The Fall of Dignity / sykophántēs

In droves we sought refuge with instability,
the tabernacle walls decorated with humanity’s pique
Our own bile under the guise of a fresh idea,
inventing sex in the dust of the reformation
Flippant figurines, musings of an animalistic past,
somehow serve to distract our pangs in unrighteous form
The chosen life, the forgotten sun, the water we tread,
great accomplishments alluding a magnificent death we’ll soon forget

Paint by Pieter Bruegel the Elder Netherlandish Proverbs


Conceived to dust! the fleet angel yells,
you buried my trust in a hand-written sonnet
Eastern promises mild enough to keep me wandering,
yet left me dry,
lapping at the river of dilapidated structures you called home

Print by Hiroshi Hamaya Snow Land

Ecce Homō

Peering through the masses clad in flesh and wine the seeking young men forged paths among those who cursed the day. Pillars of salt perched among those who had not yet feared the wrath of temporality. He who had purged his heart of tenderness. Red, deep blue, ivory, and glistening black. Blissful peace exhumed from the dust bellow of his name. Crowds of drunkards and wives chant for the king of scorn. Wisdom-boy stood on his toes to witness the feast of humanity laid at his feet. The dutiful few who will allot his salvation at the gallows. Among them the unconcerned, the unaware, and the unamused.

ecce homō

paint by Brunswick Monogrammist Ecce Homō

-‘ Somber

oh forgive me in time



matrona son is still teething on blessings,

forgotten cracked ceilings of the church where I prayed for my health

–  –  –

The Lyric of a Shared Winter

The weary traveler wrote for a grey knitted coat that she wore one day
She made her home in the snow and for the winter she wrote for the warmth of May

The romantics of life yet burdened by strife, that which made her shy
In an old red cafe she left the thoughts of that day in her painted sky

Oh, for all she knew was once in the center,
The strength of her heart in the cold of the weather as he leaves

Yet the stricken old pine he had known for a time, hadn’t felt the same
He was a man of belief, of romanticized grief with a fragile frame

In a shadow he saw his refracting bourgeois of a tepid flame
In a corner he saw his Westerners flaw when she said his name

Oh, for all he knew was once in the center,
His feeble words that said ‘bye forever’ cannot stay

Paint by Pieter Bruegel the Elder The Hunters in the Snow