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Reflection Upon FearI've searched for the arbitrary,
Found places abandoned to a plague,
Under restoration yet unrestored:
Awl-marks tagged for eternity,
Fresh rage scored the plaster,
Hastily-painted mural of Christ
Marred upon the stone façade,
The scaffolding’s chain of pipes
And planks were
Dark with soot, vacated.
Some things in us that we can't see
Are narrow, dead ends from pillar
To post, soundlessly guiding where
We shouldn't be led.
He who grabs and demands an open hand
From which to stand again
May stand, higher even,
On other men.
Dust particles poised to curse us,
We cannot cure the condition of "versus".
Children play kick-the-can
With a dented censer;
I watch them battle with each kick, a
Fresh perfume of cinders.
The Carrion My fingers itch to intertwine
With votive texts; the withered spine
Of ills and mornings lost
To fingerprints, embossed.
Remembering the aimless days,
I cannot sleep, a clawing craze
Comes atom-small but grows
And stirs my firm repose.
But roguish ran the vein of plot,
What complicated parts and naught
A show of lissome prose,
I turn inward and close.
God with honor, hang your head,
Wild silk you've spun instead
Of Truth's thread; your traces,
Features in our faces.
What partly-colored pain is this,
Acrylic and acidic kiss -
Your stories are no home,
No crueler end can come.
My fingers now are filthy teeth,
Old artworks drawing blood beneath
The words I can't pronounce;
Hunger is but an ounce.
Heaven's a tempest carrying
The carrion meat - the craving
For purpose, in service;
The search for worth, bi
Iceboundmore infinite than
space are memories made
blind in moonlight
trembles beneath the touch of
dawn's first breath
camouflage of ice,
the waves' sigh
of snow cradles dawn,
the ice solidifies
one hesitant step
leads a man's wanderlust thoughts
to something lost
harsh sunlight echoes
upon the waters shore. her
breath lingers no more.
In Wait (A Tale Of Untaken Bait)Bass stop snapping up the squid,
Ditto for the halibut;
Yellowtail pop up, the line never taut.
She'd Take The Devil At His WordAt first glance, her world rolls on
Unbroken, timid eyes;
At first thought, she can't be tender,
Would quickly dart and strip away
Ecstasy's face; a compelling fire
Of flesh in offering
To the night's knife-sharp perspiration.
How beautiful that form expressed,
Pulled by splinters beneath a skin of ropes
And smeared like a thick liquor;
Her possession, becoming possessed,
A devil's depth in adjuration
That I may gash her to pieces and receive nothing;
Her being hollow -
I swallow -
Her being a song, I sing.
Digital WitnessAlready now it stings, hollow nibbles between being swallowed whole,
I die tonight, my life destined to be shared and liked,
Already now it seems the billowy ocean of clicks have found me.
I died without trying, to see him at the pane I sit,
To meet him whom unsubscribed, my life a lofty prize
Plowed through and trod down, powerless against the scroll.
Already now the force of blows, mixed with the incense-steam,
Seem to me less as weapons, more melancholy comments
Attentively neglected; I trust nothing, and expect less.
I am hostage to a powerful host,
Honored to be an awful ghost
Living still in others' eyes,
Through old memories and new replies.
Expectation Of An AvalancheOur emptiness, our spades and saws,
Old tools become debris,
The shattered bricks, a flayed applause
Shaking the snowy sea.
Tomorrow and the muted crawl,
The air's shock caught up, surging fall,
Beyond, until the motion stalls.
The bloodless gallop of the void
Between a dreamer's bones,
And at the foot lay there, destroyed,
Dissolving little ones -
So was it then, an elegy?
To soften their geometry,
So was it, then?
So was it then
When ice was all that I could see?
Alignment of translucent dunes,
Glass roofs but gravestones be;
Giving shelter to shedding moons
All polished perfectly.
An avalanche, as one would say,
No anchored noise thrown in the way,
To seize the feet with frozen clay.
Yet convalescence strips away
That jewel-box whose stems may slake
The eyes' long-thirsty lust of gray -
Our emptiness outwears and breaks.
No arabesque to dress the heart
Nor quickly sway its idle aches;
To whisk off vertigo, to part,
Our emptiness o
And Chains Will Not Release MeA certain pride and certain awe I see,
At times, your ardor all but has you gripped,
Yet not with love for your own child, or me,
But only for his newest manuscript.
Your verses are a gift from God himself,
Yet you dwell on those sentences amiss,
'Tis your novels that should be on the shelf,
But you treat each word as a crude, lewd kiss.
I'm writing this in hopes that you may know,
Finally understand what you ignore,
My veiled voice has long been pleading "Go..",
But 'tis I who must choose to stay no more.
Your words have chains and meaning thick as lead,
And chains will not release me once they're said.
*Past and Present*One hundred years ago
When summer cast golden glow
Weeping willows, river side
Cast gentle shade, punts could glide.
Mild, quiet summer day
Strawberry smell and smell of hay
Silken dress on a boat
Shaded by parasol, afloat.
Today loud music rocks river
Weeping willows really weep
T/shirt slogans, blue jean rule
Now we’re noisy but very cool.
A Poet's EchoCan poetry be felt in the blood, in the veins
with each lyric being harmonized through dreams slain
Each epic speaking of places both far and nigh
With each melancholic elegy seeping pain?
Can verse performed by thunderstorms in the sky
Be what compels us to express our hearts, to cry?
