I don’t believe people become nothing
until they are something.
I don’t believe people are selfish
until they have something.
People are good.
I believe good people feel guilt
when they want to.
I believe good people feel doubt
when they have to.
Good people feel regret
if they need to.

Shunning the spirit that makes us human.
Too perfect to forget imperfection.
Too enlightened to forget empathy.
Ascended prophets disconnect
like wealthy in glass bubbles.
Forget the cost of living.
Forget the joy of our nature.
Forget the gift of decision
and the duality of thought.

The universe is a stream.
Surrender to the current.
A bottleneck is detrimental
to the contract
agreed on in the vast playing field
the chessboard uncomplicated,
the kings and queens
have checked each other
they find no mate.
The pawns distract them
in their menial servitude.

Absence of fault.
Absence of blame.
Absence of decency
brings guilt to shame.
Shame on those who regret.
Shame on those who doubt.
Shame from the mountains
of ascended prophets
who spit love with as much hate
hidden in their soul,
jealous of the human spirit
we have not forgotten.

—

—

“We Are Still Human” is a poem written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.

It smolders in their eyes more so than the black
of pupil and space and heart.
The hearth of the heart has become sick,
produced weeping ashes and bipolar flares,
a crest to the sociopathic tongue that will
misunderstand and judge its own history.
It wriggles something sacred, a docile light
above its flesh, as the dimness begins to rush.
They see orange as the heat flows up their necks
beneath their heated collar and defeated heart.
They scorch the earth with dragon’s tongue,
curse their brothers and their sisters, cast
their family into the pyre with much at stake.
They smile through their frowns, they justify
their emotion as validated by the
Institutionalized academia that wrought
these controlled demolitions, that bred
desperate foot soldiers clinging to their
hollow virtues and crumbling moral high ground,
and I watch it burn to the ground,
as rebirth, a reset, is cast
and the light of the universe
ignites our hearts.

—

—

“Orange” is a poem written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.

Through the verdant hills of the isle,
in line, in tandem with the minstrel siren,
the once angel of valor and strength,
grace and mercy, a demon disguise,
an eater of children, a banker of blood,
has deceived them as they stroll,
bouncing up and down to the beat
of the heathen drum in masked costume
as creature of the forest, as denizen
of the trees, the flowers, the fairies,
the March hair and the dragon,
waltz in reverie, drunken daydreams
unknown to the cosmic deity of love,
the hatred in their hearts is the fertile
soil of their soul and backwards,
upside down, contrary-wise,
they jest and duel the useful
fool, in clown mask and make-up,
to the pyre where they send their
wishes to the gods of children
and their ravaged and raped
bodies, a true sacrifice of the
conscience energy barreled
deep into the ether of
resentment, no forgiveness asked,
they simply bow their heads, aware of the sins
they mistook for virtues and stretch their
necks on the planks of wood and await
the sharpened blade to fall, crippling the dancing pagans
and silencing the minstrel who without the blood
of children, a hag in wait with demon eyes
anticipates the silent fate the outspoken majority
adjudicates to the light of the world,
the truth of crimes against humanity,
the atrocities performed against
the children of the sun.

—

—

“The Dancing Pagans” is a poem written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.