The existence of demons is indeed, a visceral notion.  No zoo or museum houses the supernatural for the scientific mind to sample and define.  Consider for a moment, that perhaps demons are real.   A massive load of worry and anger from the injustice of favoritism, started as a hot neck, and an invisible lead straight jacket tugging on aching shoulders.  Then, as the lights danced in a tormented brain shadowing scars began to accumulate of the wall of the mind.  A creature was born of hurt, resentment, and hatred.  It seemed harmless at first, reaching out into the world with shadowy and sticky tentacles.  Warm black ink would run into the ear canals of any who would listen and incubate more demon spawn.

Humans may possibly be the parents to the unseen darkness of evil, as electrical brains hum and swirl events of hurt and anger.  Churning a massive centrifuge of thoughts and dark fantasies.  Unleashing darkness upon all that step near.  The blackened mist is not bound to it creator.  A human, deprived of life, leaves behind a footprint of warm glowing sunlight, and choking smoke.  Like living creatures they penetrate and saturate those left to life.  The creatures of emotion, live beyond the nest.

God saw it necessary to quell the veil of black, that evil creatures cast as they swim in the air between people.  A bright light, silent and hung on a cursed wooden monolith for a moment.   Light was lost for three hours, so that it could burn away darkness for an eternity.  Without light, demons will nest in the wounded brains of humanity.  Love and forgiveness is poison to evil.  It will writhe and scream under its dose, but eventually, it will die in the light.

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W. Gilbert



Green smoke, whispers

Behold the black lion.  His teeth red, his chin wet, with blood.  Glowing embers from the depths of hell, fix on his prey, fix on you.  “Your safe.  Your ok.  Don’t worry,” a rumbling murmuration, rumbles from his throat.  His words, that are his unleashed children, are all lies.  In an empty field, cold air bites your skin.  You have no weapons, and the black lion approaches.  In your hand you remember, you have a one way radio.  On the other side of it, He is listening.  You need not format your words, or regurgitate some ancient chant, just talk.

“Put down the radio,” hisses the black lion, showing the snake tatoo on his silver tongue, “He is not listening!  Why would he help a wretched blight like you…  Surrender!  Surrender to me!”

Your thumb finds the button, waking a red glow.  The line is open, as the black lion lunges for your throat…

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert


Arid Bread, Evaporated Wine

Hot arid desert air robs my mouth of moisture.  My heart is heavy, like the sun sinking down over the horizon.  This will be my last day as a free man.  Tonight, I surrender to evil, and for evil.  How do you tell someone, you are willing to sacrifice everything for them.  The world seems to be saturated with people who only want to take something away.  Money, property, dignity, bodies, and sometimes children.  I don’t understand it.

At dinner, I am even more scared.  It is difficult to eat.  I try to explain things, using what is in front of us.  Food and drink.  Wheat grows in the sun, drinks nutrients from the wet soil, but dies in moon a lit harvest.  A life is cut, its components battered and reshaped to feed someone else.  Someone else who didn’t drink nutrients, who didn’t grow, who doesn’t know they are dying.  The drink, grapes bulge on vines.  Sun, soil, and time, silently produce the fruit day after day.  When the time comes, the fruit is ripped from its source, taken away from its home.  It is crushed and changed into drink.  It replenishes the dying for another moment.  People didn’t do anything to deserve the meal.  They didn’t create it, and they don’t understand it as it is being consumed.

To have power and not use it, demonstrates the most strength.  My love is stronger than my fear.  I feel like I am going to throw up.  Everyone else at dinner is bragging about resilience, accomplishments, and position.  They don’t understand, I will be dead soon.  I fight back the tears.  I am late for a meeting in a garden.  I have to talk through what is happening.  I am already late.  Dinner is left on the table.  Bread lies torn and crumpled, on the table and on the floor.  Some pieces are uneaten.  Drinks are tipped and spilled, red liquid coats the floor.  Wheat and grape, may die in vain, yet they wait. The table remains set.


Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert



Life, whispers against deaths tide, Death remains successful


Of my body? No.

Of my soul? Perhaps.

Of my mind? Yes.

Grow new teeth, change my hair color with pure will,  or stitch a second heart?

I have tried, many many times, yet I remain unsuccessful.

My unseen soul swims, somewhere within my body?

Where?  Where?  I want to see it.

I can’t, so

I am silent.

To understand what is, light swimming in dirt?

I have tried, many many times, and I remain unsuccessful.

This body, a heavily glued, warm dust ball.

My wet blood pressurizes the the glazed soil, I carry.

For now.  I am a clay pot.  Where is the light?

It is dark.  I am dark.  I feel the light.  I want to see it!

When hundreds of years go by, and my dust is scattered,

What will survive the decay?  My soul perhaps?

Light crawls out of bodies when they die?

Who sees it?

Instead of widgets, could I make a factory producing,




I consider, for a moment, God.

What is sin?  Is it a tarred mass on my soul?

Is it a foul green mist, that corrodes my halo and harp?

Is my life a widget factory, perverted into an assembly line,

Of filth?

Of poison?

Of Unforgiveness?

I wonder, for some time, about Jesus.

Swirling dust, wraps around blood and breath,

that can clean my soul?

A scrub?

A dunk?

A wash?

I wish I could look through the dirty window, and see,

my soul hanging in the steam of the dishwasher.

Would it smell like lemons, when their guts spin in the garbage disposal?

The blood of God’s son, rolling thick, down the hidden drain,

of my soul.

Would smells of rotten meat, and forgotten milk, be erased?

How? I want to see it!

I am simple a sack of dust, yet my mind is obsessed with the unseen.

Am I soil, without soul?  Am I soil, held in a clay pot, tan and fragile.

Is my soul a seed?  Is it made of white light?

Lightning in a cloud?  Or a false dream, lost in soil?

If the Great Gardener, sends his son, to spill hot blood on the empty soil,

Will something grow, clean, and lighted,

beyond the soils last dusty breath?

The invisible souls harvested…

Warm orange blasts within morning light,

crawls over the horizon,

white light breaks through soil,

breaking fragile clay pots,

Clouds of lightning,

smell like lemons.

A souls successful cleaning.


Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert