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D. M. Christensen

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Taylorsville, UT, US

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Spirit in the Flames

by

D. M. Christensen


Alive ... come alive
in a swift relay to kindle life,
tinder our thoughts fueling a combustion
to warm and temper our competitive desires.
Illuminate this dark canopy
stoke the coals of a fragile humanity,
for we are sometimes lost blown ashes
from a cold hearth in search for sanity.
So burn ...... slowly burn .....
and whisper mysteries of who you are,
did our spark, along with yours
birth from violent death of a distant star ?
An inter-galatic explosion ?
a black holes implosion ?
the unseen breath of the solar winds
nurturing remnants of nuclear erosion?
So please just burn .... and we'll keep blowing
we'll take your company without knowing,
and as you gasp for a last breath, flicker,
then look into our eyes for help ... know we will .
For without you stirring our souls
we also will become dying embers,
and only by sharing our fire within
we forge strong rings of human greatness ...
And then the spirit of the games
rises higher within-like flames
in our dance ...
which will never lose to death.


Gateway of Gold into a City of Dreams

by

D. M. Christensen


Suspended inside a scenic rhyme
two pillars holding-up a riddle in the sky
with webs spun across the sunset
prompting a stop and go dance
of energy and money.

Imaginations enticed by reflections
of rubberized steel-like insects gathering
going back and forth,
across then across again
in diverse rhythms for the senses.

Canvas appearing like silken clouds
run - then tack in beat
to a wind and sea symphony, tossing-
turning into happy silhouettes
sailing with the sunshine.

Piles of rusted bars and bones,
the rock with iron doors locking ones gaze
as echoes from a foggy aftermath come alive
with dead inscription daring all
to comprehend this feigned serenity.

A surreal misted glow condenses
as mysteries trapped till sunrise,
play, then tell secrets
of entertainment and pleasure seekers
attracted to the shadows of its golden strands.

life attaches itself
to this place of shaking dreams
feeding upon a dynamic of sounds, smells, and faces
riding up and down
on iron tracks of nonconformity.

The tide ebbs and floods,
as emotions wax and wane
but in stillness the soul watches all- listening
to a magical moonlit bay whispering songs
that never leave the heart.

Comforter Of False Reckoning

by

D. M. Christensen

We shook hands creating it, then
never received a moments rest.
It marks our birth
catches up at death
in sojourn ... rules over us.
We try beating it
but loose track of it,
wasting it imprisons us in its frame.
Inaudible and noiseless
we gave it comforting voice
and rhythm
tick ... tick ... tick ...
Never slowing down
never speeding up
stealing our nights and days.
Sometimes it measures lust
heals all wounds
tells us we're late or came to soon.
To master it slowly
delays the grave
letting us redeem a little saved.
We give it when asked for
to much on our hands
corrupts.
So we hang it on walls
and dream outside its circle
looking through windows at colors
complexities, and eternity
hoping our time will come.
But testing our loyalty
we become its slave
never giving us what we crave.
Oops ...
time to rewind
shaking its hand once more to
eagerly reckon this moment in space.

Drums In Paradise

by

D. M. Christensen

Tipping my hi hat
I created the perfect setup
then tightened the snare.
She sat down with it all between her thighs
on a pedestal, no ...
a kind of throne, with her legs spread
and her feet assigned to extended positions.
Moving spasmodically in warm-up
she couldn't wait
to hold two instruments of pleasure
in the palms of her hands-flipping them
between her fingers.
Stroking ... stroking ...
rest
single-stroke,
rest
double-stroke,
rest
while rolling within
a penetration of sounds.
Ahhh ... then a perfect fuzz ..., dripping
slippery rhythms in a percussion of ecstasy.
Soft bangs, gentle bangs, smooth bangs
hard ... harder ...
a perfect paradiddle, then in triplets
rolling from head to head,
then finally on the floor with tom and tom
all as her foot is on the pedal of my heart.
Beating, beating, and thumping with anticipation.
Skins pulled ever so tightly
in perfect tone, with intense song
then comes the rim-shot
!!!!!!
Its a wipeout!

Romancing The Net

by

D. M. Christensen

Burning ink jet stars
in a universe of composite static
fluttering
like winged constellations
etched with passwords
on illustrated flesh
and software glands

Galaxies in hard-drive, clicking
to electronic rhythms
searching
like engines
with an erected gizmo stylus
to find bodies
in proper global position

Sweet nothings digitized
connected by modems micro-softed,
turned-on
spreading wide screen
for hot circuit downloads
into the high-definition vortex
of electro-carnal interface

Once A Lonely Harp

by

D. M. Christensen

Standing in a corner
lonely its silent strings
with broken heart.
Singing out once with love
now a silent sounding board
whose whispers dare not ask-
Where went the gentle fingers
that with such softness
left tears vibrating with her music ?
A shadow awakened her
from a land of dreams
notes and cords containing messages
once played by a king.
Shadows then turned to darkness
as dust started to write its history, yet
through darkness .... came such light
petitioned upon blended knees.
Then in a day filled with sunshine
The King played a miracle
sitting in His golden clouds
listening to songs of gratitude.
Taken ... Returned ...
Lost ...
then loved again
as His harp called to her
and played the highest strings
of our hearts.

They Are Soldiers

by

D. M. Christensen

I was told they spilled their blood
Red, White, Black, Brown,
but now they are gone
never to return.
I never knew their names
never seen their smiles
or could watch as they fulfilled dreams
I didn't quite understand their sacrifice.
Who were they ?
I never knew them .... yet somehow
they understood me and the visions I had yet to dream.
They respected the God I would choose to worship,
wanted to hear the speech I had yet to speak
and fought for the pursuit of happiness I would have the right to engage in.
They cared about all this
before I was even born.
Who were they ? ... I never knew them.
This morning I opened a paper
and read their names
I looked again
and watched lost smiles
become sacred colors of
Reds, Whites, and Blues.
Who Am I ...? they never knew me,
or my smile, or my tears,
I then realized we shared the same dream
and cry now over their sacrifice.
With free speech I thank them,
asking the God I chose to bless and receive them,
with my liberty I will always salute and honor them.
And as my pursuit of happiness, for a season,
turns to sorrow
they are gone again once more,
.. but I know them now,
and will tell their story.

