Sela, I see your strength
And bitter rage.
You course through the seas
O' Bitter One,
Ruler of a Thousand.

When Cyrus came to Babylon and Ecbatana
The peoples fled from your tyranny,
For your wrath was kindled
And your ire, your wrath
Your broken pride, it caused the peoples
To flee from their cities
And they allowed Cyrus' forces within the walls unhindered.

The Medes hate you, O Sela,
As your hideousness is made the Form.
The peoples lament
While you set sail on the ocean,
Mighty Princess of the North.

You grow to hate
So you draw forth your oars
And pillage the coasts
Causing all things beautiful to age.

O! Sela, the world has become yours through Scythian war.

Atalanta, you stand among your thorns.
Everything you touch withers and dies.
Your anger and shame behooves you
As the food you feed the nations
Wilts and does not satisfy.
It is ashes in the mouth.

You make haste to do good
Yet only grief and shame come from your deeds.
Your good is only ashes seeping from clenched fists.

How the nations love you
Atalanta. They cheer your fame
But they curse the name of man
Who challenges you.
You, like Death, bring the shadow
And the grey of the thunderstorm.

Your benefactor is rude in his abuses
And your lover is unkind.
Slowly, your creeping vine tangles itself around
The world, as you stand among your
Thorns, and pluck the Corolla of the Rose
To shape it into your deign.

Fortunes you cannot make.
And it flees from you;
All things die and wilt in your hands.
For the rose does not prosper
For you do not proceed with
Diligence. Your garden is fertile
But you slack hand makes the bulbs stoop.

Cleopatra, your domain is yours
Who gives words of strong guidance.
Your ire is just, your indignation furious
But your favor like a copper piece,
Choice among the coinage.

Silent and swift, your judgment comes
While strong are you to battle.
You lead this one, and he goes there.
You lead that one, and she goes here.
They all hearken to you.

Egypt is guided by your strong bow
But strange are the Satraps who preside
Over the prosperity of our world.
For much strong gain,
The flows of the Nile overflow your head
Yet you strive, even though the rewards are dim.

For the fruits of your kingdom are small,
Small among the kingdoms,
Yet you man your post with dignity of office
As a Prince among princes.

The war comes, and allies flock to your aid
For your reign is good, and just
Though there are kings above you
And kings above them.
The peoples are wary
Yet you keep your subjects under the yoke
Of hard effort, and strength
For you join yourself with them
And thresh the corn, 
Beating out the fitches
From the fold.

Jacque, you cry for a storm
Against the church.
You ire, and are indignant.
Aught had such indignation at a time.

You wish sin to be removed from this world
And believe with your heart that all sin finds its root
In the institutions of man.
You see it, for they have always rejected you.

You rage against a machine
That neither you nor aught fully understand.
Yet, the machine, dirty it is---
It brings upon its apparatus 
The sustenance of the poor.
It is a place to tell dark secrets.
Those secrets told, they will
Vanish with the wind.

Yes, you and aught rage against
It, for it never accepted us.
But, as black and dark the machine is
It makes men civil
And protects them from themselves.

For in all things is sin,
And to take away sin from a man
It takes mercy, and a covering of skins.
For our shame is bare before all mankind,
And these institutions are the places
Where the spinstresses weave our cloth
And wrap us so we are no longer naked.

You wish to strip the cloth
From men
When you wish to dissolve those institutions.
For aught do understand it,
But certainly, those institutions are good
Because men need to cover their naked shame.

Alex, your love for life exudes
And your love for meaning in the little things.
Like a child, you look upon the world
And see greatness, you see unexplored
Alleys in every nook and cranny.

The strangeness of the world is still fresh
In your youthful mind,
So your sense of meaning is founded
Upon a love for life and its victuals.

Grow older, though, Alex,
For one day you will,
And looking upon the turtles
Chirping their love songs
In the spring
You will at once find all things artificial.

The aspirations of love
The charters of worlds gone and far
Of new lands, and sailing over the world's edge
It will be a far off thing,
When standing before the turtles chirping
Their mating hymns.

To which, life will be somber and melancholy,
Yet, it will be sweeter, for the Turtles singing their hymns
Will bring you the knowledge,
Sweet it is, that within their happy little tales
Lies the force of life, and the gay little charm
Of something deep within every living thing.

And when you find that,
You will have found all wisdom
And all charity.
You will have stumbled upon the outer breath of God.

In life there are two worlds
And two kinds of people.

