The Wings of Fate.

My current poems are about war. The current global conflict that has started with the Israel-Gaza War and the Russian-Ukrainian War will metastasize into World War III. This is inevitable. These works are a spiritual meditation on the nature of war and human suffering. It seems the more we try to stifle this natural human impulse, it cannot help but manifest in our world.

This war signals the final days of the Kali Yuga, the Age of Darkness. Humanity is going through a crisis which will signal the end of the modern world and a return to simplicity. These works are a documentation of this spiritual crisis.

THE WINGS OF FATE

Lift the wings of the child of ruin

Who wields the sword

Flashing with the sun at dawn.

He brings us refuge

From the curse of time and the blisters

On our lips.

Lift the wings

Of the painted bird mutilated by the crows

For wearing the colors of

God

And whispering the sacred name

In the wind that blows through the ruins

Of civilization.

See the hawk fly over the field

That’s scorched by bombs,

Where the soil is mutilated and bleeds

From the tracks of tanks.

In the ditch is the naked body of a woman held

By a dead soldier

In a failed attempt to save her from the mouth

Of the Abyss.

The hawk saves us from the world’s transgressions

Against our great mother’s heart.

He brings us her grace in the morning

As she kisses the world

With

The

Sun.

We see the horror unfold in the flesh torn

By the beak,

And we see the women weeping

For their sons and daughters who were stolen

In the darkness of midnight.

These bloody bones shock the world

From its slumber

But we’re drifting in the astral stream with the

Old gods

Who burn behind our eyelids as we hide

From the brutal light.

Through their holy sacrifice,

We’re saved from the darkness of the night and the

Death

Of

The

Sun.

We’re alive again

Dreaming of the blackness dispersing

As the flares light up the sky

And illuminate the faces of the dead.

We’re the living ones

Who put the world back together with the mortar

Made from crushed bones

And we’re the roses of truth

Growing in the broken stones,

Melted steel, and gravel.

This is the summer before death

When the heat rises from our bodies as we

Lay in bed,

Our flesh together,

Our sacred sting still aching on our lips.

The July heat keeps us listless

But the war comes on the horizon,

When we’ll wash this sin of the race away so we can

Receive the blessings

Of history.