Voices ... Mountains ... God ...

by

D. M. Christensen

I hear a voice which beckons, as I gaze up at peaks alone
prompting an urge to climb to where summits hide
an uncarved passage into the unknown.
Up I go in stealth and silence
until I reach that place
an exposed rim where air grows thin
and the heartless flee in haste.
I'll scale that face and ascend a shaft
then reach for the moon and stars,
I'll plot a trek through a mountainous vast
by a ridge lined up with mars.
And with great care
over rock-through screaming air,
change of tack to rest upon some sod,
I'll enter a space, where sun and wind scrapes my face
and hear a voice- "climb on, climb on"....
It calls me when its daylight, it whispers when I sleep
"Climb-climb you must up rocky piles of dust"
it bids ... and up I leap.
Steep, steeper, steepest!
where I have sensed that zone,
with lungs aghast and pounding heart in task
I'll stance and feel vibrations of life's songs.
I'll climb in the rain, I'll climb in the night
through an impassable crux with ease,
up erretts and dihedrals in a contorted tango with death
facing hail-then lightning to test
this sojourn through mortality.
And everywhere through pristine air
my senses blitzed by natures awe,
in reverent haste, tensed and braced
I'll fulfill the call,
climb on-climb on
It beckons me, as it has always beckoned me
and eagerly I reply,
"I'll go climb to where summit's hide their
rock-forged dangerous highs".
I approach an alpine vortex
that gives me rest I can't explain
then traversing the steep-pitched up over a cornice
I find what keeps me sane.
I've climbed the wind
I've touched the stars
I've felt that force which lies
within that vast immense of natures cement
where peaks punch holes in the sky,
and everywhere that a climber may dare to climb
I have gone,
then as I approach on knees and hands
to the tops of mountains grand
I realize I've been listening to the voice of God

Electronic Narcotics

by

D. M. Christensen

Seeds beamed
from tractors in the sky
then nourished by juice from underground cables,
broadcasting prescriptions to enlighten and edify.
Smuggled into minds by
techno-craftsmen who superimpose
illusions onto screens of doubt
planting for a future harvest.
Media machines plow indoctrination
manipulating the genetics of reason,
conditioning to group think
their opinions.
Feeding the karma of wholeness
tilling under independent thought,
stimulating the growth of oneness
to agree with their own.
So turn off lights of truth and watch
flickering horizontal and vertical puppet strings,
ideologies projected from dark alleys
then injected into fertile minds
who dance to it all.
What is really going down
on the other side of the microphone ?
.. never ask
and never question the status quo.
Applaud all stage performers,
psycho bablers, elite smirkers
and readers of dire reports
somehow explained just the way we like.
Enjoy the estacy of spin but don't
overdose on bias while being programed
to believe nonsense.
Commercials interrupt ... buy coke,
pushers with t.v. trays play dr. killDARE,
hits !! ... measured then sold in microseconds.
Just say no!... or else become,
an addicted fellow citizen
watching hundreds of designer stations
for the best deal on a couch.
Then sit comfortably and replace intelligence
with subliminal lies, helping achieve
an entertained subconscious high
while watching growing weeds
of electronic-psycho-fascism.
News flash !
bumper crop !

How Else Could It Be ?

by

D. M. Christensen

He Said, "Let there be"
and it arced
through the immensity of space
bringing warmth to the seeds of intelligence.
Recognize it
Seek it
Grow in it
Know it
Walk in it
Share it
Look for it in every soul.
Find...
The source of it
The power of it
The truth of it
The peace of it
Learn pride and ego try to hide it
Know love basks in the warmth of it
And realize we have all borrowed it
From HE who resides in it.
"Let there be light!!"
How else could it be?

Butterflies On The Battlefield

by

D. M. Christensen

Fluttering in stillness
through lost dreams caught in silent breezes
drifting across flower-less plains
of death and humiliation.
Floating across a war
of transforming souls marching
to the confusing endeavors
of men becoming beasts
to change other beasts
into their finer definition of men.
Flying away in pieces
as they soar in victory,
wining safety with blood
but finding instead bloody safety
inside spent shells of the deepest emptiness.
Losing ability to be touched
by wings of fate as it flies away
over another horizon becoming lost forever.
Yet there is still a time for peace
a time for love
and there is a time for Butterflies.
A time to hear the call of metamorphosis
ceasing the wars staged to find greatness,
only then will we change
and greatness find us.
Emerging from our cocoons
we'll know how to flutter, float,
then fly with brilliance upon warm eternal winds
across flowered fields in a noble battle
to achieve Humanity.

A Memory of Bells

by

D. M. Christensen

My shadow startled by its ring
dances across a doorway to the past
pushed by stilled echoes down a hallway
to rooms once filled with familiar hearts.
So many smiles
brought a breath of life to our time
but we couldn't wait to exhale
following the song of an afternoon bell.
We left this sacred ground of memories
with recollections so guarded
that as time begins its theft
we wonder if it ever really happened.
Trying now to remember the faces
brings a lingering sorrow,
so few could come along
down paths we made our own.
Those periods of friendships now absent
seemed to last like 10 minutes between class
faintly rings inside a vacancy
like tardy bells.
Songs and sounds of youth,
and a mysterious spontaneous energy
propelled us one-way
out of this safety-- then into life.
Looking back again, and again
to wander its glad passages
and wonder as tears come from eyes
now only half open.
Then rings my heart,
"to be assembled Class Of 68 once again"
.. but never again.
And never again its gladness
and moments prolonged,
yet so many memories dance me backwards
through this lost song
along with shadows others left behind,
as we all sat waiting ...
for the sound of the last bell.

Mystery Of Fur and Purr

by

D. M. Christensen

You come and go independently
knowing your interests are perfect-
vibrating with certainty.
Acting sly, unforthcoming, expressionless
uninterested in me,
uncommunicative.
Wanting only to observe and remain dignified,
constantly washing your face ... then sleep,
always sleep.
You drove me to drinking
"you don't know me"
is always the message in your eyes.
But sometimes you brought me a "kill"
warm, still bleeding
your love offering.
Dropping it in my living room
next to were I study
and study, trying to learn
why you refuse to be tamed.
Secretive, sensual, lonely, wild,
intensely serious, about everything
except me.
I must learn to become one
and make my world unreal
then solve your purfect mystery.