There is the world of people
Who love one another...
Though life gets difficult,
They will not abandon one another
And they have the semblance of belonging and meaning.

There is also the world of people
Who love themselves,
And when life gets difficult
They will recede into a cloud of self pity
And abandon everything and everyone to wallow in their tears.

The first cries
And someone they've known since childhood
Shall stroke their chin
And give them consolation.

The second cries
And some stranger who they've known for a year
Will stroke their chin
And give them what they want to hear.

All wisdom failed.
All prophecies never came true.
A million contradicting voices
And mine is one of them.

I suppose I do not prophesy.
I tell stories.
Stories that curdle the imagination,
And often feel like dreams.

We often do disservice to our philosophers.
We often do disservice to our novelists.
Those are the true prophets.
I hear a thousand and one prophecies,
Yet none of them ever come true.

They speak, they talk, they go over a million times.
Yet, what is the prophecy that came true?
They say, "Revival in the summer."
There is no revival.
They say, "A great harvest."
There is no great harvest.

One prophet said there would be a great harvest,
And him I'll believe.
For, he has the authority I look for
Which is sobriety.
Yet a million and one prophets
All get it wrong.
They predict the rapture,
But it never comes.
They predict the end,
But it doesn't come.
They desire it with all their little hearts
But thankfully, God spares their foolish dreams
And forgives them their errant prophecies.

How many false prophecies have I spoken?
Yet I don't pretend like I have never told
A single lie.
I understand that if my vision does not come true
I am liable to the court and judgment and death.

Yet, they break my faith with every one of their prophecies
For it never comes to fruition.
Save a few here and there who I find trustworthy.

Milton was a prophet
Who saw that astronomy would lead many astray.

Nietzsche was a prophet
Who understood that if God didn't exist, neither did morality.

Tolstoy was a prophet
Who understood that civilization moves its predestined course; there is no changing it.

Dostoevsky was a prophet
For though he doubted God, he believed wholeheartedly in His morality.

There is an old proverb, 
"You are neither hot, nor cold.
"Buy from me wisdom, and gold refined by fire."

For our prophets are hidden because the peoples give them no honor.
Instead, they listen to the pop-culture ideas
And the chemical imbalances that make the world look upon us
And say we're crazy.

No, not you, who said that December will be a harvest.
I know you are true.
One in a million.

Yet, the prophets all prophesy a lie.
The lie is that I once, too, had a rapture dream.
Several of course.
It was not prophecy.
It was merely the thoughts running through my mind.

Though, I get caught up, 
Wanting there to be a rapture.
I truly do.
I want to fly up into the heavens
And be met with Christ on the trumpet's sound.
I do not want to suffer on the earth
Anymore than anyone else.
It's just the destiny of this writer
To see the truth.
For, I am a true interpreter.
I see billions who know nothing of Christ.
I see frantic Christians prophesying the end is near.
And I see the religion dying
Because no one is sober enough to understand.

Yet, one prophet keenly said the religion will not die,
For there will be a harvest.
I await this harvest, with humble expectation.
For, if it comes, it means I shall not be alone.

And I say this soberly.
There will be a great falling away.
As is prophesied.
For, God's wrath is true.
But, do I believe that every profession of faith
Will be a ticket to avoid suffering?
No... for there are many that will say
"LORD, LORD," And be told to depart.

Those are the men who said, 
"Grace! Grace!" and yet they had no change of heart.
I am the man who's had a change of heart.
For the religion will not die in my heart.
For I know my God is true.

And when I read Yeats or Byron
I understand them.
For, they are prophets, too.
They give me introspection
Into the hearts of man;
Like Balaam, I can understand
Why a man wants loveless sex.
I can understand why a man's lust
Leads them astray.

And with that understanding,
I can benefit the doubting
And say, "No, I do not doubt.
"For I see the order of the universe
"And I see the construction of the Word of God
"Behind every act, large or small.
"I see the strings of creation
"The Twelve Universes
"Layered one upon each other.
"I understand all things
"That are in my grasp to understand.
"I see the invisible strings of faith
"That prove God exists.
"As the world doubts him
"Harder and harder
"I grow to understand
"That indeed God does exist.
"I understand that He is Jesus.
"Even if none else do
"I understand why God had to Come in the Flesh
"Why God had to die.
"I understand sin...
"Deep and ill tempered within me.
"I understand war,
"Why it happens,
"Why men kill each other...
"How wicked men slaughter one another
"For glory, while peaceful men shiver."

