From fascism to fascism,
Through a softer, sly disguise,
Under Satan’s dark baptism,
Tiny worlds meet their demise.

Genocide and degradation,
Artificial to the core,
Spirit’s death and mind’s stagnation—
Drowning deep in filth and gore.

Fear and blind submission lead us,
All foundations cast aside.
From fake plagues to beasts they breed us,
Till the herds are stupefied.

Fools don’t set the night in motion—
They need sheep, not hell unleashed.
Empty heads find full devotion
If their coats are soft and sleek.

But what path is left for moving?
Hell is here, it’s not ahead.
Hellspawn rule us, all-consuming,
Feasting on the souls they bled.

Politics is just a circus,
Where the clowns obey commands.
Truth is drowned in lies on purpose—
Crowds don't bite the guiding hands.

So, they earn their fate in measure,
For the madness owns their breath.
Not for years, but times unmeasured
They have worshipped lies to death.

The pursuits or goals you ascertain, one day to find they’re all in vain
You try and keep trying, crack a smile when you feel like crying
For all the riches you attempt to attain

You make a few mistakes and for judgement that’s all it takes
You try and keep trying, crack a smile when you feel like crying
For peoples opinions make you pump the brakes

But still you take the chance, to view life at more than a glance
You try and keep trying, crack a smile when you feel like crying
To escape this matrix induced trance

Now you’re on the other side, filled with joy and love where once was pride
You try and keep trying, crack a smile when you feel like crying
And enjoy the remainder of the ride

The sweet words that once came from my mouth
Directed with someone else before everything went south
Now my heart is full of questions and reasonable doubt
I don't know which one is true or what I believe about

Now, I met someone new and he is definitely lovely
I can go everywhere and much more freely
I'm experiencing the same feeling before but much stronger
I hope this time my feelings will stay longer

My talisman was destroyed
by a sorcerer, who, much annoyed,
bade me worship only him.
I worship not a lowly man
who lacks the power to understand
beauty beyond the realm of man.

Plato’s archetypes are real
in our creations and what we feel.

The innocence of childhood play
The setting sun at end of day
The work of every artist great
Brings me to a better fate

My talisman returned to me
Resurrected, in a different guise.
There is somewhere of no lies,
only adamantine ties.
Where love is indivisible from art
and only death tears us apart.

There's soon to come a day where this
And all else cease to exist
Where every line and stich in time
Will make its way into the light

All the saints that have been called
From daily battles they have fought
To rightly claim their reward
Eternity with their Sweet Lord

Without its sting, death lost its curse
Where first is last and last is first
Every plan once made by man
Will reach its final bitter end

Every tear that ever wept
All dried eyed in a flash
A promise made a promise kept
On the day the Lord comes back

And on that day, all this you see
Including sin, will cease to be
When every line and stich in time
Makes its way into the glorious light

You're my whiskey sour,
my gin and tonic.
You've got the power
to make me crazy
for you.
Slurring my words,
I can't speak.
I'm feeling high;
no longer blue.
I'm walking funny;
I'm falling for you.
Falling down
that rabbit hole.
Take my broken pieces;
make me whole.
I'll take the hangover;
you're my aspirin, too.
****-faced drunk;
drunk with love for you.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                         Atheist Chaplains Forging Mixed Metaphors

         “Atheist chaplains are forging a new path in a changing world”

                                    -CNN 7 November 2024

One seldom thinks of chaplains at a forge
Work-weary, work-stained from hours of smoke and sweat
With mighty hammer strokes bending hot iron
To the will of the artisan in useful things

Some writers forge nothing but metaphors tired
From overuse, and mixed as verbal soup
In music, art, literature, and life paths can be

Cleared
Paved
Traveled
Surveyed
explored
Followed
Noted
Marke­d
Mapped
Found

But it is not in the nature of paths to be forged

Atheist chaplains and metaphor soup
Are nothing more than an ouroborosian loop

(Look upon this fresh metaphor and neologism
And despair)

I want to write a poem about Palestine
but I have no words.
The nouns are drenched in blood.
The verbs are obscene
and the adjectives unspeakable.
The sentences have no end
and there is no punctuation.
I am having trouble pronouncing
my own name.