putting them to work under the command of a master. No one forgives the Femme Fatale, for a woman of this sort cannot ever be forgiven for doings; for that is because they continually attract and doom, based on previous experiences. A society of seduction is only ever introduced due to the female psychology that resonates itself around continual usage of the person. Lust, that is, is the place of deception, is the place of usage; to be placed upon the bed, and make whatever one wills of a body, is the essence of utility. Love holds, love embraces, and never lets go, whereas lust is wild and its flames are uncontrollable.
The words ‘until they are worn thin’ is when a woman, when being deceived, will be starved of any forgiveness. In love, a woman has limited forgiveness to offer. In lust, a woman turns forgiveness into allurement. That means, for whomever unlucky man comes across her path, he will feel the continual guilt of doing, making him continually weaker, under her rays of beauty. And, more-so, such a deceived and deceiving woman will be obsessed with appearance.”