The Morning Showers of Bethlehem


I float and fall into the morning showers of Bethlehem. And nest myself like mist on every blade of grass divine. Crawl into the olive trees and soak into their barks and leaves, a thousand years of memories with every harvest and every savored meal. A drop of water, wiping faces blank. Dripping windowsills, rinsing stains of yesterday for us to see our home before it wakes. And after sunrise, a sparkling tapestry revealed across the land. A town reborn, sprinkled with a sense of ease. A joy so damp, you can taste it. A belonging blood can never wash away. For everyone to cherish and for no one to claim. This is my home. That’s all that matters. Whatever you call it, is just a name.


The Saint: Ballad of Eternal Damnation

What can I write
When feelings dwell in ashy clouds
Burning at a million temperatures
Beneath the naked sun there is no place
For truth to hide or lies to be dispelled

What can I write
When letters seem to skew
When knowledge seeks a distant memory
Amidst this bending world and fading imagery
I kneel atop an empty pedestal
That sits affront the tomb of destiny

How could I write
When meaning is so still
Captive at the gates of certainty
That every man who’s ever lived is bound to die
What comfort in that notion can there be?

Aloof from time and figure I bequeath
All my possessions and desires
I sink into a silent reverie
Contemplating moral constancy
That I may live forever trough my deeds
And that the world, through my ambitious love
May remember me

Character: 73/100