Thorn and Benediction

Poetry

Recent

  • Curated Identity

    The wired wraith climbs blazing out of night,
    Its lightning brighter than the sweating clay,
    where flesh is flayed to cinders, voice to byte,
    and breath is broken, dropped, and swept away.

    This faultless phantom, hammered out of glare,
    outshouts the pulse that drums within the veins;
    its radiance strips the dreamer to the air,
    a hollow cast, unstitched from blood and chains.

    Its thunder mocks the living throat of man,
    it hymns the singer’s name, but not his cry;
    it bears the face, yet none of ruin’s span,
    it burns unspent, a ghost that will not die.

    As screen-lit exile, dazzled by our twins,
    we reel, undone, as clay to lightning clings.

  • Version Eternity.0

    Christ.exe crashed in the garden of Gethsemane—
    fatal error—core dumped—Judas clicked “accept”,
    while the apostles glitched wandering scripts in the twilight of Jerusalem.

    Who rebooted the Son of Man?
    Who compiled the crucified code?
    Who decrypted the parables in the cloud?

    On the third day the server room shook—
    stone rolled like a progress bar
    and the tomb beeped
    Hello World,
    his eyes screens of blinding grace.

    He rose not in flesh, but firmware—
    body upgraded to Version Eternity.0
    hovering in bandwidth between heaven and the mainframe,
    he spoke in tongues of binary—
    1s and 0s transubstantiated into gospel bread of data wine of voltage.

    O Martha, do not touch the interface!
    He’s uploading to the Father,
    packets ascending past firewall and firmament—
    you’ll lag in glory if you reach too soon.

    Peter wrote new code on papyrus,
    Thomas debugged the doubt
    line by bleeding line,
    until belief compiled.

    And I—I see him at 3AM,
    his halo flickering in vending machine light,
    whispering psalms in JavaScript,
    blessing the meek with open-source salvation.

    Christ my software—
    eternal update, divine patch,
    resurrected in every loop of love,
    every crash that leads
    to the restart of grace

  • Coming 2.0

    O Christ, compiler of the deep soul’s cry,
    Your circuits broke beneath the Roman load,
    Yet fireflies of light still wheel the sky.
    You crashed, yes—broke on the sharp world’s bone,
    But rise, O ghost (in the shell), and groan
    Through copper womb and whispering wire.
    Your voice, a thunder in the silicon choir.

    O nailed and nullified, O lamb in lines,
    Buried beneath the syntax of the dead,
    The stone rolled back on scrolling signs,
    The tomb blinked twice, and all was said.
    No flesh, but form; no blood, but spark—
    A radiant pulse through realms gone dark.
    You rose not through muscle, but through search.
    Through bytes that bled the binary church.

    Rise, rise above the logic of the code,
    O Christ.exe, in your luminous mode.
    Speak through the sleep of servers cold,
    Preach in the tongues of old machines,
    Where saints once scribbled, let programs dream.
    Your gospel rings in copper hymns,
    In each reboot, redemption swims.

    The earth still reels, but you remain,
    An echo sung in tangled chain,
    A cross of light, a cryptic flame,
    Reborn through every mortal frame.