Warlords

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War is inevitable and can’t be stopped by mortal hands;

This is because the body is the war, and we

bring the battlefield with us.

In our search as politicians to send forth boots on the ground;

we discovered that we are all the ones wearing the boots.

The ribcage the iron bars that imprison the heartbeats of the soul.

The skeleton the jailer warden that keeps us from flight.

The skin the barbed wire that not only seals our freedom in;

but keeps others from entering our hearts.

The skull is the cage that keeps our thoughts from releasing.

The only place for the battlefield to lay in, is our minds.

Ambition fuels freedom.

Freedom fuels ambition.

The two are like shield brothers;

there is no forest more denser.

Without ambition, there is no drive–

without any drive, there is no purpose.

And it is in this, that we learn ourselves to be the floating orbs;

waltzing through life–

War is like armor worn by the soul;

our essence the fruit;

our spirit the bowl–

Copyrightcopyright January 23, 2019

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The Day Before the Frost

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The air across the valley is warm, like fire that

shapeshifts; like the moon shapeshifts.

The art includes the leaves, includes the ground, includes the trees;

and on this day, a memory was forged.

Of the ones you used to remember, just before this frozen war.

And the war went cold, and froze over.

And we call this age in overture the passover.

 

Copyrightcopyright December 9, 2018

The Overture of Solice

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The merciful are brought mercy;

dead are sprung back to life, like the magical fairies and their wings, a caress, a kiss?

Upon the dying soldier’s lips. The singing in the ears that won’t hear, the beginning of our quest for bliss?

The gun is my heartbeats, the hour my veins.

The mind of the war-torn, like my ears in the form of the vibrating planes.

My eyes see like seeing all my wars, but my hands fumble, like all thumbs-

the lame-ing of the coldest war on our hearts, that hath begun-

— —

The overscore is the reckoning, and this is what we know; that war fights war alongside the fight wars told. War is war, and the humans over the mountains.

The uprise in overture, into the skies of the All Mighty.

The gates unlock, to let loosed the waltz of destiny from within. Whilst the shakening of Earth be the crumbling of the days.

The hour’s gaze, in the midst of our trials and tribulations does our brigade.

The nurse is the great bandage-er of fate, for she whispers in our ears the tears that drench freckles in the form of water ‘crossed our face-

she is the invisible hand that reaches for your arm. She is the ‘there for one minute’, just before the flash of our once memory’s departure, and replaced;

in her place be the enemy, that we fight against, and my locket suddenly becomes a blade-

and the sound of her voice changes into the bogies at 1:00 in the form of a staring-back gaze-

— —

The mind plays games with you, as you slumber. The hour is now noon, outside the cold air is a wicked force that keeps a man with the flu from frolicking again-

To keep this child at heart from walking the sunlight’s walk, in the shadows of God’s art.

The beauty is this: that the sun shines down upon football stadiums, courts, and even hospice.

The rain drenches over the joyful, wicked, peaceful, believers, and even the heartless.

The sound of music unlocks the mind, and I am tossed into the rays;

when the night unlocks the dancing of the very stars, that the artist cries out for days.

Copyrightcopyright November 16, 2018

Mother of Tanks

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The tank drives up slowly, and speaks the art of war.

The tank sings a lullaby, and whispers at the jungle’s door-

the tank tucks me in fatigues, comfortably in bed, and gently rocks me to sleep.

My eyes gaze up at my mother in a steel plating, whispering words of ease.

The long barrel that the cannons come out, throws stones at all of mine enemies.

The tires are bedroom slippers, soft upon the marsh, and inevitable upon the green.

And I wander alongside, the mother of tanks. In search of a scope from over yonder;

The twisted gazes, of an anti-material revolver, is what I erase before the enemy can harm her.

Copyrightcopyright November 15, 2018

Hype is Might

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The hype is might, and the might is hype.

The cheetah is not only fast enough to catch and pommel its prey, it can also psyche them out.

Muhammad Ali enabled his body to do both of these things, and hence he was one of the most fiercest fighters in the would.

It is because of this I say to the warrior’s heart:

Hype makes for unstoppable strength. The warrior should possess unending energy with the quickness to go alongside his strength.

A strong man, not only weighing in 200 pounds, but he is quick and fierce, shouts loudly and boldly, and swings relentlessly is going to seem more dangerous than even another 200 pound man who sits and waits, even if this was a ruse.

This is the art of displaying strength behind acts of hysteria, even war uses this.

The speeding train travelling at me at only 1 mile an hour seems less dangerous than a train travelling at 100 speeds, because it is for truth.

With that being said, true hype requires commitment and ambition, else it is vanity. Hype without ambition is no different from a mice that runs around strong enough to gnaw at the weak, but weaker than the weakest cat that preys upon it.

And remember, a single hype man against authority is an imprisoned man.

A crowd of 10 hype men against authority, is the chaos of anarchy.

Chaos is the venom that is hysteria; when the eye pupils shrink in the balls, the gaze fierce with rage, the mind within vengeance is enslaved.

This makes for incoherent madness. This is the venom that devour every hopelessness in days.

This is also fuel for guerilla warfare; a hyped man drained of energy will only wait in the jungles with studying eyes for the opportunity to become hype yet again.

Copyrightcopyright November 15, 2018