It is my doubt not to speak

An angel in an orchard,
She said it spoke strange things.
No angels, or voices ever yet spoke to me.
Though my thoughts debate and argue matters endlessly.
It is with my own inner voice, my doubtful thoughts speak.

And surely, God has never spoken to me?

And my God is life, God of everything,
But my end is the ground, mortal darkness, or ashes of things.

And an angel in an orchard told her strange things,
It never spoke to me.
I was never foolish enough to follow my empty dreams.

And my God is light, and full of energy,
But my death approaches, a date is set and I am late - it will not delay.
A date written by my God, who will not betray.

And I well wish others, as my enemies thrive and laugh and smile,
And of me, they say the most ugly things, without basis,
And not in revenge, no... for the fun of such things.

And I admire Joan, the witch my ancients were convinced was a saint.
The witch our modern world no longer forsakes, nor burns to ashes upon the rough-made always-condemned stake.

And though they may not be true, I wish I heard her angels speak.
And I foolishly admire those with more from life to seek.

And around me, all simply believe,
But doubt has been my nature from infancy.

And I second-guess my every second-guess.
I wonder what will happen to my now empty body upon massive eternity.
Torn to shreds, or burnt, indistinguishable from cigarettes once seen.
And even so, I believe.
Although God sends me no audible messages, and his angels - I just cannot see.

And I doubt everything, even me.

And I wish some angel had spoken to me.
But all I have is intuitions, dreams and feelings of unease.
And perhaps a voice, inaudible to me, speaks of things unspoken.
But in such a thing I cannot just believe.

And the world itself, I doubt as I do see.
I doubt everything. I doubt you. I doubt me.

And God I sense not, not much at all just lately.
And I have never been foolish enough to follow my dreams.

And yet, somehow still, silly me, I believe.
And around me, I hear a million angels whisper unspoken things.
And yet, they speak to doubting me.
And I hear not a thing.
It's a predicament - I am doubting me.

Hubris... set my soul upon the deadly seas

He stood upon the muddy clouds with the mortal corpses of lovely saints.
Looking down upon us - gladiators saluting gold,
He stood, bent over - deathly, holy, long dead,
He looked upon the snares set, the traps crept.
I ignored him as he spoke,
Surely, it was optimism, not hubris
And I believed the beautiful impossible.
That I was an antagonist in a novel by the guardian deity,
Who carved me out of gold.

Of my great tragedies, I forged sense.
Of injuries to mankind, of deaths.
I was the leading man in my own novel-life, a character in a fiction.
Not a long forgotten footnote, or some hollow, empty soul.
Hubris lit its eyes, shining like gold - it set itself free.

And though Absurdism is not my faith,
God writes in a language I do not yet comprehend.
And The World does not ever centre upon me.

And so I stood before the waves,
The rocks were blacker than black.
The seas swirled with lurid blue and vomit green.
They took my soul and bashed it against the teeth of Midas.

Empty, I lay down upon the silky sheath of watery suffocation.
Hubris left my benign form,
The ocean filled with my unknown tears.

Empty, I tossed upon the sandpaper strandline of the full moon beach.
Amidst seaweed, waste and lost manmade nets, I struggled somehow to breathe.
And though I am not an absurdist, the tea leaves, the meaning of horrid fate, I...
I don't even pretend to sight read.

And the white horse, with a shining amazon warrior riding upon the waves,
I admit now, was but water - angered and strained.
Not a saviour upon a horse, in well polished silver form.

And though absurdism is not my faith,
There is no profit, dear lass,
Of thinking you ride upon solid ground,
And do not accompany the time winged death took my soul.

Hubris is a funny thing,
It caused me hope, unwavering belief,
Betrayed  - yet - I always believed.

Absurdism is not my faith,
But nor are you,
Flawed, and an unhelpful liar,
You were never once true.

And so I let my hubris go,
And with Jonah and the whale,
I catch a wave,
And let God direct my insignificant life.
And hubris, like barking at the moon,
I actively subdue.
Along with it, any hope I once had for you.
And along with it, any hope I once held for you.

I'd do anything for you... then you open your mouth...

