Monday, November 23, 2015

Heil Monster

Heil Monster- A man like creature, born and raised by our kind; His growth is suddenly stunted around the same time a box-like, wooly whisker begins to emerge above his palate; Hair and eyes as black as the ashes he raises, though he prefers that of a lighter shade; Petite in size, but don’t let this fool you; From the slithers of his slimy tongue emerge the most foul of creatures, hypnotizing all who urge to listen; With one tentacle held tightly to his side, he casts the more sharper out before anyone who is near; If it were to reach you, the tentacle would pierce your throat and steal your heart; His slimy varmint wait to abduct all reason, and claim your mind. Those who are unfortunate enough to fall into his grip are granted life; Those who claim successful against his magnetizing spells and swarming virus are wretched with death endlessly surrounding them, taunting them, until they, too, succumb; Unequivocal is the damage he serves to deliver.

So, beware. He may emerge from his cell at any moment, without a given permission, enticing you with words of hope and pride. He may choose a goat to sacrifice, proving that God will accept his offering, all the while playing God himself. He will raise his tentacle up at a salute, directing his minions to destruction. And before you know it, he casts a shade over the land you call home, and on all those you hold dear. You will be left surrounded. There will be no escape, for this Monster has taken all reason, and has lavishly consumed all hearts. All that will be left is the strepitous, deafening melody of his blonde hair, blue-eyed progeny singing, “Heil Monster.”

Monday, November 16, 2015

Tweet me @ButNotPoet



(Click to enlarge image)
Unadjusted to the Breeze (A Haiku)

The hued sprinkled leaves
Leave me chilled and unsure if 
The time is for me

Wednesday, November 4, 2015

Visible Vibrations

If we could see sound

Every raindrop splashed, unique to its key
Every wind whistled, the gentle flute to the thundering drums of lightning
The storm, a symphony

If we could see sound
Every soft ray of sunlight shouts, the brightest sound of trumpets
Every dawdling cloud, the smoothest transition between one note and the next
The sky, the stage, the perpetual anchor, to the orchestra who plays it all.