The Vanishing Poet

All that was left was the will of intent.
The moist, hard congealed seal unbound,
the coil loosened and released, the whisper
of a breath dispersing back into the cosmos.
The shade and shadow of duality, the black
and white of these words. The black and
white of the nation wrapped in a web of
consternation that has no limit and has no
recess. The beliefs tied to the heart with booby
traps vanquish all that’s left. In fits of tolerance,
in a rampage of love, it beats acceptance into the
ground, no longer a bid for choosing among the buyers,
but a command to follow to keep above the waters
and not succumb to the silent arm that stalks
the gathered conspiracy circles and listens through
electric lines the lies of treasonous wavelengths.
The truth, the enlightened moment, the meaning
hidden from our eyes, possesses a power
indisputable, and rakes the hearts of every poet.
Perpetual sin, the gravity of our folly, a constant
mirror on our wall, hijacks celestial knowledge
and turns the truth into a tall tale the leads
the hearts away from center, and takes them
into the barren fields where light struggles to
live, in the ashen grays, the dirty soot indirectly.
But the wraiths know what they do when
they manifest as a lie on the tongue. They
shut the speech of poets down, they remove
the magic from the writing, they cause their
spirits to disappear, replaced by entities
tha bear false witness if only to stumble
the weakest child. Stripped away, a
fading image of skin unravels to the bone
and skull, and blood and muscle dissolve
like light subdued, and then the bone begins
to drop, and teeth whirl away in a succinct
row one by one. See the poet disappear
as life pursues another course. Existence
in a plane, a reality, a dimension where
time is worth more than wisdom, and
words are mere flashcards to the captive
drama, they speak them unrehearsed,
with a pretentious vigor, just so the
audience can understand the magic
the performance conjures and the
energy it needs to use, as slowly,
surreptitiously, that altruistic intent,
that indominable will, fizzles like
ghost of a seraphim cast into light,
like the spells of the wicked
disperse into air.

 

 

“The Vanishing Poet” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.  

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Resurrection Apollo

He glared sharply into the sky. Without a star or moon in sight, he was certain the sky glared back at him. He disapproved of it. At long last he’d become tired of it. It’s been dark for too long, he thought. He didn’t know where it came from, or why. He was perplexed at how deep the sky became. He seemed to remember a time like this before, and marveled how the shrouded moon seemed to veil the entire sky opaque. Still, there was a time when the single moon cast a silver sheen so luminous, it seemed the land and his surroundings glowed in that hazy white. There were times the moon was accompanied by a legion of stars, the multitude a shimmering carpet to the naked eye, ghostly yet familiar. Still, there was another. It changed the land all together. It brought a light so bright it made shadows hide in the crooks of their masters, and brought clarity and definition. This is what he wanted as the blackness surrounded his head. Daybreak was coming, he sensed as denser grew the shroud. The forces at work always worked their hardest before the sun’s return.

 

“Resurrection Apollo” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 

 

 

Deadshot

Electric pulse percolates,
wriggles like tape worms
across dehydrated flesh.
Tiny pulses emanate from
a central source all around,
the shroud a smoldering cloud
of hazy mysticism, radiates
the core. Vibrations wave through
body’s hearth electricity ascending
in microwaves impure. An afterglow
incomplete, replete with vague
definition, sole cause to question
the integrity of another, and alone
face the mirror they see before you,
so that you don’t turn away, and walk
away in defense repasts, stumble, fall
shaken quicker than the earthquake
tremors fossilize and petrify.

 

“Deadshot” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 

 

Black Orpheus: Peddling the Father of Lies

Specter in the house
flies through glass windows,
globes round and crystal
mystified by the light
and shroud.
It throws rocks in
ignominious desolation,
it trades the soul for desire,
it profits pleasure and lust,
it drives the question of our
sin, strips away the barriers
of consciousness, relies on
the powers of self-doubt
to scar a path to its
ultimate destination.

The peddles first lose color,
pale then blacken. Its skin
begins to sag, wrinkle and
decay. The lifespan is locked
in a fortress of ice, clouded
vision and clear deception.
It comes to roost at the
eleventh hour, when its
appetite cannot be stopped,
and dead, black peddles are
left it its wake to mock
the heart of the lover
inside. Putrid kiss,
the toxic life, unkempt,
cast voyeurs into desperation,
cast masters into slaves,
turn the priests into pansies
and the preachers into demons.