Be still... storm - upon an accelerating heart.
I look upon you, I feel your stare,
And somehow, I feel you here, and there.
Upon my skin, my hairs do raise.
Electricity starts and unpredictably sways.

And slowly, my heart... flutters again.
And what they say of you,
It cannot be there...
Such a creature of ever... beauty.

Be still, storm - upon an accelerating heart.
Yet... then you open up... your mouth,
And I observe you with ears, with sight.

Be still, storm upon an accelerating heart.
And ever true, deepest love for you... I all so suddenly...
Just realistically, I... I... I simply cannot find.
Since you opened up... your mouth.
And words happened, they swiftly dispersed... came out.
And with them... most quickly, I fled.

Quiet, the Maddening Voice

Nothing... else. Your voice, it's you.
What you say - I tend to ignore.
Not on purpose. Truly. Of course.
Radiance. Hope. Your voice sooths me.
It's what I love, not just the... rest.

And I await its sound. In its unholy rest.
I crave its rhythm, its unsettling upsets.
Your voice fills my form, and my unsettled unrest.

If I could, to hear you protest.... I'd upset you...
I'd buy you flowers, if it caused you to speak a word most unset.
I might'as well be entirely blind. And though you are beautiful,
For it is your siren sound that attracts me,
Your natural speech, that sound, I seek.
Your magnetic chords of everyday - I everyday seek.

And as your voice undulates notes,
I sit and listen, fate not unset.
To a voice, unrivalled, a voice I...
I cannot but sit through a million undue, unset.

The winter ice touches my lungs,
It freezes my inner sets.

And I listen carefully. I await your unsettling upset.
I look to my telephone, but it seems unset.
I do not bother to lift it,
And without your voice, I am upset.

Whisper of the Hidden Sociopath

From the depths of Avīci, the Devil blew a wind.
Hades commented on it, he said it made him sin.
Within a prison of not eternal hell,
The Devil laughed a bit, He sang it in a stroll.

Fire did burn, and whisper upon the words.
One in a hundred, he or she was born quite free,
Nothing good about her, a predator after thee.
No good thoughts about her, killing makes her free.

And what is it to thee?
Her words seem quite a reprieve.
She sings of horrid anguish,
A world too mean to be.
She sings and weaves perfect lies,
A world that hates her and your hide,
Of her many troubles, and people who are not free.
And with her words, you find it,
You find your synchronicity.
For her tainted words, you'd give her every might.
Upon the altar of her lies, you'd give unto, even after life.

From the heights of the heavens,
The devil blew a wind.
A second saviour, just when you needed something different, now to see.
Fire did burn and whisper upon the words.
And to his song, you did lean.

Emotions, he has not,
Proto- the limiting of his reach.
Primeval thoughts do rule his scene.
He sings a song of love. A word he secretly delights to despise.
And your affection builds him up.
Besting others is his daily breath,
And his thoughts are nothing but the berserker's best.

Your love builds him up,
He holds you, a trophy, quite unnaturally high.
And he enjoys your destruction, as many times as time and will.
They say he murdered thee.

One in a hundred, one of many almost demons who walk this hallowed world,
They call it planet number three.
A mind quite different, chemicals not in balance,
He whispers into the ether.
And the devil delights as another and another joins him upon the nether sun.
And hell is filled with trusting souls, hell on earth, the darkest bowels.

The Whisper of the Sociopath, at first it makes him free,
Innocent of Conviction, he tells his lies to thee.
Fire did yearn, and whisper upon his words,
Then he made you free... of all that would make you flee.
A mere Whisper of the Sociopath,
He who hunts humans who were once quite free.
And staring down upon you, he sings his sad song to thee.
And glancing down upon him, see he has no empathy,
A predator pursuing you,
Death and Destruction, are his Daily Breath.
Believe not his secret lies,
Do not aid or assist him,
Perhaps then, in your humility, you will as yet be free.

The Whisper of the Sociopath, perfectly, it is crafted to deceive.
But seeing yourself fawn and faint,
Its influence upon what he sees as your soon dying corpse,
In humility, admitting his effect, that only his ilk can make tread.
How truly you are deceived,
Seeing yourself from outside, perhaps now, perhaps then, perhaps you might be free.