Sonnettics

America has dark satanic mills
We call them mega-churches, what-the-fuck
They feed their sheep with rottenness that kills
They’ll take your money, every single buck

The millers of each dark satanic mill
Are those who prey on all the simple sheep
Your reason has an abattoir to fill
A place to prey on every prayer you keep

But I have got a Bow of burning gold
And I have brought my arrows of desire
My Spear, my sword, are more than strength untold
And yes, I have my Chariot of fire 

If William Blake, the Prophet, saw our time
Then he would surely send us Los, sublime.

Duality: to be or not to be
The coin we toss has two sides it might show
And we are bound, unless of course we’re free
We stay right here, unless of course we go

And if we go, do we go left or right
Or up or down to heaven or to hell
Our eyes are open, or we shut them tight
The world is full of things to buy or sell

If life is ones and zeroes, what’s the point
If right or wrong defines the way we live
Then maybe I should smoke another joint
Then I should take or I should give

The world of “or” is not the world for me
Excuse me now, I’ve got to go and be.

The mystic faith in poetry is found
As words proceed in processes unknown
The metaphors we’ve planted in the ground
As seeds that by the mystic winds are sown

The ground itself is only faith in truth
The truth of time that waits for time to pass
At times semantics seem, at best, uncouth
Like similes that kick the poet’s ass

If beauty lives, that means it also dies
The death of beauty happens every day
True mystic poetry is filled with lies
And only faith reveals its narrow way

The needle’s eye provides the mystic’s sight
It may not be a poem, but it might!

Beyond the stories everyone has heard
Beneath the substance right below our feet
A tragedy is told that seems absurd
A sophistry that no one should repeat

And yet, by repetition, we’re entranced
We bow before the gods proclaiming “truth”
The “truth” by which their lies are all enhanced
Provides us with refreshment most uncouth

Dichotomy of sophistry is this
A worm that eats up filth and shits out gold
Like Death exists to give us all a kiss
Like poetry that grows semantic mold

They say the word of god should be sublime
I say it needs a final couplet rhyme. 

In Coventry, Connecticut was born
A hero and a patriot, a man
Regardless of the colors he had worn
He showed his worth as only heroes can

We know his name and how he gave his all
A hero when America began
He felt the Revolution’s righteous call
A martyr for a cause, but first, a man

A man who always gave his very best
A man who grew up from a precious boy 
His mother knew that she was very blessed
And his successes always brought her joy

A scholar of the classics while at Yale
We know his name; his name was Nathan Hale

It all depends on what you mean by “God”
Some wise old man? I don’t believe in that
A concept by which we are always awed
OK, but wait, that sounds just like my cat

Did God create the world? My cat says no
The world is just perceptions, nothing’s real
Reality, a place God doesn’t go
Reality is fantasy we feel

Do you believe in fantasy, at least
It all depends, again, on what you mean
If fantasy is like some awe-ful beast
Then yes, that sounds like something that I’ve seen

“I’ve seen” is just a metaphoric trope
For that with which this poet needs to cope.

Delusion, unacknowledged, brings us light
Although it may be darker than we know
Should I believe in things beyond my sight
Does darkness help my quaint delusions grow

Delusions seem at times to be more real
Than plain reality perceived by most
Perception is reality we feel
Like what they used to call the Holy Ghost

Perceptions are delusions we define
And feelings are the senses we employ
To understand existence; it’s a sign
A sign from god, god hopes we might enjoy

Enjoy the life you live as you perceive
Delusion makes reality believe.

The Lilith is the demoness of night
An emanation of the other side
The side where darkness covers all that’s light
Before the Eve, she dwelt as Adam’s bride

Her hair is long and dark, uncovered sin
The sin of sex, subservient to none
And thus she takes the sleeping man within
Her wild desired sex, the evil one

The evil she expresses makes some weep
She kills the children in their mothers womb
Or in their beds when they are fast asleep
She seems to find her way from room to room

The Lilith emanates an awful will
Of midnight sex that also seeks to kill.

Inspired by work presented on Youtube by Dr. Justin Sledge, Esoterica

Lilith

A short story inspired by this sonnet:

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The Visitor of Midnight

In a quiet village nestled at the edge of an ancient forest, there was a tale that the elders spoke in hushed tones—a warning wrapped in myth. They called her Lilith, the shadow bride, the demoness of the night. Few believed the stories anymore, dismissing them as relics of a bygone age, but Anna did.  

Anna, a midwife, had spent her life tending to the fragile thread between life and death. She had seen things that defied reason—infants born silent, their lives stolen before they could begin. The villagers whispered her name alongside Lilith's, blaming her for the tragedies, though they still sought her help when desperation struck.  

On a moonless night, Anna sat by the fire, her hands trembling as she recited an old incantation. She didn’t believe in gods, but she believed in protection. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind: *“Do not sleep too deeply, Anna. She comes in dreams.”*  

The air grew heavy as the clock struck midnight. The fire sputtered, casting flickering shadows across the room. Then, a knock—a soft, deliberate tap—echoed through the house.  

Anna rose, her heart pounding. She opened the door to find a woman standing there, her hair long and dark, cascading like ink over her shoulders. Her eyes glinted like polished obsidian, and her lips curved into a smile that sent shivers down Anna’s spine.  

“I am lost,” the woman said, her voice smooth as silk. “May I come in?”  

Anna hesitated, but something in the woman’s gaze held her still, like a moth caught in amber. She stepped aside, and the woman entered, her movements fluid, almost serpentine.  

“Who are you?” Anna asked, though she already knew.  

“I have many names,” the woman replied, her smile widening. “But tonight, you may call me Lilith.”  

Anna’s breath caught. She had expected a monster, not this beguiling presence that exuded both danger and allure.  

“What do you want?” Anna asked, her voice steadier than she felt.  

Lilith tilted her head, studying her. “I want what is taken for granted. Freedom. Desire. Life itself.”  

“You steal life,” Anna said, her fists clenching. “You destroy it.”  

Lilith laughed, a sound both musical and menacing. “I take only what is already doomed. A balance must be kept, and I am the shadow that ensures it.”  

Anna’s resolve hardened. “Not tonight.”  

Lilith’s smile faltered, her eyes narrowing. “You think you can stop me?”  

“I think I must,” Anna said, stepping closer to the fire. She reached for the iron poker, its tip glowing red-hot.  

Lilith’s gaze flicked to the weapon, and for the first time, Anna saw something akin to fear.  

“You are brave,” Lilith said, her voice softer now. “But bravery will not save you.”  

Anna swung the poker, its fiery arc slicing through the air. Lilith shrieked, her form flickering like a dying flame. The shadows recoiled, retreating into the corners of the room.  

When the light returned, Lilith was gone. Only a faint scent of ash lingered, and the night felt lighter, less oppressive.  

Anna sank to her knees, clutching the poker as tears streamed down her face. She had faced the darkness and survived, but she knew it was not the end. Lilith would return, as she always did, for she was not a monster to be vanquished but a force to be endured—a reminder of the fragile line between life and death, love and destruction.  

And Anna, the midwife who had faced the shadow bride, would be ready.
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More images of Lilith

Reality is how we’ve all been fooled
We watch the machinations some call god
The god of my reality is dead
The machinations vanished in the light

You think you bring the hope of blinded eyes
Reality persuades us all to look
To look at god who hides beneath the stairs
And corners us with poems we can feel

You think Reality is god? You’re blind
Just listen to the chiseling of light
While death becomes a poem in your book
And you will never feel the truth exposed

It means that you were right and I was wrong
But we might meet within a sheltered song.