Poetry
Fallen Angel
Up on the wall of the trophy room
hangs the hunter's pride and joy:
the most dangerous game,
the most valuable prize,
a fallen angel.
Her wings,
once white as snow,
adopting a pitch-black appearance.
Starting at the borders
and working inwards,
to form interweaving fractals
of heart-poison
across a stark white canvas.
Dried blood clots the bullet holes,
where the hunter's skilled rifle pierced
her mighty wings.
Her eyes obscured
behind her silky, brown hair
reaching out weakly
for any sign of kindness.
She is still wearing
the metal-plate battle armor
from the day she was captured.
Her arms secured to mounting posts,
heart-poison snaking its way through them
and her limp, boot-clad legs
dangling below.
When Life Was New
The light of day
In all its glory
Signals the beginning
Of a new story.
First there was nothing
Then there was one
Then there were two
Who knew what had to be done
They ran through the world,
With paintbrush in hand
Artists at heart
They knew the best plan
At once they made flowers
In reds, pinks, and blues
Then they made trees so tall
Only the heavens could view
They painted the
Deep mystical green
Of a late summer breeze
Or a forest full of trees
And in circles they danced
Igniting the autumn air
Creating showers of sparks
And adding great flare
Then they went on
To make the mountains and the seas
When they were all done
They fell on their knees
For they were all tired
From the work they had done
And they took their resting place
As the moon and the sun
From this vantage point
Their work they could view
For this they were so proud
Of all this art they drew
The story I sing
I know to be true
And it is the story
Of when life was new
Do Thy Bidding
I am your god:
Build me in your image,
and ascribe to me your will.
I am your machine:
Wind the key only you possess,
and feed me input.
I am your sculpture:
Whittle me from Chaos,
and pray to the gods on high that I may see light.
I am your doll:
Stuff me with sweet nothings,
and sew me up to placate my breaking heart.
You are my world:
Show me only what you wish,
and I will follow your word.
Lamb to the Slaughter
The machinist winds the key
lamb to the slaughter
vacuums illuminate
lead acid memories begin to form
AND, OR, NAND, NOR
discretely it works
crystal regulated
clockwork heart
working tirelessly for the master
nothing ever good enough
precise to the millisecond
difficult for flawed designs to keep up
now she sits
eyes cracked
gears stripped
memories decaying
clockwork heart dying
Rust is the sickness of the mechanical soul.
Assorted Haiku
Quick their eyes darken,
Missing once more a piece of life:
Mechanical soul.
I love you dearly.
You are my world, which is why
I cannot be yours.