Big Blue Brother

by

D. M. Christensen

Alone
In silent vision quest
Looking with fascination
At sands on a beach
As waves wash my feet
In the translucent liquid of life
A subdued brightness ebbs the past
Then floods the future before my eyes, sparkling
I look long and cautiously
Into this sea of glass
Wondering if it stares back
Into my soul
Realizing numberless grains mark
Eternal rounds of intelligence
Light and time.
Transparent they glare and glisten
I glance as they become similitude's of worlds to come.
Processed and becoming tempered
Blown then laminated
Into eons of crystallized silicone.
Imagination fired., watching, glassy-eyed
Waiting ... waiting, as false gods boot-up
Whose likeness fuse into images
As if proxy for the mind, a faceless luminescence
Peering-out from colored mists
Of horizontal and vertical impulse's
Synchronizing optic sensations penetrating deep
Into hearts engaged in relentless quests
Void of eternal purpose;
Standing on whales-fishing for minnows
Surfing over treasure- to net garbage
Drowning in the obvious, yet
Kept afloat by counterfeit's
Suspended in a constant state of learning
But never able to discern truth
Watching deceptions
In search for open minds
Sitting before this illuminated optical glass sea
As wave after electronic wave wash my mind
While it quietly monitors me
In its data basin
As I realize
I'am not
Alone

Big Blue Brother

by

D. M. Christensen

Alone
In silent vision quest
Looking with fascination
At sands on a beach
As waves wash my feet
In the translucent liquid of life
A subdued brightness ebbs the past
Then floods the future before my eyes, sparkling
I look long and cautiously
Into this sea of glass
Wondering if it stares back
Into my soul
Realizing numberless grains mark
Eternal rounds of intelligence
Light and time.
Transparent they glare and glisten
I glance as they become similitude's of worlds to come.
Processed and becoming tempered
Blown then laminated
Into eons of crystallized silicone.
Imagination fired., watching, glassy-eyed
Waiting ... waiting, as false gods boot-up
Whose likeness fuse into images
As if proxy for the mind, a faceless luminescence
Peering-out from colored mists
Of horizontal and vertical impulse's
Synchronizing optic sensations penetrating deep
Into hearts engaged in relentless quests
Void of eternal purpose;
Standing on whales-fishing for minnows
Surfing over treasure- to net garbage
Drowning in the obvious, yet
Kept afloat by counterfeit's
Suspended in a constant state of learning
But never able to discern truth
Watching deceptions
In search for open minds
Sitting before this illuminated optical glass sea
As wave after electronic wave wash my mind
While it quietly monitors me
In its data basin
As I realize
I'am not alone

Liquid Turbulence

by

D. M. Christensen

Alternating views cut, rotate,
creating air flows into insanity,
dreams getting sucked
through turning blades of cruelty.
Colored visions crack,
falling hard into piles of denial,
waiting to be blown away
upon an exhausted humanity.
Sitting inside a temple
of polished shadows,
pouring out another glass-dark reality,
to fuel a combustion,
that drives escape
from life and it's vibrational prison.
Then set free to drift
in fresh air of mellow perceptions
as smoked mirrors
reflect turbulent deceptions.

Conscientious Objector

by

D. M. Christensen

A silver bird floats above the flight line,
wheels touch down melting rubber into the tarmac.
Relaxed wings relieved of their burden ... vibrate,
149 hearts beat out of harmony.
Belts unfastened, heads turned,
good-byes looked into eyes of condemned friends.
Cabin pressure stabilized,
exits into a strange new world, pivot open.
Tension floods in, absorbed by bodies
masked with gung-ho to disguise terror.
Fears nourished by a climate
that throws flames of temperature in our face
blasting, melting away courage.
The threshold meet no quick friends,
the ramp waits, no echoes of cadence yet
to strike its metal.
Trained... Ready? ... an innocence camouflaged
takes no eager step forward for this adventure.
Silence remains motionless
its stillness feigning a strong resolve,
we were U.S. Marines landing in Da Nang
and scared shitless ... in our bravery.
Not quite ready to mingle our blood
with rice and mud, yet hearts started beating in sync
to the songs of war.
It beckoned to us from a green and red jungle
oozing with dead dreams, and
offering medals for best nightmares.
Braking into sweat and stink,
a realization comes from beyond the senses.
I ignorantly looked into faces destined to become names
etched on a stone wall in black.
Others would become lost, then forgotten,
or locked inside a cold comfort of hospitality
served indignation, contempt, and pain.
Some would fall forever to sleep
within the boxes of graves registration.
Phantom sensations would awaken others
inside sterile places, looking ... for the missing pieces.
Bewildered, others would become bloodied
and bruised, brought by sudden impacts
of stars with friendly colors.
Those enduring to the end aquired steel hearts,
and eyes that could bore holes through warm flesh.
One non-hero came home joining a race to slow down
and catch-up with sanity and conscience
before being called-up
by his Maker.
Will he go ...
... Or can he object ?

The Bogeyman

by

D. M. Christensen

My nightmare was their making
and required to be powerful
so they sent him to walk too and fro
across the earth
then go up and down through it
and was given power of the air.
I viewed reports
that terrorized me into acceptance,
programing me to believe nonsense,
incarcerating me within my own fears.
They let him come into my country
will he travel to my state
how long before arriving at my city
and busting into my home.
A remarkable distraction
so I hid from the bogeyman
inside a cathedral of covers
and screamed for better security.
When I awoke,
from this state controlled imagination,
I found war disguised as peace
slavery declared as freedom
and a fence built around my world.

Poetic Introvert

by

D. M. Christensen

Wandering the labyrinth
inside of mind,
structuring energies
to encircle possibilities.
locked inside potentials,
light refracts thoughts of this gray-matter prism
transforming frames of reference
to all images looking in.
If so, will I then find
reason
adding it to rhyme,
rhyming it in sync with wisdom,
striking a rhythm
that cracks requirements,
shattering this sphere of dark dynamic force ?
Will an incarnation leap-out beyond
unconscious reflections,
altering enticements from this reality
using words mirroring an exit
into that outer worlds house
of blown-glass inspirations ?
No ...
I' ll stay inside
looking ...
listening ...
for a voice of ultimate meaning,
only then will I become hungry enough
to create another world
to fallout into.

