Jung and Yang
Archetypes, subterranean schemes,
walk city streets, ride subways as commoners.
Shadow of Substance.
Ethereal siamese twin,
to the mundane, every day.
I long to tell you,
yearn so I loudly whisper,
but only if you really listen.
I cannot say these things twice.
Memories seep through,
Stand straight and true
as soldiers or Marines
swearing full allegiance
to any who will take that load.
There are Gods foaming in excrement,
begging relief in the balm of sacrament
potent and deadly.
Angels and Demons wage sacrosanct war;
dice from a grail
foresage trial or comfort.
Hungry Ghosts moan and wail.
Vampires and beasts
seek shelter before
travails of daytime
In wild’s kingdom
all manner of creatures
thrive, entwine as before
veiled third eye.
Tonight, the quiet sleep of Heaven
blankets tenderly, affirms bliss as promise.
Angel song, encoded blinks of highest aspiration, leaps,
wafts kissed smiles, clear skies. Peace shimmers.
Long, piteous, songs of buried shame, spite and spittle flung like pennies;
flagrant frenzied relief upon unclean graves...
Who makes this call? Who answers?
Tonight crows, patient vultures stand at crossed walls; they
have no leader.
Standing, too, are mute trumpeteers, stranded infantry.
Twilight, trace forecolours of dawn, silence deepens,
counterstroke to what is to come.
“Strike!” Bold reds, bloodied swords brand these walls
seen crumbling as light extends.