King of the Dead

King of the Dead

“Depression is a kind of hell.
It’s a fault line between body and spirit; something misfired in the sacred interface.”

Organic life?
It’s a spirit, contained.
An organism with its own inward chapel.

Biblical bloodlines?
Abraham. Jacob. Sacrifice dressed as duty.
I read the texts and smell cooked flesh.
Sodom and Gomorrah, maybe fiction spun by priests to justify power.
Truth twisted for pulpit applause.

They say, “Ask and you shall receive.”
I did.
Nothing.
So, either God’s deaf or the Bible exaggerates.
Hyperbole dressed in righteousness.

Two Gods.
Old Testament rage.
New Testament love.
Why the shift?
Is God fragmented or was the authorship selective?

Still, dream big.
Joy doesn’t depend on results.

And Jesus?
What made him successful?
Maybe simplicity.
Maybe the strange magnetism of grace embodied.

Love and discipline,
If you love someone but feel like a slave to that love,
is that still love?
Is obedience holy, or just survival?

“God is much more than love.
There’s also the kingdom.”
But I know little of it.
I echo Edward Casey:
“Heaven is not a place. It’s a mind.”

Start from hell.
Let the coal burn.
Then let God sculpt the diamond.
Pain is the raw material of redemption.

God’s whispers aren’t lectures.
A word.
An image.
Enough for the soul to pivot.

We are chunks of rare starlight.
Valuable.
So guard the temple.
Sleep. Eat. Breathe.
But stay humble.
You’re light in a fragile casing.

Demons?
They don’t stab; they seduce.
They coax you into slow despair.
But from the pit, some call out.
And God answers with unbearable light.

I died at age four.
Not bodily.
Spiritually.
Now, years later, I return, phoenix, burning in reverse.

“I will escape this shell of darkness.
I will enter the light.
For myself. For humanity.
Because I can.”

The Holy Spirit?
Father and mother.
The rest may be hopeless.
But I carry the flicker.

Children of the dead,
Gather them.
Love the unloved.
Make allies of shadows.

Parents. Governments. Powers.
Satan may speak through many mouths.
But love is louder.

Communes?
Gather the seekers.
Find the Dragon Grotto, where bones hum with prophecy.

Obedience?
I was taught it.
It is not the way.

“I am King of the Dead.”
Crowned without ceremony.
Named by silence.
They found me in the trash heap of civilization
and made me monarch of memory.

My throne?
Rusted carts.
Cinder blocks.
My robe?
Police tape and blankets soaked in rain.

I speak for the dead.
I translate their moans.
They don’t lie, they echo.

Sometimes a living one stumbles down.
A soul between.
I tell them:
“You are not lost. You are between.”

Decay holds dignity.
And the King of the Dead remembers you.