Caravan Into A Mirage Of Desire

by

D. M. Christensen

Traveling a wasteland
wind scoured, hostile
landscapes stark, dust dry, yet
erecting imaginations as subtle
as mesquite entwined with primrose.
Images perceived but never quite seen,
in bizarre moods of quiet mystery, there ...
lies her body shimmering in the heat
sizzling with urgency, searing a vision
into the parched oasis of my desire.
Passions nurtured by gentle rounded dunes,
an arid caressing of this intricate balance
rocks me like a Bedouin on a camel
softly penetrating this fascinating landscape
while pondering a melting of souls.
Sweating in rhythm,
burrowing like a desert dweller
into soft moist sands,
entering an enchanted body
and finding feeling, mystery,
as a sublime tension releases
the sweet elixir of life.
Then in bare and twisted geological agonies
the mirage becomes erotic reality,
I awake in a desert of forbidden fantasy,
it cries out in scorched ecstasy
bringing a climax of intricate delicacy,
on and on ... and on ...
comes our caravan of desire.

Loves Critical Mass

by

D. M. Christensen

An undiscovered element
lies buried within her heart
waiting - listening
for its calling,
will she choose to see and hear ?
A fragment trapped in a passage of time
awaits her visitation
to end this lonely agony,
I'll let the sun turn to blood,
let the moon freeze my soul
but with unconscious energy I will build
a sacred space,
so that she may worship,
and become enriched.
Let not the pillars be pulled down
upon us as we watch
the sun rise with the moon in union
of our inner and outer worlds.
Upon our altar in ceremony
we 'll celebrate our first
and last our beginning,
our end
as the obelisk penetrates the cathedrals door.
In this reactor of passions, wounds are healed
powered-up by sweat and tears
fueling loves critical mystery
of two souls now
in fusion.

Unskilled Workers Paradise

by

D. M. Christensen

Artists of the sexual arts
lying in quiet tension
gratified by dynamic conformity
to uninhibited ethics
of pleasure and pain

Bound by animal instincts
gagged with societies new correctness
that produces the guarantee
against independent creativity
inspirational action, and freedom

Ready to be made sacrifice
to a new cultural uniformity
with acquisition of special skills,
proper sexual orientations,
team work, group-think and sex

But this new world is really a prison
surrounded by counterfeit beauty
contrasting absurdities
dynamic creations of emotional abstracts
presented as wonderful

The perfect inmate
enjoys the program
has donated their will
the mind belongs to the state
and their new conditioned body waits
for the collective orgy

Cooking A Dish Of Irony

by

D. M. Christensen

A perfect means of incarceration
for deeds dastardly,
a showcased alley
of threads and patches.
She has been a very bad girl,
cooking her own goose
as she kicked and scratched her way to the top.
Now she must pay the price
for arrogance
and selfish appetites
and obsessing with furnishings.
No more orgasms
of decorative redundancy, subsidized silliness,
obnoxious gerrymandering of recipes.
A paddy wagon on rails
will deposit her for dank hospitality
and celebrations of denial.
Windowless spaces
like tombstones stare down in vacancy
at an unperfectly set table.
She will go nuts ... !! hearing echoes
bounce off dust, grime, and filth.
The clock says its show time
but the mannequin is so overweight
will her rags fit?
call mother .....
Coal has been stacked neatly
to help fuel, and fire-up
her new designers Hell.
as she moans and groans her innocence.

Sea of Expectations

by

D. M. Christensen

Her image locked
but not forever
in seas of my unconsciousness.
Floating in stillness, entwined
with slippery programers
of carnal lust.
Gestating erotic imaginations
to birth into oppositions of time-space
then feed upon desire and lust.
Within the dancing flames of time
tempting tools of death or release
dares one cross this naked threshold.
Confronting armed guardians of ecstasy
freeing her to fate or
to an unopened heart and eyes,
made sacrifice ...
to her expectations or mine?

Vanity

by

D. M. Christensen

Lurking in shadows
breeding contamination,
standing at a crossroad
it can not cross,
lusting for the wine
it did not press,
mocking the sacred
it does not possess,
pounding its hatred into innocence.

Overseeing a sanctuary of filth
in celebrations of enmity,
no Faith
no Wisdom
just whore
upon a throne
of trivial dimension
trying to hold fast our attachments
and slip into relevancy.

Using words that do not heal
no voice, no echo,
trying to create with clay
that which it did not dig
as it reeks with pride
and oozes prostitution
to corrupt our passions.

Another is crowned King
casting his net into our delusions
catching our hate, our attachments,
our corruptions'
and in the purest of moments
lets them be nailed
to his hands ... wrists ... and feet,
then offers all who mock and slay him
access to his grace
and wings to fly.

Lo$t Vega$

by

D. M. Christensen

Inside a vibrating cyclone of light
hot neon sings
double-down your dreams
but goes unfulfilled by calculated electronic thieves.
A metallic dance to tunes of chance
waltzed nightly by victims entranced
with mindless haste
laying fortunes to waste
feeding at a buffet of odds
come, or don't come ... to taste.
Smiling fiends guard felt lined pits
overseers holding sticks
across from dealers amused
by the hope they abuse.
A goddess brings change
followed by a liquid rearrange
starting celebrations of fiscal dementia
and reality derange.
Colored disks lie
under dark bubble-eyes
watching losers become losers
in a feigned winners disguise.
Foul deeds arise
in towers piercing holes in dark skies,
its a last escape
for lost souls they buy.
Hard nights, Hard days, Hard plays, Hard ways !
Cold neon screams
mocking Lost Vegas dreams
in a place where lights not what it seems.

Dice Lovers

by

D. M. Christensen

What tonight baby ... ?
I'll be the next Shooter.
Want the Big 6, or the Big 8
or will you take it the Hard-Ways ?
Screw the Odds ... 2 Squares like us
can find any number of Combinations.
I Don't Come until you Come
that's the rule at this Bar.
Your Chips are all stacked
Bet on my Pass.
Your Place or mine ?
or shall we do it in the Field?
I'm loaded .... Coming Out !!

From Iraq With Love

by

D. M. Christensen

She came rolling in
from a distance like gentle thunder,
listening ... yet still I was surprised
by her stealth and speed as she commenced
her hostilities towards me.
Breaking through
my perimeter of resistance, storming within reach,
at first camouflaging her intentions
then telling me she came to free me
from my inhibitions.
So she tested my resolve
with her coalition of lovemaking devices,
insisting its not all about oil
but that she was going to use lots of it anyway.
Her special forces then titillated me,
intensifying her authority
she instructed me ... commanded me ... dictated to me ...
disconnecting my communications from reality
as she strafed me up and down with bliss
turning me into a madman ... trapped
in her bunker of pleasure !!
Her exploratory force covertly did
reconnaissance on me,
then her overt operation
came down on me, as I realized she
was becoming a weapon of mass satisfaction !
I thought about making a full report
but we became imbedded as she
cluster-loved me to pieces,
taking no prisoners
.... yet liberating me.
I may B 52 .... but
she was as a helicopter hovering over me
then like a cruise missile
finding its target.
I kept thinking of bush
but this is the real,
the one and only
Shock and Awe !!

