Jealous Woe

I try to plant my humour in the soil of heaven, but I am befooled. The false dawn creeps and forces it upon the wet rocks, doomed to wither in the shadows of doubt. Angels doth pull a face as I toil fruitless knowing it will yield not a stem of value.

My joy is bereft of account and cold as ash upon the clay. My cries will only mock my lips and charge only silence to the savior's ears. His prideful sheep delight in their glib wonder. So I remain a tale of jealous woe told to idiots.

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Inquiet Smile

            I am as a scuttle pot, dusty and smutty, awaiting her cleansing breath to wash away my sorrow. With a wry smile she culls my hindered transgressions, and her joy can fulfill my most inscrutable desires.

            My deepest wounds will watch as she enters my soul, forcing old brutal foes made newly fangless to bite. She creates bumbling simpletons of my twin born gallant enemies. My joy increases with each graceful step she takes. I listen to her gentle voice which can if needed ring the ears of any who bid me harm.

            Alone she can sustain my struggled and inquiet spirit. She understands that I will hold tightly to my untruth until the pain of belief becomes too heavy to bear. I beg that her grace will complete my dismal and thirsty being.

-Johnny V.