Sometimes Moments Feeling

sometimes, in the quiet moments
when you fall asleep and i have yet to
i listen to your breathing
feeling as though our house is a house of God
and i am there to steal the silver

sometimes, in the painful moments
when one of us is angry at the other
i step back from the words and glances
feeling as though our room is a circus tent
and i want to laugh even through the bitterness

sometimes, in the perfect moments
when your skin is pressed to mine in need
i marvel at the fragility of what we do
feeling as though our bed is the mouth of a river
and i struggle to keep reality above the waterline

sometimes, in all the other moments
when things are easy and flowing and natural
i realize that love is work, and work is play
feeling as though our path is a staircase
and i don't care, up or down, just keep your hand in mine

Until Tomorrow Night

and as They flow down the hills
like blood from a new wound
i can hear Their wild and wanton cries of war
and i stand alone
waiting for Them
i have chosen the battlefield
and Their forms take those of my heart's deepest hate
and Their weapons glide through the air
and They howl at the sight of me
and i at Them

we join into battle
as eagerly as lovers join into sex
but these cries are not of pleasure
and the relief lasts much, much longer

i am aswirl
my blade flashing sweet, dark light
and terrible, bright death
as pieces fall
and blood turns grass and dirt to mud and slag

my breathing heavy
burning in and out of me
my eyes unfocused, stinging with sweat
as i chop down one and more and many
until They have to climb up Their own dead to get at me

and i know it might not be enough
it may have never been enough
to keep me connected to the real world
of dust and laundry and love and work
of little girl socks and pork chops and whiskey
when dreaming takes me so far away
farther every time, it seems
and each morning i have to wrench myself back into a world
where i've never been truly sure i belonged in the first place

and that world seems so far away now
a half-remembered scent of old dinners past
as i slay and scream and weep alone
with blood on my blade
and filth in my eyes
and, incongruously, a smile on my face
because i've finally found my calling
here i can be what i really want to be when i grow up
with no worries except for that of death
and death is the easiest worry to push aside

time bows to me
and i tire not
as armies fall beneath me
and lay unstirring

i am Shayne
son of Butch
son of Roger
son of George
and this world will feel my boot upon its throat
it will look up at me
and i will be the last fucking thing it sees
until tomorrow night