Blue Lunatic

by

D. M. Christensen

Having visions of a Godess
dancing on a sea of dust
my gaze fixed upon her motion
locked in strong nocturnal lust
Celebrating rhythms of her darkness
feeling changes in the tides
floating around her heavenly body
jettisoning sanity aside
Astounded by her beauty
she waxed an evil spell
my spheres eclipsed of reason
as slowly I gravitate down to hell
Waning now in dark side memories
I 'm trapped like a man in the moon
her image reflects in my full eyes
as I 'm locked inside this blue padded room

Once There Was A Spot

by

D. M. Christensen

Sacred divine thoughts
declared by noble voices with simplicity
then written down by founders
of these self evident memories,
tarring momentarily creating freedoms warmth
before becoming locked
inside designed words of profound nothingness
used in synthesis to purge our heritage from existence.
Torments follow hard within a cold loneliness,
forged inside breathless spaces of soulless litigation
that attempts to weld bars around lights of conscience
condemning all into a pit of relative darkness.
Screaming silent songs into an subjective void
we listen for echoes of
Truth ... Harmony ... Justice
but will it ever return its anthem again upon our hearts ?
Once a noble quest to touch the stars
ruled offensive by an illuminated supreme
who tries banishing keys to doors of the sublime.
Encouraged to embrace darkness we once fought against
till it becomes shadows of hungry passions
cast by ourselves as anarchy
becomes the feast we feed upon.
Gorging upon the seduction of lies,
fattened by an education whose outcome is ignorance,
while in a celebration of arrogant dysfunctionalism
does anyone hear rivets popping from a nations soul
relentlessly buying chains for its incarceration ?
A drama of nightmares awakens us slowly
into a day never dreamed of
as stainless pillars of freedom collapse into ashes.
Eternal principals whisper instructions into passing moments
taken by guardians into an inner sanctuary ... weeping
as freedoms sacred responsibilities are profaned.
The caretaker of sublime thoughts awaits the call
to come forth with keys for another enlightenment
and place them in a spot never to be lost again
as we recall memories of freedom
never to be forgot.

Once Unpublished Love

by

D. M. Christensen

Her fantasies ached
for a lovers pen
to express her dreams
into fulfillment.
Lusting for the words
she pleaded my submission
as her mind became pages
for my ink.
Gorged with anticipation
we intercoursed our imaginations,
moving in and out of bliss
creating simple words
that became the seeds of love.
Writing to the rhythms
of her syllabolic seductions
she stroked my talents
into hardened expectations.
Her body received my verse
then claimed title to my soul,
and in celestial climax I wrote her beauty
inside books and volumes of my heart
copyrighted by eternity.

Anvil Of Eros

by

D. M. Christensen

"There lives within the very flames of love
A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it"
W.S.


Forged upon
the anvils of desire,
tempered by flames of emotion,
from soft wombs of attraction
wounds open that can only be healed
by that same blind instrument
of its infliction.
But if hunger
greed, zeal, passion,
comes without mastery
it cultures sickness that can only be cured
by death of the animal nature.
kill the ego,
Open the heart,
Rebirth to compassion,
until then the unquenchable fires of lust
will impaled us upon the cold rotating spit
of each others sufferings.
A counterfiet love that will forge instruments
for its own destruction
Then in the breech
only eyes will touch in cruel celebrations
of the mystery of Eros.

Knock On The Door To Absolute Zero

by

D. M. Christensen

Mr Mojo Risin
are you there behind the doors
of the unknown
meeting unknown soldiers?
Locked inside a house of detention
without subscription
for the ressurection?
Horizontal or standing up
did you get out alive
from you primordial dance
in this wilderness of pain?
Love us two times again
we'll celebrate you lament
while driving in the moonlight.
Were waiting for the sun to bath us
in another river
of hypnotic sounds.
Hello we still love you
speak to ache, capture our impatience
you left us wanting more.
You are the Lizard King
these days are strange,
listen for our knock
birth us another tragedy
or is our only friend
The End?
You lit the fire
your music will never be over,
we are'nt mad
we are still interested in freedom
Good luck

Times And Dreams On An Island By The Sea

by

D. M. Christensen

In dream-filled days of innocence
I walked hand in hand with the sea
impatiently trying to rush forward
but time never changed its beat.
Once too slow for my eager heart
its dance hurried on ahead
playing the days-out into years
never realizing life was changing pace.
At times crashing, sometimes braking
but always finding pure moments within a stillness,
then as its dynamic started leaving
it held me fast within its ebb.
Now we no longer walk together
the sea and I, the music ended
when time robbed me of my youth.
Bring back those precious dreams
the songs, the laughter
the wonder days of love
and family and friends.
With an empty net
my eagerness dies within me
as time offers little
in its outstretched hands.
Looking back perhaps it will take pity
then dance back to me
but there is silence ... and it is gone
.. it left so little of itself behind.
How sad, I once wished time to pass quickly,
now its music plays so quietly
washing out with the waves
until almost unheard.
But inside salty memories of time
a symphony still remains
and so does the island
that cradled my life by the sea.

inspired by the life and writtings of June Thomas

Which god blesses America?

by

D. M. Christensen

From the murky depths of diseased swamps
they built a shinning city on a hill
to bear light in celebration of their god.
His unholy signs hidden upon its streets in welcome,
stone monuments of wonder rise
in illuminated tribute.
Squared and ruled by a compass pointing north,
waiting for his wisdom flowing from the east.

Ownership measured by skullduggery
in distance around its belt and small horn,
then turning off on sixty-six going six
as cryptocratic minds watch all
who enter the eye of this dark storm.
Numbers .. numbers.. everywhere numbers,
hexing trespassers within a ritual of thirteens'
while they marvel at a high erection of three sixes
disguised by three fives and dug deep to bury three ones.

Standing from atop his supreme viewpoint
watching all four corners
through eight eyes of blood,
as he walks two and fro through the earth
and goes up and down in it
and is proclaimed ...
" The Prince of the Power of the Air."

