It’s said

It’s said that nothing stays the same,
that all good things will go

“A fool’s errand,” you’ve heard them say
“to think it won’t be so.”

“Oh, hope? How cute. Just wait and see,”
the thrice dead bones intone,

“and isn’t it a little proud
to think that you might know

what we did not to keep from hate
and bitterness and low

whispers said in confidence and
the lustful glances sown,

from wanting what we didn’t have,
and keeping wrongs in tow,

from using what our loved one’s gave
to feed our hearts of stone?”

Four lips open in “Gloria
in excelsis Deo,

no pride is found in one who hopes,
and no one claims to know

how to avoid fates similar
to those that you’ve been shown

in fact it is our ignorance,
knowing we do not know,

that humbles us to power divine
and makes our hearts beat so.

Your words fall short as you can see
from rendering their blow

so kindly crawl back to your hole
and let us the hell alone.”

If I had known to where it was
that I was meant to walk,

no angel would have prompted me
to turn and see the lock

of flaxen hair that lay upon
eternity besought

in Marian cathedral halls
my heart of hearts was caught.

Seven Dolors

“A sword shall pierce” the old man croaked,
in bitter prophecy.

The screams of innocents were heard
as they began to flee.

The child was lost and found again
pronouncing a decree,

a little way from where he met
his ma’ in agony.

Forsook but not forgot he died
as she fell on her knees,

the lance by which the Blood was shed
she could not help but see.

The Body spiced and wrapped in stone,
she found it hard to breathe.

What I would give that I could see
a place to draw the line

between the good that I desire
and what is really thine.

Gone from my heart is love of Love
and in its place you’ll find

an image of created good,
the pale facade of life.

As son of Adam I am cursed
to take what’s yours as mine,

to constantly corrupt what’s given
by treating it divine.

Why must I be moved?

Why must I be moved? I’m fine here, thanks.

Don’t you know rolling stones gather no moss?

Patience sometimes pays late, not that you’d know.


I admit, deserts ain’t hospitable

places for moss waiting to get gotten,

but, the worthwhile isn’t ever easy.


“As a dog returneth to his vomit,

so the stone arolleth in search of moss,”

Wisdom said. Got a problem with Wisdom?


Well, I got a problem with being moved.

It brings with it all kinds of things. Nausea,

a sense of the fleetingness of life, etc.



When would we stop? Hmm? Imagine moving.

Forever. And ever. Doesn’t sound pleasant.

It couldn’t be worse, or it could, I guess.


Because though moss gathered consumes stone,

it abides, contra those slag chasers, dew,

and rain, lecherous leeches, here, then gone.


If I’m to be moved, I’ll be moved.

Please, let me gather my thoughts and decide.

I’m being moved! Where are we moving? Wait!