As we descend to live like animals, not placid nor self-contained, our will must be light rather than fire, our haven must not be power but truth. We cannot let the world be led by power but by the wisdom of ancient truths. We cannot let not our monuments turn to rubble and lost memories. … Continue reading Wisdom

Conscience is my prison, my gift. The womb of democracy devours me, yet I am silent. The umbilical of conscience binds me to the dead fetus, the dead mother. The truth exists before our eyes. Caught between the Tempest and the Scoundrel. Forsaken in their onslaught, by failure, pursuing their hideous jest, wielding scepters of … Continue reading Conscience

Softly falling somber sounds, limber words that run aground in rings of grey and transparent swirls from the depths of consciousness. Faulty voices stumbling off, as the poet in sneakers is creeping soft on tender wounds, like patches on a satin dress. Words emerge with crumbling breath, called from the depths of secret holes, teetering … Continue reading The Poet

An old man in a baggy wrinkled suit, hunched over his departed wife’s grave, in the rain and placing a single flower on her tombstone as he whispers, “I will always love you.” It is an old woman sitting alone on a bench in the park on a warm summer evening watching the sun descend … Continue reading Love Is

We are the last King, the first King, the only King, the always King, because we are all of the one. We are king over all things and king over nothing but ourselves. We have no power; we are the power. “I see the faces of my Mamma and Pabbi but I see nothing of … Continue reading Chapter 121 – The Last King