“Death has done that!” said the Marquis,
“And has left me,” answered the nephew, “bound to a system that is frightful to me, responsible for it, but powerless in it; seeking to execute the last request of my dear mother’s lips, and obey the last look of my dear mother’s eyes, which implored me to have mercy and to redress; and tortured by seeking assistance and power in vain.” –Charles Dickens “A Tale of Two Cities”
A Rainy Winter Reflection
A siren’s call, nothing there at all,
Whispering screams of intrusion,
A transition, cadaverous faces,
Tattooed arms and broken spaces,
The resounding emptiness of never knowing,
Satisfaction, frustration, nor incrimination,
Blood oozing scar upon scar,
In the light of what transpired darkness emerges,
A soothing of the soul into resting repose,
Distance and demand, a slap in the face,
A farewell to arms, defense and offense,
Quenching the fire of passion,
States of dissipation declaring no recriminations,
GOD alone, fallen amongst many,
Allowing acceptance within severe agitation,
No need to be right, no need for others to be right,
Abundance digested and processed, let it be,
In my hour of darkness, she is standing there in front of me,
Penetrating beyond reason and identity,
A closer proximity and presence, immaculate in splendor,
Mary always and forever at her best when the worst calls.
Divine Mission
Morning prayer before a prison window, headlights turn in, a Rosary renews,
Amidst devastation a call is heard,
Heroin children, tattoos endless, blistering the entire body, coloring immense,
Horror stories boundless, images atrocious, proud beneath scorching music devilishly loud,
Fedoras and good families, immature identities draped in desperation,
Unretractable arguing against the jury with insidious pierced tongues,
Hellish earsplitting constant rapping, spiritual warfare absurdly modern,
Generation upon generation a new generation brazenly willing to go too far,
Grotesque, wickedly unafraid, intelligent, street tough hardened and bold,
Twenty-one pilots ‘all my friends are heathens take it slow’,
Nothing but love emerges, fascination and devotion,
Beads passing through fingers, humble prayer echoing within a broken heart,
Heroin children conquering my will, pain and tears declare,
Internal and loud a voice cries out, Mary imploring,
“Measure your love for these heroin children,
Then imagine my love for all heroin children,
Know my Sorrowful Heart,
I may be the Queen of Heaven,
Destined to smash the head of the serpent,
Yet Satan wounds horribly,
Always willing to hurt and strike,
Forcing tears and sorrow as the cursed one ravages my Son’s children,
Know and be with the heroin children and love them,
For I know your heart and you do, and they admire you,
Now you have been granted a mission, you have witnessed, seen the toll,
You must take the heroin children being devoured by the evil one into your heart,
You have fallen in order to be granted a mission,
The heroin children are losing horribly, determined to be dangerously worldly,
Your days must be filled with rosaries and prayers for the heroin children,
You can do nothing else for they have subjugated your heart,
Graced in prayer, you must join the battle focused upon the heroin children,
Your prayers, and proper behavior, will produce grace for the heroin children.”
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