“I do not pray for these only, but also for those who believe in me through their word, that they may all be one; even as thou, Father, art in me, and I in thee, that they also may be in us, so that the world may believe that thou hast sent me.” Jn17:20-21

An angel's voice saved Abraham's white head
From shame: It turned the trembling knife away.
The altar was mere stone again--instead
He cut the cords, not flesh, and laughed to say
The tired joke once more, the son he bred,
This Isaac--just jesting heaven's cat-play.
At least he got the punch-line and his son.
(But had Jehovah's joking just begun?)

A boy called me on the phone
and wanted to know if I was home.
I told him that I was busy that day
and had to throw the horses some hay.
"So, how are you?" he stuttered.
"Just fine, but I must clean my room.
It's very cluttered."
After that I got off the phone,
and if the truth must be told,
I felt as though my senses had turned to mold.

A girl is called a She;
Multiple Shes are called a We,
and one thing that is easy to see,
is that a She is not a He.

Tall, strong, musical, polite.
Is brave enough to back away,
from any fight.
Happens to be my big brother.
The oldest son, of my Mother.

This world, it is a lost cause, no longer a feasible host to our parasitic race, and in the face of such a future, we must turn, and bestow our gratitude to the revelries of science. On the hunched back of science we have scaled the mount of decadence. The primordial soup from which life was derived, is now how life is lived and sustained. Yes, to you Monsieur evolution, I bow, a world of gnarled webs you weave, to capture and sadistically wallow in the debauchery of man's heart.

By the red hue
That drenched the plain
The cannons rumbled
The bullets rained

The moaning of men
Silenced by death
Filled all the ears
Of those in lament

Men that of rank
And of honor fell
Glory and praise
Bestowed on all

All advancing men
In the dark field
Climbed up steady
Toward the fateful hill

Clothed by cannon
And bullet fog
The men crawled safely
Until one flawed

“Mourn not overmuch mighty was the fallen”

These staves he spoke
On the back of war
Death brought to the field
Sorrow the city held
White towers rose to greet
The bier bearers
Walking through the street

King’s crown has been given
Rejoicing all sung
Now all the sorrow
Is poured out to the one they love

Banners of green and white
Herald the death of grief
Mightily he fell
Honor he kept
The king of the hall
Of all the lands
Father to all

It was four o’clock in the morning when the alarm bells started ringing. I knew my Master, Thomas Galway, would be in the stable soon. We had camped in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania for three days with still no sign of the Confederate’s gray uniforms. I never had a good night’s rest, for the camp went to sleep by eight o’clock and was usually disturbed with false alarms. But tonight was different. Men, carrying lamps, started to stream into the barn, unlatching stall doors and putting the tack on their horses.

Sometimes I wonder if we ask too much of life. We have our idea of what we would like life to be, all neatly arranged out according to our dreams and goals. And more often than not, we work towards achieving those dreams and goals and we get disappointed when we don't achieve them.

I'm sure we've all had our childhood dreams and fantasies, whether of shining armour or pretty girls, it does not matter. What matters is that we dream, and those dreams in turn shape and influence the goals we set later on in life.