And I say all of this
Without a doubt that Jesus is the Christ.
I see it.
Like Euclid could find God in his Elements
I can find God in the certainty of the universe.
I can see God in the sin I've had in my heart.
For I've seen very few good people in my life.
And hell exists because there are few good upon the earth.
And heaven exists because there are those of us
Who are good, and our hearts get twisted
In wrenching pain because the kindness we understand
Doesn't seem to be known.

To know the truth,
All radicals are used.
All political activists are used.

We suffer because of our criminal records
Because a mistake made ten years ago
Keeps us from ever kneading our bread.
Thus, some resort to theft
Some resort to violence.
Some resort to dealing smack.
Some, they become homeless,
And live in humble poverty.

What does the outrage produce,
However?
Like any rebel, they march toward the destruction
Of all they love.
All that is loved gets trampled under foot
As political activists march in the streets
And destroy the pleasures they love.

Civilization is delicate.
If there were more reasonable men
Rather than political zealots,
We'd be far better off.
Yet, change never came from activism...
It only destroyed and broke
The things we loved.

I say this...
My magnum opus was about a man
Who lived in his Utilitarian utopia.
And, trying to change it he led it to its collapse.
Understand, that I know there are forces
That hate this country.
Just, the pleasures it has produced for us
The food, the streets, the plumbing, the electricity,
The shelter, there's not complete evil.

Rather, all that needs changed
Is that if a man has a criminal record
He get it expunged.
For, I too have been harassed by police
And I am white.
I get treated the same way as a black man
Because I have a criminal record.
Ought I have this sentence hang over me my whole life?
The answer is no.

And that is all that needs changed,
In my estimation.
Change that, and there will be the paradise we all desire.
And such a thing is very easily changed.
It doesn't require it that we burn down our cities.
It doesn't require it that we riot in the streets.
Rather, it requires the ratification of congress
That all criminal records,
After the sentence is fully served
Get expunged, at no expense to the defendant.
And, with that, a thief can work to knead his bread
A prostitute can have the chance to do something other than make herself dirty
A drug dealer can become a salesman.
That way, the true criminals
Those who aren't under compulsion or necessity
Cen be caught again,
And placed under their respective chains.

Woe unto them that keep a record of sin.

There was a bird that 
got caught in one of our mouse traps. 
It was one of the glue kind. 

Its wings got ripped up. 
I wanted to save it so bad, 
but I knew it would never have a good life. 
So, I killed it. 

It was only the second animal that I killed. 
I say that because 
I feel bad about doing it, 
but I had no other choice. 

It would never fly again, 
it would never heal. 
Its wings were so mangled by the trap. 

I would have severely hurt it 
by trying to get it out of the trap. 
Severely. 
It would have been torturous. 
I just thought to myself, 
that if I were born to fly, 
and I had no chance of ever flying again, 
I would want to die. 

The thing and I both recognized it right away. 
He looked at me in such a way that 
I'll never forget. 
We both knew, him and I. 
So, I made it quick and painless. 

I won't describe what I did, 
but it was dead within five seconds.   
The proverb in scripture says there's 
a Season to Kill. 

We often don't realize that as humans. 
We want peace and love, 
but sometimes there can be no peace. 
It's the deepest part of morality. 
There's reasons for evil to exist. 

In that circumstance, 
what I did was evil, 
but it was the appropriate time to commit evil. 
Because had I been kind to the bird, 
I would have severely hurt the bird, 
and it would have lived an empty life. 

There was no rescuing it.   

A lot of people decry war, 
but sometimes it's inevitable 
and must be done. 

Sometimes there must be death. 

I wish we'd learn that about Covid. 
Rather than make everyone suffer, 
I wish we'd realize there's a time to allow death to take its natural course.

There are men,
Who knowing calculus
And biology
Can save mankind from a virus.
To all intents and purposes
I lay my hat bear to such a one as this.

However, there is an even crueler virus
And that is the virus of misunderstanding.
It is a virus of men talking
But no one listening.
It is a critical ear,
That scrutinizes all ideas
Save the one engendered in the solipsist mind.

If we are to ever grow
And take this second chance we are given...
The smartest man in the world 
Might save us from living like hermits.
But, if we never learn how to understand one another
There will be crisis after crisis.

Some say that they wish to remove the humanities
From the curriculum.
Yet the humanities are our most important subject.
For, from them, we enter the gateway
To understanding each other.
And no, not ourselves.