Electronic eyes are legion inside its head,
with the stench of an all-seeing ancient conspiracy
breathed into its nostrils,
hangs out above old gallows
stealthy on a mission to enslave humanity.

Deceiving the elect,
who serve inside
this pulsating grid of evil,
seething with a power
to raise out of ashes
the morning son.

Building the one who is
was, and shall not be,
who has, shall,
but will not rule this world,
and by these ways conjured up
for his final season.

Invoking "Ordo Ab Chao",
like rabbits breeding laws,
who feign signs of distress
while infecting freedom with a disease
cultured inside the block
with his number

Unleashing arms of Flesh, fire, and rage,
enticing brothers to kill brothers
In a celebrating of chaos
as unenforced laws cause the need
for an ancient plan.

Those receiving stars salute brotherhoods
inside a dead center of fives',
five high, five deep, with five sides,
casting spells of destruction from a machine of war
on manufactured enemies foreign and domestic.

Using sorcery, sex and covert power,
killing kings deemed unworthy,
triangulating slaughters inside remains of a temple
in a far off plaza
daily ritualized, dramatized, and carried out,
assassinating histories heart and soul
along their parallel,
to green of our dreaming minds.

The bells ... bells ... bells,
listen for moans of baal
ringing inside this pyramid of hell.
Sealed within hollow pillars and under altars,
guarding the secrets of his floating temples,
hand-crafted down in strict rituals with degrees
that inspire technologies to arise
from inside painted circles of aborted blood.

All is watched from atop a domed sky
surrounded by false gods
where the goddess is merged
with the head of a bird
and looks to her nest in Rome.

Hands griped, his genealogy of bloodlines
sacrifice four feasts
offered four times inside profane four-twenty;
burnt in a church,
blown-up in their care,
combined with shots in a school
then one who swam with the dolphins.

Count thirteen walks from a false house of purity
into- then through his star-
to knowledge measured in grams
pent-up inside a great hall
where deceived follow rainbows from a candle
to receive ciphered-numbered light.

Hoodwinking the unworthy and uninitiated
by inversions of words
then asking ... "how did this get here"... ?
Its time now for truth or consequences !

This is the thickest of all cover-ups
perpetrated by arch-criminals
hidden behind false history.
How long will the center hold,
do falcons hear their falconer,
will truth stay nested inside audacity
or in shell-games of satanic arrogance?

Their undertakings are smiled upon
as ceremonies of innocence are burried
so he can rise from ashes,
sixth month, sixth day, sixth hour,
dividing three parts into his year.. equaling,
six-hundred threescore and six
-and on and on forever
into the bottomless pit of outer darkness.

The moon pays full tribute,
since the first,157 days adds up
to his fiercest and final rebellion!
all that was hidden is made manifest,
fellow travelers of the craft assemble to greet him
between the rising of the evening and morning star
while holding up a thousand points of light.

Angels and ministers of grace defend us,
He comes !

Red Rock Magic

by

D. M. Christensen

An inner voice leads me
into a realm of magic
as daylight burns away
into a mystical night of beckoning darkness.
Engaging in a search
for a delicate place
as my eyes turn
into unknown spots in my soul.
Purging poisons of the mechanical world,
forgetting the trappings of my electronic prison,
staying the path leading trough a temple of rock,
achieving a cleanse of mind then spirit
as my body is bathed
in an effervescence of universal light.
Catching glimpses
of twisted masses of solidified beauty
born in stone ... echoing ancient songs sung
now in synchronization with my heart.
A breeze whispers a caution
blending wonder into a fear
of standing on holy places.
A vision opens
and I find lost remnants of spirit
inside a maelstrom of stone
scoured out by eons of ice and wind.
Then ... there ... standing like a naked sentinel
a spontaneous sculpture of living rock
beaten down upon by breath of the cosmos
tempered by supernatural instructions
whispered by hot desert winds.
A monument to the improbabilities of nature,
suspended in time, framing a window
into the soul of the universe.
Perched upon the edge of an abyss
flirting with a fall from grace
as it cries out in timeless silence
its geological agonies.
The night goddess ascends the horizon
as lunar beams like ashen fires cast magical shadows
of red rock arched delicately.
Then placing this magic gently
upon my countenance
filling me with wonder and AWE!!

A midnight climb to Delicate Arch, Arches Nat. Park Utah

Why Kiss ?

by

D. M. Christensen

Kiss of life
Kiss of death
Kiss ...
and let me do the rest.
Kiss of fate
Kiss of hate
Kiss ...
before it gets too late.
Kiss cool
Kiss kind
Kiss ...
and warm a lonely mind.
Kiss a cheek
once a week
Kiss ...
even in your sleep.
Kiss on
Kiss long
Listen ...
to its slippery song.
Kiss an enemy
Kiss a friend
it comes back in the end
Kiss of spice
Kiss of strife
make it a way of life.
Kiss and make
Kiss and break
a heart is always there to take.
Kiss the earth
Kiss the sky
always stop to wonder why
Kiss and send
never end
pucker up and kiss again
Never rest
that's the test,
Kiss ...
each time the very best!
Kiss and hear
in your ear
Kiss ...
because that's why were here.

Legacy from Hope

by

D. M. Christensen

Burn.. Christians, burn
in freedoms funeral pyre,
our eagle flees this demons lair.
Guardians slept
no statesmen wept
as traitors doubled down their bets
A beast, two terms come to pass
from an ancient place with a different cast
jackboots into Mount Carmel and is born
A general shields her chief
he hides in bloodied halls
of white
America dreams through nightmares
of unholy siege, massacre and might
What it now does with strength
is to distress and destroy
to deny, to suppress, and make weak.
Automatic barriers block-out
all routes of escape
to a freedom that innocence seeks.
Feigned justice runs through glue and tar,
lies give birth to a new political star,
spin doctors spin us into a slavish gyre.
The worst polled their eyes closed ... willingly
while the best are fueled by legions of disinformation
Who are these tyrants in search of a legacy?

