Spirited

Quiet, ever so hushed and calm,
The silenced await, solemn and patient.
Bated breaths and muffled sighs,
Their rustles deafening, the whimpers blunt.

Stray not over the dizzying emptiness,
Step not on that fresh mound.
Their anguished cries may claim you,
Cries of the stricken, the slaughtered, the drowned.

You

You're the scarred soul and the blistering body,
The blood that shimmers inside,
The sweat that glistens violently,
As you stoke your demonic light.

You're the speckled sky,
The constellations floating in a queer dance,
The brilliance of the afternoon stupor,
Lit by your inner suns.

Song of the Faithful

I just met a non-believer,
Ah, the same old tiff again.
It has dragged on for decades and centuries,
Not a suitable place for the sane.

What has religion given us,
but war and blood, you say?
We'd all be machines with gears gone awry,
if it weren't for the beliefs that still hold sway.