The thinning veil of energetic
deception, the chaos supposedly
causing design, disintegrates
behind a wall of smoke,
and there are no scenes of
our ancestors, and there is no
gate to cross. The perceptions
of humanity ring like a bell
and reverberate in a jar
that locks them down,
a lamp for Pandora,
a cell for the soul.

It returns
and it never
goes away.

“Black Orpheus: Peddling the Father of Lies” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.

 

 

Augmentation Laud

Piercing beyond the veil,
the line of sight sees through
the projected understanding
constrained with at birth.
What was once flat, was raised
to depth, then tangible, and now
new perspectives are pushing
through, and changing every
truth given, and changing every
mind that once understood.
The fireflies phasing in and out
of existence, leave residual energy,
their light eternal between dimensions,
their light eternal to separate the thickness
of the dark forest. Voices rise, confrontational
and loathsome, angry and expectant. The
insatiable hunger for lucidity has escaped
them and as the trees become the forest,
their resonance becomes shadows
that haunt that tormented land.
The shadows become sentient,
and lounge around the living room
opting for leather couch and faux
as the focal point of their nexus,
desperate if not thankful for the living.
And the corners will continue to lie
to the eyes, but only now the eyes see
the truth. It is understood the omissions
that have stripped humanity of half
its natural gifts, leaving the strong
to endure the lack of tolerance,
leaving the confused to wash away
in the seas of apathy, and leaving
the weak to conform to self-immolation,
shall be spoken, and a restoration return
as the shadows become space, and the
torn fabric of humanity’s mind become
the stars, projecting the light needed
to rise the weighted vessels, shackled
and heavy, to transcend the snares
of dual energies’ magnetic gravity,
to ascend higher in the depth of
understanding, a welcome to the
eyes of discernment and wisdom,
and to reconstitute identity,
a declaration of independence
from the mortal coil binding us,
and a return of the memory lost
to us as we breached the walls of
this dimension, fully well knowing
that to succeed all we had to do
was remember.

“Augmentation Laud” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.

Fruit of the Barren

Pale skin, hermaphrodite,
an iconology of ideology
and mysticism. Prophetess
of the new age, barren
archetype reminisced,
inspired by arcane smoke
and intoxicated on the influence
of the elders. The web spun
tells the future, a cutting stone
of rhetoric and spin, misdirection
in the minutia, divisible with wrongful
incarceration and the pretentious
desire to do the right thing for the wrong
reasons and to brag about it.

Half the body is dead. It seeks resuscitation,
resurrection, or reanimation; it will drink
the blood of the young to keep itself alive.
It will fill it with the fear of the children
to maximize the potion’s magic. It will
glutton-like drink the ambrosia while it
tells lies to preserve itself; it will tell lies to
preserve the original lie. It will paint false
pictures. It will sing songs to manipulate
the emotions and the energy they generate.
It will be lost in the blizzard of hate it has
instigated and demand respect for the
ghosts it has suffered, though they’ve
been long dead decades hence.

The diviner rises a Judas goat,
divides us by every detail,
segregates tolerance from love
and forgiveness from good will.
It turns the golden rule in on itself.
It creates a generator of negativity
and incubates the fear and ill will
till they burst like a solar flare
into the psyche of man. It
contaminates them further still
with assertions of disillusionment
as manufactured by artificial constructs,
industrial strength Molotov cocktails that
burn the nerve endings and incinerate
the consciousness, all filters brought
to ash. It asserts winter over every soul
present, it turns the water to black ice
and sends those traveling into a tailspin
debauched by necessity and desperation.

Twenty years after the mystic cast her spell,
the rotten fruits of spoiled trees have poisoned
the general populace, and the work of the angels
has multiplied greatly, but their energies catch
the radical intent, misappropriated or not, and
changes the feeling, the delivery of the meaning
cushioned more than cradled. They pull the
threads of consciousness, each strand lighting gold,
glowing with its growth. A tapestry the angels make,
their hands and fingers looms of energy, pulls the
mother from the quagmire; it washes away the filth,
dissolving the taint to fine particles of light. And the
strands belonging to their lost brothers and sisters
effervesce with knowledge and a deep seeded
understanding that bears the roots of many returns;
the strength and longevity of each root burrowed
into the soul of its mother, anoint her and make her
spirit light until the weight of depression and anxiety
have lifted and the burden of fear and apathy  have
dispersed, and she floats before the face of god
and greets him kindly as she ascends
to the lofty palaces inspired by love.

 

“Fruit of the Barren” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.