by Kevin Trent Boswell available on Amazon
Now available on Amazon
dwindle and fade,
no satisfaction here
purpose of the ire,
in the open, now clear
garnering support,
an ethos, a ruse,
self-righteous zealot
choose and abuse
don’t need a diagnosis
to tell you to duck;
it walks, and it quacks,
underhand fuck
watch, but do nothing
feign blindness, withdraw
could help, but won’t
the soul—coup d’état
in silence, compliance,
just keep on going,
not twisting the knife,
but watching, and knowing
hardly deniable,
accessory to the fact
encircle the target
enter foul pact
a tribe may be strong,
yet, poisoned in the heart
each member chooses
if they will take part
a bias is a bias,
and roses have fangs
hatred is hatred,
and hate runs in gangs
©2025 Kevin Trent Boswell
and that sickly, ugly war
raged through the streets,
unhinged and unhappy,
all too costly and unaware
of the damage it deals
it blisters the skin and boils the blood,
ripping down foundations,
blasting apart buildings,
making vehicles cease to exist,
filling the air with a foul stench
of fear and anger
its reward? only carnage
and arrogant blustering,
nothing of validity or consequence;
nothing positive or loving or logical
only the bellowing roar of endless warring
a hotdog cart burning in the road,
and fat, half-dead cow by the river,
making horrible noises of pain,
as it hopelessly calls out for attention
and to think, how everything
could have been peaceful, happy, and quiet
but some will always find it absolutely
unacceptable to have anything other than
their way
©2025 Kevin Trent Boswell
the freedom, complete;
each choosing to hate
with no chain
no consequence
with malice, replete,
but calling it fate
yet, each day, explain
a lack of competence
troll the open sea
with barbed steel, shiny
weighted down
with broken spanners
let no one just be
present them a heinie
and gift them a frown
through a lack of manners
catty, defensive,
all fault is father’s
none pass the test
all blindly deny it
and so, we are pensive
not one of us bothers,
thinking it best
to choose peace and quiet
©2025 Kevin Trent Boswell
Jesus wept
And I know why
Impossible, the weight
Of this world, to deny
Jesus wept
And I understand it
When so few give love
And so many demand it
Jesus wept
More than he bled
Meaning of the words,
Right over the head
Jesus wept
With heavy heart, breaking
So little effort, to give
All lost, in the taking
Jesus wept
In solemn recognition
Of hatred, beating love
Into submission
Jesus wept
And I do, too
This could’ve been heaven
For me and for you
Jesus wept
Cried harder than I
He knew the potential
We possess and deny
© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell
Main Photo by @seb
Support more music, poetry and madness by Trent Boswell over at: Patreon.com/Magus72
Author’s Note: This piece is brand new. This piece is ancient. It speaks of things which happen daily. It shares memories of the long, long ago. It is deeply rooted in yesterday. It is severed from everything except tomorrow.
No more crawling, borrowed knees
To beg or steal a parched penance
Privilege of chewing
Tiny, tinfoil excuses
Receipts, all signed
Cuneiform zero
There, in the register
Where it speaks of the balance
Which is long overdue
A large and loud emptiness
The slaying of pragmatism
And the prodigal son
The wisest of investments
Healthy, constant dividends
Since there are no returns
Assets freely traded
On the scales in the marketplace
Sacrifices, invisible, smoking
On strange altars of doubt
Multiplication of manna eaten in secret
Loaves baked, foreign recipes
Nets tossed into distant waters
Plucking up fishes, filling the nets
Pouring floods out of the wide mouth
Fleeing the estate, belly of greater fish
Absconding from duty
Tariffs of masticating consummation
Cutting off the heads of what was,
Peeling away, shedding foul-smelling skin,
Pulling off all those silvery flakes of armor
Toss carcasses in frying pan,
Serve with herbs grown in new earth
Feast, fructifying small kingdom
And a table for one
No more buried talents
All now upon display
A day of rest is earned
In the refusing of yesterday’s complacency
Tossing out its tired labors
Cutting down the vines
Which brought decades of wine
Wine that choked those throats which drank
In the seeking of blindness
Attempting to drown out
All hearing of familiar, droning complaints
A fatted calf not missed,
From the cool, shaded hammock
That swings peacefully in a calm, quiet
Where the only shadow cast
Is that of the grand, old oak tree
Whose face is always welcome
Who speaks only and ever
Kindly of its kin
Or not at all
Wait now, at the oasis,
For the promised bride’s coming
Who brings the cool water from the well,
For a desert weary camel
All is soon to be right,
For the steadfast resistance
Against worldly temptations
Sovereignty steps out
Dropping the broken, black irons
Of miserable bondage
Lead, flowing through the river veins
Of miserly brothers
Cruel rage of bad blood
New, mazel tov celebrations
Of kaphar, divine grace
Selah and hallelujah
In a day of jubilee
The god of forgetfulness,
Is ever gracious and joyful
Drunk on the charms
Of plentiful, good company
Regaled today, by delightful tales,
Told by they who arrive on the morrow
During a banquet, yet to bloom
Banking on its promise
Of them and their warm presence
A toast is drunk daily
To what is seen
Which is nothing
For what is
In the eyes
Most of which
Is good
A steward, in secret
Stealing everything that was sacred
Receives all, in due course
New master’s blessings
Of themselves, a fine reward
And spared a death, daily
The stoning of harsh, marble law
Seven generations
Removed from the sight
And all senses
Tools of old bone
Hand me down worries
Covet, instead, that wild courage
Which rails against the unknown
Naked, cast out
No starved, gulag wages
Demanding the whole
The lion’s share of nary
A single thing
Punished sin of necromancy
Crime of insisting upon the rubric
Of a heritage of heresy
Brooding there, in the long lines
Where impatient fools bicker and stew
Wrestling with the dogs over scraps
A hindsight, an insight
A bird advances, eagerly
Plopping itself into the hand
The exiling of perdition
Raises up its secret children
High above the floods
Where the true blessings of heaven
May kiss them upon their heads
Sealing in immunity against sorrow
That these should never dwell
In that place of woeful wandering
Stone gardens of Golgotha
Where is never and nothingness
Only long, dusky shades
Commiserating with the dead
© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell
Photo by K. Mitch Hodge
Other Titles Available
More Information
Kevin Trent Boswell 