#philthewordsmith

[philthewordsmith]

Voodoo Ranger cometh in night.

A purveyor of pine and lemon tree, they meet with Latin Rogue in Milano. On bridge of moonlight & basement brick, a timeless tradition for humanity takes: The trading of talk, goods, and hands. The sweeping of hands and arms tangled in tango to climax with late moon and new dawn: illuminate cobblestone roads and mosaic patch houses.

Now seekin’ refuge from other company, they creep from neighbors in noise to ruins in silence and meadow. Discussing no thing but sun, wind, and resting bodies… Ah the need for one’s limbs to be cozy achieved with ease in close company.

[philthewordsmith]

Nothing has value,

unless we say it does. Not unless we break bones and hearts and mind over grit-fist wicked riots that fuel the spirit of personal revolutions. It is the blooming: life flower of spring. The true emotion of want and fruition. The war ending against the brutal. The victor: violet happiness valkyrie breathing. Cooling the world for the fortune of blissful ignorance, which is finding value in a universe of just messy energy.

[philthewordsmith]

Hey y’all come buy my first poetry book! It’s really good. I promise. lol

[philthewordsmith]

The devil isn't who you think.

Not the coven foot nor pitchfork welding and horn-headed. He does not come in green of currency nor suits of silk. The true devil is made by man. The true devil is always echoing forward relentlessly. The true devil is time; time through exploration. Whether it is missed time or time missing. Time too slow for the suffering or just right for the wicked. Too early or too late for the lonely. Time you idiots, it’s always been time.

[philthewordsmith]

Parched for the summoning

is a nation in need of restoration. A stronger bond than liberty for the privileged & wealth for the fewer. Desperation for the most and un-guiding neighbors for all. It is the ores of patience, all dried up for the nation's use, that are spent on unfruitful insecurity (the norm). Where are the person's of virtue to command attention for the fallen? They are here but unheard, because the powerful are just backs.

[philthewordsmith]

A man whom suffers a lifetime, to then be gifted a moment of honest love and purpose in his last breathes would live to suffer again for those same breathes; for those were the only true moments of life he lived.

Phillip Hatcher

[philthewordsmith]

I think I can hear the songs now...

A distant whisper from days when we are all the choir; no preacher. Where sun endear us, instead of lectures. What subtle energy we keep in as anxious heat. But faith allows us time to learn, the songs that will save our soul. Hymns that will fill this roofless church: this ark in ocean dark. Just listen close enough… And you can hear the organ, begin to hum.

[philthewordsmith]

There's a wolf in the reeds,

and I have failed another mother. Failed another song and misinterpreted dreams. Do I feel those fangs in my neck? Paws on my back, death too eager. Too eager for me; not yet I say. Not yet.

Not until my knees have hit soil. Life sure I shall make no sounds. I’ll make you scavenger from empty wider palms and tougher hugs greeting earth. Empty of weapon and love by then. I will become love by then.