Sacrificed Altars

The communion and wine  
Is known by all who partake in it's ritual  
To be made of, flesh and blood  


It bleeds, not for the joy of sacrifice 
Or wanting death, less not in value for life 
Like one may think of self harm  


But to feel alive and to hold on to living  
So love and life is tested, 
For what course one engages in  


And the goal post are set, to suit 
Established in sizes and forms 
Made to measure on faith of believers 


It is only for the training grounds 
That opposition is made absent
Bubble wrapped, tip toe on offence  


For the prince who plays 
Sword fights in his backyard
W' his servants, a' claims to know battle 


Scars are formed like harvest 
After cuts and bruises, bleed 
I carry a few on my shoulders 


Most beneath skin tissue, the deepest, the widest  
It is self harm on courses chosen 
What do you bleed for

In Between Lives

I will have to call out, the pigeons 
And ask if they would be prepared 
To carry out my wish 


Send a message, from the trenches 
To my love ones 
Tell them I am in-between lives 


Making a transformation  
From what once was  
To what is to be 


This stage reached has been long 
Like an overdue pregnancy 
And I wait impatient for deliverance 


Though I know sometimes on wise thoughts 
I sneeze on rush, results of which 
Scatters my gold dust, among sea sands  


I try to harness the virtue  of patience  
Learning to thread the needle's eye 
I am made of more, much more I know it 


Much more than what I hold  
Loose change so precious 
I fear even losing those sometimes 


Am I to believe the oracle? 
Who looked into my arms and for told   
She giggled like small prints before authoring words 


If so, and I am to take one, in short cuts 
From her  in gifts she offers  
Then another I would be forced to take 


For in her baskets, in prices to pay 
She has within hidden rotten apples 
Just behind the ripest of them all 


So no, I choose to make it on my own 
I only ask if you will be prepared 
To carry out my wish, oh friend of feathers  


Send a message to love ones 
To tell them I am in-between lives 
Closer to deliverance 

Through The Trenches; Don't bullshit me

I am pulled, stretched  
I am strained, I am stressed 
Half the time I am drained 


But you do not want to know that 
Do you, on courtesy call  
Just formalities, formalities  

For that is the normality 
In this day and age 
Formalities, just for the norm   


A friend once said, "please don't ask 
How I am, like "how are you doing"
Just to open rotten cans' smell

I am better off not reflecting to know 
To walk numb with thicker skin  
To destinations, than to open up  

And bleed dry, on side walks  
Half way through my journey
Wasting my economized energy

I am happily making my way 
Through the trenches, dirt accompany  
Don't bullshit me, with pleasantries  

Knocking On Elusive Doors

My candle burns on both ends 

Knocking on ELUSIVE doors 

A thousand door knocks  

To find silent response, curiosity   

And half the time, we wonder     

If strings on doors, like the puppet jokers play   

Are being pulled to shut down access   

How do we leap into the next stages  

Learn the rules of engagements, in foreign land      

From welcome parties, sent to scout on our arrival   

Caught in circles of this burn for so long  

Time holds burden of encounters, flash backs   

Like prolonged transition, in time wormholes   

Taunting one, with the one leg grip, the gods hold on us    

Boldness, slowly dwindling, looking for reasons for standby  

As effort fades with response, slow on energy, dispensed 

How did our forefathers build castles, curious   

When blocks becomes so had to find, like diamonds   

And cracks appear before lintel stages   

Ambitions becomes such an endeavour  

Distance from inspiration it once held  

And this is at sea, land is required as a bare necessity   

What are we to tell   

The young ones playing catch up, looking up  

For inspiration to visualise and walk, on discovery    

For accomplishment of actualisation    

Knowing too many  catch 22 situations  

Handicaps, rock and hard places   

Well, we are still at sea, wondering what lies beneath  

Knocking on  giant doors, I know I hear movement behind   

Land is still just the bare necessity, required