The love that a young man grow,
The old can’t see,
The rest don’t know,
And so it lays,
Willful and vague,
Maimed to fall,
Mirrored to beg,
With the rest of them,
Who failed at heart,
And are trapped in pieces,
Miles apart,
In the land of chains, where dreams are naive,
And freedom’s a privilege; for being a slave.
O me, O mine,
O whorls of intended illusion,
O hurried words of last line,
What curse has laid my land to woe,
What seeds doth, these blind eyes sow
To what end, to what end,
Must a hopeful heart vie,
For all the horrors I have unseen everyday,
Do I weep in late pity, or laugh till I die.
Behold, these smithereens,
Boastful proses,
Once mighty and meaningful,
Now charred, and beaten,
Now trapped in time,
No more holding limbs of truth, supple and strong
But mumbling; like thunder from some distant land,
The feeble fallacies of fallen men,
No longer alive to question the answer unexplained,
What hand doth the wordless worship seek, now
In the acts hidden in hallways quiet,
Where all who walk,
In silence steal,
The shadow that shapes the fall of light.
You of vision; low and long,
Where mindless things on mercy sleeps
To ends unassumed, and unaccounted,
This path leads but never last,
For a moment’s present comes to still as a forever past,
And before all,
The abyss shall enter us,
And I have no strength to make it through,
Without breaking into thousand seashells disguised as bones,
Each bartered for flesh, when I felt too alone,
In this heathen world of heretics,
In this epic of serrated life.
Would the end come crawling,
Or blazing bright,
Would it feel as feather,
Or a black asp’s bite,
Would I know,
Shall I dare to dream;
A silent solace,
A painful scream,
Or go unanswered,
Like all before me,
Who turned to peek,
And ceased to see…
Am I a lone insight,
Longest shadow of the shortest day,
Bound forever to fight,
Every step of the way.
Whilst you, Winged Vision,
Of fate unfairly divine,
Ye tremble through the sky,
Free of all design,
And wasteful plays of men,
And weeping bowls of earth,
Each night to burn away,
Each dawn to claim rebirth.
My calloused hands are scattered,
Black hair, brown with dust,
Soul gaping through the cracks,
Voice waiting to shed it’s rust,
Whilst you, Winged Vision,
Of feathers white as milk,
You stand bedecked in pearls,
Dressed in finest silk,
As springs first sprouting allure,
Fragile as a fay,
Far away from mortal pander,
Immortal everyday.
For you I have tasted,
Bitter tears without rest,
For you I composed seisms,
Beneath my hollow chest,
So that you, Winged Vision,
Shall never find me hollow
As a wanton manikin
But a heart that will follow
You, to the end of age,
In skies on weightless ships,
Past high seas and horizon’s hour,
With love on unsealed lips,
So if life ends tommorow,
And indifference wreck my cast
I could have a breath to borrow,
To ferry my very last.
Hopefully the heart,
Will hurt me more than you.
I tried too hard, you see,
And yet so very few.
What flowers shall in wilderness grow
I suppose,
Now that the wind which once claimed it, is free.
I am reminded of a verse,
In this pensive page of mine;
‘The Love that you lost,
Was never yours to be found,
Tis was a drifter, and you a wanderer,
Happening to be around’
How cold the claim of night,
I feel this weary day,
Why words gather in mute comfort,
When I have nothing of solace to say,
But to lay and to think,
Of those moments repeating far,
Alive forever,
Beyond this shape of scar.
Hopefully the heart,
Will hurt me more than you,
I tried too hard, you see,
And yet so very few.
I was running through the poppy fields,
Knee deep in the night,
In one hand a blossom unbidden,
In another a budding delight.
I saw you; as a silhouette
Surfing the age old veins
Of oak trees, firm in the wind,
And you turned,
Wary to be found pairing my game,
Breaking in the void,
The murmur of my name.
Shame was mine, and the sense
Of a river spilling free,
Through stones and piers afire;
My primrose path to the sea,
And you of gentle frame,
Of manner and mien of a muse,
You stayed the length of way,
To take my vestal dues.
Copper claimed ivory,
Moonlight on mountain bare,
Stars tracing ecstacy
Through hyacinth flavoured hair,
And I felt you through time
Wrap your limbs of warm steel,
Round velvet walls forbidden,
Which my shores shall always feel.
For neath your weight of encasing arms,
I flowered, in unceasing dawn,
A six winged Seraphim
Never truly drawn;
Before your waves met mine
In a tempest we never did foresee,
Ending with my eyes, upon your form,
And my song that set it free.
A thousand branches burning,
Across this desert, parched and slow,
Like an old autumn asleep,
Upon levanter’s brow,
I walk this breaking desert,
Sand frozen back in time,
My every breath is an answer,
To a query, long buried,
Here under these dunes,
These shadow mountains tall,
Waves of dust, awaiting,
The eternal rise and fall.
The sun,
It hums and hide,
I feel it’s laughter in my throat
“There be an ocean around you”, He says, “But not a drifting boat”
I walk, I wait,
I am dead perhaps,
I wait, I walk,
Undying,
And rest upon ruined monuments,
Who afore me did die trying,
The tears I shed are silent,
All prayers I quote are sigh,
There are thousand people calling,
And every voice is a lie.
Oh there is,
And there too,
Shinning water in the deep,
Where the said souls gather,
Each night to quietly weep.
I felt a hand on my heart,
Of a spectre that slowly said,
“Have a sip of our nectar,
And tread farther the way ahead,
So that when you fall,
When you can no longer strive,
You too like us can await,
And aid another to pass alive.”
If I be as you want me,
Then I am everything you see,
But nothing that was,
And never that will be.
I ask what is mine to have,
And not yours to give.
These hands are not for seeking,
Leftovers from your land,
These feet are not for treading,
A barren island.
I too am blood and bones,
With a heart that for beauty beats,
And a mind that knows of hate,
And a soul that seeks retreat.
Your words old and worn,
Shall no longer seek my choice,
I shall rise, I shall raise,
The tenor of my own voice.
And you of shallow streams,
Of endless talks of storm,
Shall one day seek my penance,
In each and every form.
And then I shall offer my stillness,
My cowering cloth of dread;
May you too as me witness,
The pain of being afraid.
The Mirror.
You walk upon the shadow,
I have shed long ago.
The Man
I glide upon answers now, on wild whispers
And tended monologues,
A shield upon my shoulder,
A cape along my back,
And toes crowned with steel tips,
For the needles upon this track.
The Mirror.
Ha!
Hopeless masses rolling,
Rolling into sea,
Ships sailing to shores,
Of forgotten eternity.
The Man
White claim synergy,
Black adores the night,
And the grey shelters all intentions,
Colourless and quiet,
And so I have seen the ghouls dancing,
Chained in ethereal gowns,
Alone along the hallways
Of abandoned towns,
Eyes black as silver,
Hair white as grey,
The living they stand speechless,
Whilst the dead has their say.
The Mirror.
Do the fallen warriors of old sleep under the past?
Do the memory of blood, still stirs those broken limbs?
The Man.
The risk of running men,
Is not never running at all,
But of running so far away,
That none witness the fall.
The Reflection.
Who am I? Who am I?
Wet ink, now dry.
Who am I? Who am I?
Can the silent words cry?
I looked left, I looked right
But there be no path on either side,
So I stood
As a stone untouched
A marker for words,
That don’t matter much.