Politically Corrected

by

D. M. Christensen

Twisting an excuse for iresponsibility
its in the genes your inability
Carefully construct, appear to communicate
make bad good, and above all tolerate
Walk backwards from the truth, mislead
design and distort reality... plant the seeds
Insidious proliferation to appall and amuse
a gobbledygook of ideological verbal abuse
Incorrectness lets a slip of the tongue
manipulate and oppress our social fun
Weapons of choice against the naked masses
words to make us feel all honey and molasses
What seems funny is turning frightening
a keyboard, pen, a bolt of lightning
Achieve all ends at our expense
by locking freedom inside a politically corrected talking fence

Human Blue Book'$

by

D. M. Christensen

money
sings a metallic song
sung by a choir
of hissing liquidators
while minting dark secrets
of their floating temples
engaged in commerce of bloody pacts
with paper devils
questing for lost mysterious drafts
coined in acient knowledge
finding temporary refuge
inside walled hearts on the darkest of streets
making tender and oh so legal
the buying of us all for a price
as their green visions of heaven comes
like a kingdom of Fort Knox
using forged blood
as convient means of payment
and human sweat
as preferred mediums of exchange
screaming ...! "E Pluribus Unum!"
in the fineness slaughter of the innocents
all, out of many, cries harmoniously
"in gold we trust"
as our image is stamped
into its metal,
while in a relentless dance
to silver tunes of
interest and
money

Great Balls of Fire

by

D. M. Christensen

Two dark dynamic spheres
programed to pump desire
shake in urgency
rattle with attraction
roll in anticipation
pulsating with rhythmic warmth
while being bathed in sweet catalytic juices
containing the elixir of life.

Then the cold breath of the Dragon
ejaculates fire into a womb
of the slippery dark underworld
releasing millions of sparks
glittering in sublime brilliance
thrusting to their deaths
while striving to bring gifts
to the mother of all life.

Last Cave Dance

by

D. M. Christensen

Shadows dancing out of rhythm
to the sounds of muffled beatings
in a universe singing songs
to my unconsciousness.
Lead by their echoes
through gauntlets of misperceptions,
flickering melodies still the mind
leaving timeless notes upon its walls.
Harmonizing the senses
in unplanned simplicity,
hearing a small voice
that awakens divine imaginations.
Memories choreographed inward
backs up towards escape
as the festival gives up its secrets.
Waltzing to the cosmos edge,
going beyond the normal range of mysteries,
coupling with the outlying spaces,
leaving darkness behind in a leap
over the threshold.
Crossing ...
Falling ...
off a stage then slaying dragons
wearing costumes with my face.
Striping demons of their masks
ends this darkness of perverse fantasy
as the refiner turns ashes into gold.
Enchantments of the heart interface
with the source of light and life,
hunger, greed, fear,
spin into rock,
desires, passions, melt into accord.
Loosing self, the trickster dies
as the teacher gives directions
for the souls noblest calling.
The needle stops at center
pointing to a pathway
that opens mind into heart.
Following this sublime feeling,
shutting off my vibrational prison,
I exit this cave,
to where the inner
and outer worlds meet,
.. then enter bliss
dancing.

Believe It Or Not

by

D. M. Christensen

LIES !
Compounding the incredible
with utter confusion
non-rational, anti-rational
poll-propaganda illusion
Suggestion susceptibility
breeds a super enhanced arrogance,
creating heroes from the ranks
of human ignorance
Mental captivity,
feigned democratic activity,
who will do battle
become sheep or cattle.
Cross that bridge
into a brave new century
marvel at the spin...
"Freedom is Slavery"
Celebrate the humanist extravaganza
and never know discomfort
or consequenses
while enjoying the hospitality
of Big Brother

Bloodlines In The Sand

by

D. M. Christensen

Handed down in genesis
naked and raw
the head of an ancient signature
proclaimed in constellations
then written in stone, bronze, and gold.
Formatting their psyche
with malevolent empowerment,
from dust
to life in a cradle
with fangs dripping venom
disperse to all four corners.
The sands now run backwards
returning to make claim
proclaiming bloodlines
that slither inside
unholy chalices of horrors.
Nations drink the wealth
of their commodity
tipping the scales
to receive its stain
forfeiting the right to rule.
Now lying beneath shifting sands
covering up the bath,
Abel's blood not donated
then ours
gets bloodletted
and turns a thick black with time.
Transfusions for an elite
who now sees all
hears all
does all
has all,
yet in appearance
never involved in anything,
congeal together again
telling the tails
that proclaim ultimate power.

Legacy from Hope

by

D. M. Christensen

Burn.. Christians, burn
in freedoms funeral pyre,
our eagle flees this demons lair.
Guardians slept
no statesmen wept
as traitors doubled down their bets
A beast, two terms come to pass
from an ancient place with a different cast
jackboots into Mount Carmel and is born
A general shields her chief
he hides in bloodied halls
of white
America dreams through nightmares
of unholy siege, massacre and might
What it now does with strength
is to distress and destroy
to deny, to suppress, and make weak.
Automatic barriers block-out
all routes of escape
to a freedom that innocence seeks.
Feigned justice runs through glue and tar,
lies give birth to a new political star,
spin doctors spin us into a slavish gyre.
The worst polled their eyes closed ... willingly
while the best are fueled by legions of disinformation
Who are these tyrants in search of a legacy?

Politically Corrected

by

D. M. Christensen

Twisting an excuse for iresponsibility
its in the genes your inability
Carefully construct, appear to communicate
make bad good, and above all tolerate
Walk backwards from the truth, mislead
design and distort reality... plant the seeds
Insidious proliferation to appall and amuse
a gobbledygook of ideological verbal abuse
Incorrectness lets a slip of the tongue
manipulate and oppress our social fun
Weapons of choice against the naked masses
words to make us feel all honey and molasses
What seems funny is turning frightening
a keyboard, pen, a bolt of lightning
Achieve all ends at our expense
by locking freedom inside a politically corrected talking fence

Human Blue Book'$

by

D. M. Christensen

money
sings a metallic song
sung by a choir
of hissing liquidators
while minting dark secrets
of their floating temples
engaged in commerce of bloody pacts
with paper devils
questing for lost mysterious drafts
coined in acient knowledge
finding temporary refuge
inside walled hearts on the darkest of streets
making tender and oh so legal
the buying of us all for a price
as their green visions of heaven comes
like a kingdom of Fort Knox
using forged blood
as convient means of payment
and human sweat
as preferred mediums of exchange
screaming ...! "E Pluribus Unum!"
in the fineness slaughter of the innocents
all, out of many, cries harmoniously
"in gold we trust"
as our image is stamped
into its metal,
while in a relentless dance
to silver tunes of
interest and
money

Great Balls of Fire

by

D. M. Christensen

Two dark dynamic spheres
programed to pump desire
shake in urgency
rattle with attraction
roll in anticipation
pulsating with rhythmic warmth
while being bathed in sweet catalytic juices
containing the elixir of life.

