Among Fools

Burdened art they with the plummeting hour
which falls from reason down unto madness,
not grieved further by such sin or fault
as to have left unlit the godly spectre of here,
and now; for may never a tomorrow exist
where gentle minds shalt gentle dreams
rock in the shadow of this tumult, today.
But If not, may vanity spit upon them,
and monsters art they who bleed for men,
bastards in the midst of all innocent fools
charged with the sanctity of raging virtues.

Essential Lies

To gain such affluence, unattained before,
we lost the wealth we were meant to gain,
akin to the wisdom of a life we had more
the wisdom of wounds, of loss and of pain.
Weapons and wars, letters and degrees
nations and borders, orders and decrees
likes of which to were unwelcome our dreams
as well to our egos too worthless it seems.

Remembrance

‘Neath the warm breath of our remembrance
of all things worth and all things worthless,
tis receeding, the shore of thoughtful semblance
and standing in its wake, art mounds dauntless;
of sand, of salt, of time and young promises,
A wasteland tis, the dusty bed of such oceans
neath this breath hot, tired and yet ominous
too many hath lost their tide in its motions.’

December Wedding

Bathed in light of Decembers noon,
a garden was once dressed in fuchsia
banners and faux flowered dunes,
that sook the love of trampled scilla.
Blissful winter read one visage,
lifeless though in clouds of white,
layed in tow of undressed foliage
left to bear her ultime blight,
and in hopeless near such manner
hopeful once of loves great spring,
grasping in one hand a banner
and in one hers both in string,
lay her betrothed lost at side
from the hate of those lost souls,
when was raped our angel bride,
until she could no longer dole.
Lips those painted with deep red
could kiss a garden red with ease
‘stead they leveed a river fed
from life’s intent to death appease.
Yet in that moment all the while
joy had spent its fleeting bloom,
goblets had not drank their wine
and violins had not left their tune,
as sorrow much like days of youth
waits for none to stop and stare,
seeks and hides all life in truth,
lays us all great dread to bear.
Though greater than us does it taunt
each glance of death’s upon life’s art,
the horror with which we instead haunt
it, death, until effervescence parts.

Opiumistan

Contempt has’t seed, and for loam, that nation;
windswept worthless by waste land’s whisper,
thirsting if not, then too drunk on privation,
to liberate the lesser souls from its elixir.
From wine, white to red, and ecstasy, only woe,
drawing now and ever, the tragic art of war,
to which hath fallen many, too many without foe;
souls of better men, whom contempt is not for.

Midnight Express

Each dusk from hope outworn by day
a dawn is dreamt of as I lay,
yet bares it through not hourly veils
its visage for it night conceals,
instead what rushes through the dark
and sings out ceaseless as a lark
tis the midnight express steaming
keeping me from thusly dreaming;
Nowhere from and nowehere to
burdened by a soul nor reason,
it travels endless deserts through,
restless hermit fears no season.
In moments black and hours unholy
it awakens me and reminds me solely;
“rest can never come from resting
dawns are dreamt to not dreamt of,
life is from one breath nor many,
hope is worn by age and wisdom,
fear is for fools, sages and men
as freedom lies in the dark unknown.”