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 Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god


*Adam Thrush, you are the inspiration for this poem, dammit.

His eyes hold a demonic peace,
He could destroy us all
To save his peace.
Peace of mind so frequently at work.
Writing, gazing, working,
Slinking away from the voices that be,
Hiding from the sight of
Vicious non-angelic women's,
Hell-bent on capturing
A piece of him to
Forever keep in a vial for themselves.
As if he can be contained,
A mind like his
Needs the exclusive freedom
To think up his words,
So he can begin to thrive
The way god intended him to thrive,
For what is a captured man
But a soul yearning
To be set free from its body?
I could see him smiling from afar,
Should heaven design it to be this way.
I'm sure the rewards from
His good-natured smirk
Could rain down on those of us
Who are mentally distraught
And give us the hope we need
For another day.
Ah, but I reflect
On the laziness of his voice,
A voice like that
Attached to able-bodied-ness.
Shall I never feel this same remorse again
As I have felt from
The voice that told
Of cuts and scrapes
For deep are the wounds
Of mental pity.
If one word could cure his ways,
I'd really
Start praying for that one word.
For what are words
But communication,
And what is communication
But comfort and love,
Unless harbored in an evil way?
And I would rain
My always hidden kindness
And friendship
Down upon his fragile brow,
Just to give him the want,
The natural desire
To continue following his path.
For in his eyes I look
And see a greatness he deserves.
Again with the eyes!
They tell of an endless story
That I cannot interpret into my endless words.
Eyes that are the color of
Liquid winter,
A cold I'd never felt before
Breathing down my neck,
Almost like a challenge that I
Am reluctant to accept.
Liquid cold, so he can pierce your soul
With one fleeting stare,
And then where would one be?
I check upon his words
To live in remembrance of ill will
Coming out to play in the bed of dead.
And yet he talks, so I listen,
Even in awkward silence do I listen
For voices he can or cannot hear.
And when we chat, I'll laugh
Because I damn well want to for he
Makes it necessary.
To pay attention, I always do,
To listen intently, I always will,
To heed his ephemeral words, I always should
For he is wiser than I could ever fathom
And I am in need of learning,
I am in need of the melodrama he possesses
That makes every day
Not quite the norm.

March 8, 2004

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