Poetry

He rose up past the walls of ancient, vaulted stone, not with the stride of pride, but the weight of Grace. A hue birthed deep in bruised and kingly bone, with starlight woven through his silken face. The Bearer of the Scepter and the Scar He does not shout to prove his rightful place; He moves in silence, steady, calm, and vast. His shoulders bear the gravity of time and space, the first of colors, and the sacred last. With the eyes of amethyst and flinty spark, He holds the Truth—a blade of steady light— to pierce the hidden terrors of the dark and set the crooked paths of history right. His grip is iron wrapped in a violet fold, a firm assertion that the Law is good. He will not barter righteousness for gold, nor bend the pillars where the martyrs stood. He is the Judgment—sovereign and severe, the royal standard that demands the soul; He casts out every shadow-born of fear to make the fractured spirit clean and whole. Yet, watch him kneel within the dust and grime, this Purple...

  The giants stomp with thunder-soles, to crush the world and claim its gold. They have no truth, they have no grace, just iron hearts and a hollow face. But here, where purple shadows lean, I live a life they’ve never seen. I dwell within the lavender thicket, a hidden kingdom, an untouched gem within it. to them, it’s just a dusty weed, to me, it’s all the space I need. A heavy, silver-sweet perfume, prickly violet stalks that bar their gloom. Pollen dust like fallen stars, hiding me from giant wars. I weave my wings from morning dew, and stitch the silk of spiders, too. While giants roar and giants hate, I laugh at the heavy hand of fate. They look for me with squinted eyes, but miss the magic in the skies. "A flicker of light? A trick of the heat?" They grumble and pass on heavy feet. They cannot see what’s small and bright, a spark of joy in plainest sight. I am the breath within the bloom, the secret guest in their desert room. Mercy is found in the nectar’s sip. Truth ...

 The world is held in velvet pause, before the clock begins its chime, suspended in the quiet laws of summer’s early, golden time. At half-past four, the dark retreats, a cinematic, slow-bloom glow, while shadows pull back from the streets and let the amber currents flow. It whispers through the window pane— a silver thread, then citrus light— to wash away the indigo stain left over from the deepest night. I lie within the heavy fold of morning grogginess and grace, watching the horizon’s gold illuminate this sacred space. No rush of day, no frantic pace, just soul and sun in soft accord; the light across my waking face, a silent, shimmering reward. The sky is painted, vast and wide, in hues of peach and violet air, while I remain on sleep’s soft tide, caught in the sunrise’s morning prayer.

  The chrome is fading into gold, the engine’s song is low, The road you’ve ridden all your life has one last way to go. You’re looking past the hospital walls, past the tired, heavy breath, To the Rider who is waiting on the other side of death. You’re calling out to Jesus now, to lead you to the gate, To trade the pain for mercy’s touch and leave the rest to fate. I see you in the Spotswood sun, on that Harley loud and proud, When we felt like we were soaring just a foot above the ground. I was the little "chick magnet" at the pizza shop we’d find, Your wingman in the neon glow, leaving all the world behind. I hear the rock and roll you loved, the seventies and eighties beat, Before the songs were classics, they were rolling down our street. I see you in the swimming pool, those endless laps you’d run, A silent, steady ghost beneath the shimmering summer sun. And I remember dinner time, the chair you’d always keep, For Meatloaf and for Mac n Cheese before the night would sl...

Through silvered mist and velvet gloom, two decades and an illustrious bloom. Beneath the Mighty Cross of a Sacred Rite, we waltz within the dying light. The world without may rot inviting finality of time's decay, in shades of ash and iron gray, crumbling towers- even hallowed halls- succumb to time’s relentless calls. But here, where shadows deeply lean, your hand in mine remains serene. John, my heart's eternal flame, I still whisper out your sacred name.  You have been my shield against the storm, the hearth that keeps my spirit warm. When foundations cracked and skies grew cold, our bond turned dross to heavy gold. Through every gale and chaotic tide, with quiet strength, we’ve walked beside. While empires fell and forests burning embers sighed, our love—a purple rose that never died. For twenty-five, we’ve defied the night, thriving in our own dark light. Though all should turn to dust and bone, I stand with you, and you alone. A quarter-century, etched in stone: The grea...