How many poems have been written using tears
As ink, written until our souls have been bled dry?
Have decades of weeping filled the seas with our fears
And our nightmares penetrated mountains likes spears?
Can a poet's echo resound beyond the chain
Of mortality and fate's tyrannical leer?
Poem for Lou ReedTruly singular, an outsider’s outsider,
He learned well life’s hard truths, and was walking proof that
Your thoughts are only as deep as your faults.
Subjected to psychic savagery in his youth,
His mind took on an ever-changing persona
Always shifting between fame and failure.
A misfit, a hustler, a rake, a transformer,
A rogue, but not a charlatan, an objector,
But not a coward, never a coward.
An expert spinner of verse, he possessed a knack
For feel, impact, attitude, style; he always knew
Which words were those worth the listener’s while.
His means and his methods were fittingly erratic:
He would spend his days crafting curiosities
Only to then neglect and forget them.
What was important, though, wasn’t his works or quirks,
Nor his talent for causing a storm at a stroke,
But what he and his friends set in motion.
They would, unwittingly, forever change the way
We’d hear the sounds the mind thought it already kn
The Beginningons ago, before time and space,
Was born a set of twins who took its place.
One had eyes of daybreak and hair of sun,
The other, hair of night and eyes of blood.
Born to Laelia, Singer of Light and Love,
Husband to Laelius, God who rules with a fitted glove.
‘Twas a difficult birth, screams echoed through the empty world,
But Laelia was never alone or so the story told.
Lucifer was first, life entered with hollow cries,
Laurentius was next, his smiles greeted by butterflies.
Both welcomed with joyous celebration.
Excited Laelius, humans, his creation.
The Twins then never left each others sides.
Except when heavy choices caused morals to collide.
Death's LoveHe obtained a frightening manifestation
And held the power of creation
Without creating a new individual but becoming something with a strong relation
That kept a sturdy foundation,
As his cells connected, broke apart, and were destroyed during his formation.
Before me he stood, light lurking within his eyes, speaking of temptation.
Then, the déjà vu was overpowering, a suffocating and heartbreaking sensation.
Death played with an individual that people see as a cremation
And how I see as a pure, devilish damnation,
Where I can only vision the house it lived in, being eaten in a conflagration.
The appearance, however, delivered me into salvation,
That, alone, was enough to wash away any frustration.
The longer I stared, the more I studied, there was an alteration
In the depths of my concentration,
Where I began to piece together an understanding of admiration
That Death had somewhere in preservation.
His corpse-like figure had the power of reincarnation
And how he changed for
Why I Hold On TighterThe gunshot echoes penetrating the air,
Increasing tensions in military warfare.
Knives that puncture and slice apart,
Fists of rage that damage skin and heart.
Explosions and smoke so sudden and fast,
No time to recover from the devastating blast.
A moment frozen in time after the disease diagnosed,
Tears falling on a body lifeless and comatose.
Car horns and screeching wheels on the pavement so loud,
Two victims of a crash of the rain from a cloud.
Though all of these things do not fill me with fright,
It is to you, my dear, they make me hold tight.
Vulnerable YouthPaper hearts from bright pink tissue meant for presents,
fanciful butterflies from orange dashed cardboard,
five petaled flowers danced around the sentence
of simplicity, ultimately to discard.
Tender thoughts from censored, guarded minds,
boldly do the simple stubby fingers strive to hide
the gift from Mommy, so that she can't find
the secret depth of the darkest snide.
The gentle pressure of acknowledging gestures
even the meaningless thank you cards
meant to send you on emotional adventures,
only to be shredded on cynical hearts' shards.
But it is the thought that counts,
those sweet little eyes haven't yet been renounced.
NeedlesThe meat is cold from bloodless lust
My organs are damaged
Path be taken down range-
-And end with chilling wall
Forest of needle spires climb
My height cannot ask
Deem the stars they point-
-For reverence physical
Destroyed as winter comes
Invested into my stock
I am bought and brought home
With no escape from the lock
Needle sew a coat of iron
Black with the char left by
Remembrance make me a scion
And kindle a soul inside
Lids have shut and no key breaks
I cannot see between blades
Cut the night to ribbons-
-Now banners to losing way
Imposing in my blindness wait
My feet are icy cold
The forward march is death incarnate-
-Though I am numb to catch
A fabric stolen mask and clothe
The boundary pointed shed
Once streamers bleeding dry wove
The semblance of disjointed ends
No try can match the mind at work
For ochre has my pallor drained
This raiment bears a doubting murk
Through glacier impassive face
My asking wanes with setting freeze
The armour frozen bites
A pleading body already w
ReflectionsVal's pursuit led him to the foul beast's domain. The hollowed-out cavern reeked of blood and rancid meat. The dim light he had seen as he charged through the tunnel after the monster could now be identified: torches. Rows of mysteriously lit torches lined the walls of the huge cave. At its center was a substantially large labyrinth of mirrors.
He spotted the beast entering.
He spun his silver broadsword in his hand and hurried in behind it.
His garb was a simple blue and white crusader's leather with thick armored pads and reinforcing steel studs. Lightweight and flexible, but quite effective defense against blunt blows and – in a pinch – the slashing claws of the unholy spawn of the earth. All monster-hunters wore a similar variety in Val's experience. It would serve him well in these close quarters of the mirrored maze.
Right, left, forward, left, right he turned, always catching a glimpse of the beast's tail as he wove his way through the corridors. Every so often he sp
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