All posts by faithlesspaladin

About faithlesspaladin

I am a writer from the Appalachian Foothills of East Tennessee.


Atlantis was swallowed by the raging sea.

Her and I sit on the beach, watching it all

happen again.


The storms rage and the fires burn forever,

and all we hoped would be good in the world

is lost.


Her and I, cuddle close, no more kisses now.

No St. Michael to slay the Red Dragon here.

It’s over.


Atlantis was swallowed by the raging sea.

Her and I take one last moment of warmth.

It’s over.

Warm Armor

I like girls in winter clothes,
comforting as the wind blows.
Red, yellow and blue still shows
as the sun is sleeping as it goes.
I like girls in beanies, coats,
warm armor, beautiful notes,
of warm hearts, that so devotes
to friends, angels on which she dotes.
I like girls in beanies, mittens or gloves.
as the sky is grey, the belly of a turtledove,
and she is looking at the ground, thinking of love,
and all the snow, in November, falling from above.
I like girls in their winter attire,
for nothing calls Death, Lord and Sire,
and I tempt Persephone with my lyre,
to let me find the light, outside a Samhain fire.
Bright colors, soft fabrics, keeping warmth in.
Every winter, ever snow, we cannot let Death win.
Red, yellow and blue, primary colors drawn in
to make a dream, a kiss, to love and fall all over again.

Omnivorous Dreams

Her posters, her 8x10s, the dreams I make of her beauty.

Icons of something made perfect by a tempestuous heart.

In my cramped room, laying in my bed, as winter comes.

I might sew angels wings yet, from the thread of my desire.


Overwrought power ballads on video tributes on YouTube.

The omnivorous dreams of her light hearted screen presence.

I am here in the cold grey of November, she is up in Barbados.

I can still find a light of innocent love, looking at her on screen.


People in my life seem close and distant, love me, but I am here

in my room most of the time, and they aren’t comrades, ride or die.

The sugary rush of dreams of a beautiful one, blessed and posh, whole.

I let this dream and passion, distant and perfect, fill me in this cold November.

Wormwood That Calls Sweetness

There she walks, in the cold winter night, uptown, a ghost and a dream of mine.

The remnants, the half-life of life lived, and all that we hope for, after they’re gone.

Still young, still bright and light, she walks, smiling, not at all like when she died.

I watch her, winter kind only it in its bitterness, wormwood that calls sweetness.





We sing songs around the campfire.

Cold face warmed by orange flames.

We are young, full of love and of hope.

The night is cold, we are full of light.


The forest is an Eden, for a moment

All of us, all of us one, all of us pure.

The stars are angels on this night for us.

The moon light is bright and all is well.


We sing songs around the campfire.

Cold face warmed by orange flames.

We are young, full of love and of hope.

The night is cold, we are full of light.


It’s The End Of The Night

It’s the end of the night, last call for a dance, at this small town skating rink.

It’s the end of the night, we hold hands and spin, eyes locked in on each other.

It’s the end of the night, and all is lost in this world, the fire will take it all away.


We spin and spin, vulnerable and invading as we look in each other’s eyes, angels.

We spin and spin, reverby ad dreamy and melancholy pop song playing, sacred words.

We spin and spin, binary stars of mutual embrace and light, as the world ends.


It’s the end of the night, innocent hearts thumping, the pure high of infatuation hits.

It’s the end of the night, and we are one and alone, eyes seeing all the to the soul.

It’s the end of the night, perfect innocence and perfect love, as the fire burns the world.

Starlit and Cold

I burn my comic books, and movie posters, t-shirts, nerd regalia.

A rebirth as winter sets in. I don’t belong with them, now. I am free.

All the heroes and all the honor, curdled in hearts never grown-up.

I will be someone else now, someone bright and grey, starlit and cold.


I find plain, one color shirts, and jeans, and a hat without a logo on.

I have nothing left in the comics shop, but perhaps in a used bookstore.

I want to begin again. Hope it’s not too late for me now. A knight errand.

I will be someone else now, someone bright and grey, starlit and cold.

The Bone Wife

An angular foot


placed lovingly


upon my head,


holding me under


the cold water.



I’ll die beneath her;


I could never live


above her.



Thin as famine,


she fills me with





Bones eat flesh.


Sinew devours


her black hair.



“It’s all so you’ll


remember me.”


She says.



“You’ll always remember.”




A Ride

Cold winter morning.


Wan sunlight in a pale sky.


Slips of clouds lurid orange


and red on the horizion.



She holds on tight,


her arms wrapped


around my middle.


She shivers against me.



The mountain road empty.


The real world is another place.


Just us here, as we’ve wished.


The morning belongs to us.



Sit down by a clear stream.


Hot coffee thermos.


Some fast food biscuits.


The call of morning birds.



A day for us only.


We kiss and embrace.


The sun, still cold, distant


lights this waking dream.

Sleeping On A Train

Sleeping on a train, slipping through the snowy night.

Headed who knows where, maybe Moscow or Madrid.

Maybe this time I’ll out run myself and my demons.

Maybe this time I’ll find a pretty face smiling back at me.


The moon shimmers behind my rapid eyes.

A silvery light in the unknown places I roam

while my soul leaves my body to go wandering,

while I lay helpless, asleep, unaware.


And the snow flakes go untasted on my tongue.

Maybe in the morning I’ll be in Rome or Tel Aviv.

Sleep is the only peace, only time Satan can’t find me.

Sleep is when I find a pretty face smiling back at me.