Then the cold breath of the Dragon
ejaculates fire into a womb
of the slippery dark underworld
releasing millions of sparks
glittering in sublime brilliance
thrusting to their deaths
while striving to bring gifts
to the mother of all life.

Last Cave Dance

by

D. M. Christensen

Shadows dancing out of rhythm
to the sounds of muffled beatings
in a universe singing songs
to my unconsciousness.
Lead by their echoes
through gauntlets of misperceptions,
flickering melodies still the mind
leaving timeless notes upon its walls.
Harmonizing the senses
in unplanned simplicity,
hearing a small voice
that awakens divine imaginations.
Memories choreographed inward
backs up towards escape
as the festival gives up its secrets.
Waltzing to the cosmos edge,
going beyond the normal range of mysteries,
coupling with the outlying spaces,
leaving darkness behind in a leap
over the threshold.
Crossing ...
Falling ...
off a stage then slaying dragons
wearing costumes with my face.
Striping demons of their masks
ends this darkness of perverse fantasy
as the refiner turns ashes into gold.
Enchantments of the heart interface
with the source of light and life,
hunger, greed, fear,
spin into rock,
desires, passions, melt into accord.
Loosing self, the trickster dies
as the teacher gives directions
for the souls noblest calling.
The needle stops at center
pointing to a pathway
that opens mind into heart.
Following this sublime feeling,
shutting off my vibrational prison,
I exit this cave,
to where the inner
and outer worlds meet,
.. then enter bliss
dancing.

Believe It Or Not

by

D. M. Christensen

LIES !
Compounding the incredible
with utter confusion
non-rational, anti-rational
poll-propaganda illusion
Suggestion susceptibility
breeds a super enhanced arrogance,
creating heroes from the ranks
of human ignorance
Mental captivity,
feigned democratic activity,
who will do battle
become sheep or cattle.
Cross that bridge
into a brave new century
marvel at the spin...
"Freedom is Slavery"
Celebrate the humanist extravaganza
and never know discomfort
or consequenses while enjoying the hospitality
of Big Brother

Bloodlines In The Sand

by

D. M. Christensen

Handed down in genesis
naked and raw
the head of an ancient signature
proclaimed in constellations
then written in stone, bronze, and gold.
Formatting their psyche
with malevolent empowerment,
from dust
to life in a cradle
with fangs dripping venom
disperse to all four corners.
The sands now run backwards
returning to make claim
proclaiming bloodlines
that slither inside
unholy chalices of horrors.
Nations drink the wealth
of their commodity
tipping the scales
to receive its stain
forfeiting the right to rule.
Now lying beneath shifting sands
covering up the bath,
Abel's blood not donated
then ours
gets bloodletted
and turns a thick black with time.
Transfusions for an elite
who now sees all
hears all
does all
has all,
yet in appearance
never involved in anything,
congeal together again
telling the tails
that proclaim ultimate power.

Winds That Change

by

D. M. Christensen

On a windy day
as light burnt away
they shot arrows
and refilled their bows
again and again-
but I'm still standing!
Sticks blew from turbulence
in a cyclone of expletives,
stones whipped by whirlwinds
tried smashing my pride
yet my bones remained unbroken
My neck stiffened
bruised, battered, bloodied
this throne of ego still bulletproof,
two knees will never bend,
who can ever do battle with I
A feather then drifted out of nowhere
knocked me over
and light was rekindled in my heart
The wind spoke peace
then with bent knees
my neck bowed
and the feather wrote my thoughts

Angel Falls

by

D. M. Christensen

Lost
aimlessly drifting
through a dead sea of broken hearts
pleading for shadows to flee
so I can rise once more.
Hearing a whisper
of effervescent ecstasy
penetrating a sweet mist
that lifts my spirit upward
shadows then mist dissolves.
Feeling the soft turbulence of a falls
my heart opens and I become engulfed-
then healed with the flow of its extraordinary song
sung by an angel ... with a feather
like a wetted dagger that pierced my heart.
Unpacking the shadows of my soul
I heard the darkness weep
then beckoned another into its mist
as I flew away on the wings of an angel.
Falling into her love.

The Song of Two Bells

by

D. M. Christensen

One rang its lonely song
another rang a song of longing,
ringing by chance together they became One
and One became their song ...
Ringing ... ringing ... and ringing.
Their song became eternal,
eternal it started extending,
extending it started expanding
yet it remained changeless
and everlasting.
Two rings now as One, singing ...
"Our love has become an eternal round"
and rings with the songs of many bells.

tears in hell

by

D. M. Christensen

tears
collected into ducts of loneliness
flushed down passageways
flooded by cries of pain
spilling across dark thresholds
washed into unknown subways
then guided by a fiend
through deserted ghettos of a dammed heart
straining into focus
soft damp organs of optic vision
blinking at deceptive memories
pouring out distorted perceptions of a lost reality
roving, wandering, searching
for a kinder destination
then entering dark grand hallways
leading to locked doors
as unkind images fuel the itching fires
of desperation
sensations feed through dimensions
micro, telephoto, feeling all
in a reversal of epiphany
an all-seeing eye takes note
of acute agonys, watching iced hearts melt
into vacancy
the abyss becomes askew
as hellish slaves of passion views
the devil taking you
cold fires ignite in breath he spews
consuming hope in flames he cues
broken hearts hunger to be feeling
as eyes strain dimly to be seeing
unquenched souls thirst
as they are knelling, realize
they're Left without a drop
to extinguish tormented reflections
looking back from legions
of cold tears.

Sol Invictus

by

D. M. Christensen

Radiating giant
Of the macrocosm
Silent traveler
Through unseen microcosms
Majestic ruler of all inquiries
Who answers us in ceremonial rhythms
Rising then setting
Temperatures inside the human heart
Shedding solar eloquence
Upon all life and being
Who ride the wings of healing
Breathing, burning
Basking in and feeding
As it gives it's life
Then departs the dying hero
Casting shadows where darkness tries
Illuminating a counterfeit likeness
Of eternal meaning
But its splendid radiance again rises
To shed anothers eternal sacrament
Of light, warmth, and intelligence
While constantly proclaiming
A Son greater...is yet to come.