The Middle of a War


Oh my god

We’ve landed right smack

in the middle of a war

Born into it, blood and body intact

Our souls sold to its tragedy

Heavens above

Our nations have traded into this

Into this massacre of sorts

My Gracious Lord

What did we do

To be born in soil

Soiled from the blood of those coming

And those who left

Oh my God

Look what we’ve done

Chosen our paths

Picked up our weapons

There’s no running


Oh my God

We’ve landed right smack

In the middle of this war

My lord

We cannot build our homes

Not without these charred bones

The trees will not grow

In dead tainted sands

Strewn right and left

With the Bodies of the unknown

My God

When we pray

Our tears will run red

And our hands will shake

Because our salvation is dead itself

Our hearts betrayed.


Four Thousand of a Degree

You see there has been a question burning in me and in the depths of the world. The one about the artful warriors. The one that keeps me up most nights.

There are multitude destinies within one millionth of your realities and only one fifth of them are relative and the rest are filled with hundred of your memories and perhaps ninety nine point one one four are just dreams.

And within these numbers, you’ll see the possibility of oblivion and that alone is the only thousand of the actual infinites.

So if you were to die in battle tonight, will I feel it? If you perished on the root of that frozen mountain, will I mourn you?

To be honest all these question were quite useless, almost less than a zero, perhaps below minus four thousand of a degree.

The truth is we were born to be raised like fighters and one day some dawn will bring you back. To recruit the rest of us. Or perhaps the dawn will bring you back permanently to stay.

So the lovely glass wall house by the forest edge, the pristine living room beside the kitchen counter, and the snow globes and book shelves and the lonely corners in the library would not look so desolate.

And that perhaps is just another one of a million ideas between the trillion spaces created by the absence.

The absence.

The Angel on Fire

The quest is not over for you

It never will be

Not even when you die

Your mind is on fire

Your heart is on fire

Your soul is on fire

And unless you end up in the fiery pits of hell

Your whole life will be mapped out in sequences

Of unholy fights and delights

Of blasted glories and rusted swords

Of hidden requiems and bad dreams

And your death will be ascension into combat origins

Your entire existence is an array of cogs and pieces

Of Joints and limbs

Collectively an automaton of fire

A soldier on fire

An angel on fire

It will never end.


Sell our souls to the highest bidder

Take it away. All of it.

Instead let’s go rogue.

Let us play with our lives,

let’s drink from the bottomless chasm of sin and deceit.

Let us paint ourselves red with blood and gore.

Let us damn ourselves and this world in the process.

Let us build castles in hell, the gargoyles bearing our vile deeds.

Let us drown ourselves in the breathtaking limitless realm of nothingness.

Let us ride with the demented, the soulless,  the abandoned, the ridiculed.

Let us make absolute spectacles of ourselves,

making play of our lives,

Let us forget good and goodness,

embrace the dark as it stands on our threshold.

Let us build castles in hell.

Let us sell our souls to the highest bidder.

Attempting to Re-define (and failing)

Attempting to Re-define (and failing)

Precise determinations of centuries are at best foggy and opaque through the eye of a beholder.

Time is a river of circular origins but not the way you’d think. Time was not a river of one life but many lives entwined within a multitude of one great life; one great existence.

And the beholder knows all of this. Time itself is irrelevant, the past is very much the present and the future is the whispering wind on the precipices which knocks and corners and writes and bleeds and makes cryptic comments.

For centuries, humans have been blessed with the future, its implications, and its mysteries. So completely obsessed that future has become a monstrous thing to behold.

But what of the beholder? How does he see this great mystery?

Atlast it’s not the future, it is the past that holds a magnificent fascination for the beholder. Fascination perhaps but the grip is from the other side. The past itself. The past grips the beholder in a stranglehold and lays out a canvas of unblinking realities.

Mathematicians, logical analysts,  philosophers, painters and  dreamers, all have been greatly involved in the breaking down the conundrum of time and space. Some sought to nullify it, make its existence surreal, an imagined phenomenon. Some created it and created the ideas enfolding it.

But what is time?

It is all the same. Made of little bits of reality and largely the haunting of the past and the monstrosity that is the future.

But what of these monsters?

If the future was the monstrosity, then the past was the nightmare lurking under your bed on a cold winter’s night.

There you go, I have written a bit of the past and the future and time and conundrums, not making a spit of sense. But I have written something.

Something of who I am.

Who am I, you ask? Human of course.

But what does that mean anyway? To be human?

For centuries all that man has been taught is that we are human and that is the sum total of it. What you make of it is what will become of you. That is what will become of our humanity.

Once upon a time that humanity was described by the greatness of adventurers who discovered distant lands, of the philosophers who spun ideas out of thin air and learned to define and explore and re-define and debate. And the architects with their giant sculptures of art and symmetry, of perfection and practicality, of beauty and monstrosity.

There was a time when humanity was defined by riches, based on wealth and power and monopolies and leaders.

Oh and what of that time when humanity was nothing but a succession of wars and weapons and guns and bombs and basically humanity was the name given to the eradication of the humanity.

Perhaps it’s the same as power and riches and monstrosity.

All his self acclaimed notion of humanity and nobody ever found out the actual defining nature of it.

Except a select few. The beholders. With time in their grasp of understanding, and they themselves in the grasp of time.

Well there I go rambling on about humanity now.

I was beginning on the vast concept of me.

But I can’t do that now can I? Not without sounding conceited.

After all who am I to put the entire definition of humanity within one lowly body, within one moderate creature, within a single existence? Who am I to self contain the great idea of humanity, the idea that we have spent centuries defining and redefining?