Death was the next step,

to what,

I do not recall,

not in this life,

perhaps the last knew,

I awoke to a fresh world,

a new beginning,

out of the mistletoe grave,

where that spear rested in me,

where one ended and one began,

who was he,

what am I,

am I his ghost or legacy,

did anyone remember me,

will they,

what remains out here,

a desolated place,

where the past once reigned,

and burned to ashes,

I know ghosts,

at least I remember them,

I want to seek them out,

yet did I forget them intentionally,

to forgo bad blood,

or forget unkindled flames,

I have died but breathe again,

this was the next step,

but what was it,

what am I to do,

who am I to be?

I know I hate phone calls,

but I need you to answer,

ringing and ringing,

I need this one phone call,

I know it’s late,

I know you’re asleep,

I’m hoping it wakes you up,

I’m hoping you answer,

it’s still ringing,

ringing and ringing,

you don’t answer,

the screen fades to black,

I think to try again,

maybe you stirred,

maybe I was close,

I should call again,

I wish I did,

now you’re haunted by that fear,

you set your ringtones to full blast,

every night before you sleep,

you wished you woke up,

you wished you stayed on the phone,

you wish you got a chance to catch,

that one missed call.

It won’t be easy,

seeing those ears go down,

eyes closin’ shut and breaths stop,

heart slowin’ and tail dips,

going down peacefully,

that day hasn’t come, but time got sliced,

and the pieces don’t say clearly,

how much we got left,

one to three,

three to six,

less than twelve,

never going higher,

and as I hold you close,

staring in the quiet minutes,

neither of us can go far,

not without the other,

if one goes the other wilts,

but you ain’t going down easy,

day by day,

hour by hour,

we’ll make it last,

we’ll make our bucket list empty,

car rides around the block,

or pictures to make a mountain,

promise I won’t break before,

can’t promise that,

you ain’t going down easy,

I’ll give you all the toys,

spoil you til’ I’m dry,

sad you’ll miss seeing your momma again,

but you’ll see your old daddy,

I’ll fight the Reaper Man,

I’ll sell my soul,

I’ll forsake everything,

please don’t take my baby away,

I can’t bear that pain,

it’s not going to be easy,

seeing those ears go down,

eyes closin’ shut and breaths stop,

heart slowin’ and tail dips,

going down peacefully.

Sittin’ around and kickin’ the shits,

talkin’ about nothin’ that makes sense,

except to us there in those minutes,

sometimes longer,

we do it when we can,

to escape the sharp sticks,

beatraps and mines,

avoidin’ bullets from rifles on both sides,

not all our wounds are from enemies,

and we pull ourselves half dead to the hill,

we bring friends old and new,

sometimes we don’t come back,

sometimes we find our friends in the field,

fightin’ in the forest makes us better,

we fight and fight to get through,

yet,

the fight can get dark and restless,

lurin’ us into the pits so deep,

there the fight is blindin’,

we slash at anyone thinkin’ them enemies,

even lovers reachin’ to rescue us from the deep,

the cuts send them away,

but some stay even as we weep,

weep because of scars and lost friends,

dead lovers or loves that parted ways,

those that come back know the Viper,

those wounds sizzle and sink,

the bites go deep,

I’ve seen that pit many times,

and still reached the hill,

bleedin’ all the way,

I’ve got a love waitin’ on me,

who begs me to stay,

but when we embrace and speak Cupid,

my teeth cut my tongue,

and out comes a toxic spray,

I know that I’m Viperspittin’,

least I fear it so,

seeing The Ghost in the forest struck me cold,

and I gave time none to heal me so,

so I’m sittin’ around and kickin’ the shits,

talkin’ about nothin’ that makes sense,

fearin’ the forest’s fight,

but fearin’ my stay,

cause I’m fiddlin’,

and Viperspittin’.

I don’t pray,

it’s not something I do,

only for my Father,

before we feast,

not because I do not believe,

nor have faith,

for me you are my lord,

a forgiving one,

yet one of great wrath,

and justice,

upon those that sin,

the followers are rewarded graciously,

the sinners are taught harshly,

I am a sinner,

will always be,

I refuse to be baptized,

so my sins remain,

but even if I partook in it,

they’ll come back eventually,

I know that I am unworthy,

I am under the hammer,

the favorite of Gabriel,

who’s pity I feel,

when each lesson is delivered,

tragedy,

sorrow,

falling back down the mountain,

burned once,

burned twice,

until I have learned,

Father of the Heavens,

who takes no pity on this Mormon,

for his fell deeds,

upon others with his venomous tongue,

the snake he has no pity for,

that snake is me,

I don’t pray,

but when I do,

please listen to me,

because it’s never for me,

I am beyond saving,

I want to be better for others,

to do good for them and their lives,

but,

I’ll never be good enough for myself,

and that’s fine by me.

I survived,

the fires that consumed Hope,

I walked with the Marked Men,

whose flesh was burnt and flayed by the wind,

the remnants of two armies,

the Bear,

and the Bull,

who fight in the desert not far away,

the Californian Bear,

the Arizona Bull,

fighting over the Dam of Nevada,

I was of the Bull,

was,

I ventured far and wide,

to the Hollow Mountain of Science,

to learn history,

and found none,

went back to where Hope burned,

to lure its Murderer back,

a simple call to the Lonesome Road,

they’ll either turn back,

or fight their way to me,

here I stand,

with old world arrows ready to fire,

nuclear footballs,

ready to lay waste to the Bear,

who’ll eventually fail,

as all nations have,

and yet when they stood before me,

they asked me,

words I once said,

“who are you who do not know your history?”

I think it’s funny,

that people and movies,

paint writers as isolated,

frustrated,

desperate for inspiration,

addicted to motivation,

the paradise of emo poetry,

the younger ones full of angst,

the older have regret,

all the same,

writing is our hobby,

a talent,

a joy,

an escape from reality,

if I wrote a plea,

through poetry,

that I was at the peak,

of a sinking ship,

and could not swim,

a cry for help,

they’d call it an amazing depiction,

almost as if I was there,

pretty funny.

He said to leave the tree alone,

eat not its apples,

for they will destroy you,

your garden will never be whole,

eat not the apple,

do not eat it,

and I was alone,

when the Snake tempted me,

to know,

to eat,

to feel,

the unholy pleasure,

and so I did,

and the garden is cursed,

I cannot uproot the weeds,

the sickness is here,

I went to break the Snake,

for tricking me,

into falling to the Seven’s Deadly grasp,

but,

I saw a pond in its place,

and only me in its mirrored face,

only me,

and the apple I ate.

Long am I away,

from personal paradise,

and the journey is long,

extensive,

lost in the desert,

trekking a road unseen,

searching for a way out,

under the draining sun,

and lackless water to drink,

to keep the carcass going,

shrouded in its cloak,

past Ozymandias,

king of kings,

and his remains,

through this hell,

I remain,

wandering this antique land,

whose vast kingdoms lay to waste,

I among it,

seeking a way out,

wandering,

my feet burning on tiny nails,

I may collapse,

then death,

or not,

or get up again,

but I go on,

lost in the desert,

with no one,

but me and my ghost’s voice,

trying to go home.

To my son,

to my daughter,

to how many of you,

to those that I have,

that remain,

that stayed,

that left,

who speak to me,

who have silenced me,

when they tell you about me,

what I’ve done,

what I wrote,

to be the man I am today,

I’m sorry that you came from me,

I’m sorry that you have my name,

for all this,

I’m sorry.