Dare say, no longer breathes herein
this dust the prospect of great things,
I; for there no longer is of worth
to verses, night to conquest, dreams;
solicit plight amidst akin descent
must I, from equal sin and too regret;
asunder torn for is this phantom self
from fate, evoked and whispered true.
Dare say, no longer breathes herein
Thus only in the failing hour of our enraged phantom
did we stand witness to the omens of its raging dawn;
t’was anxious in its light, and terrible in its ascension,
as ‘then’ lay decayed mocked by a ‘now’ it stood upon.
Fate as such, when roams unbound by moral or reason
roams unfound by none but the merchants of chaos;
we, who shall not forget, the flags of whitened treason
and by virtue peace fore our virtue of mad disgrace.
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.
Where once shimmered a velvet sea,
of love, ardour and wrinkled clemency,
now spans hollow the end of my days,
beneath its skin, a wounded optic plays.
Whilst thou rejoice’st in the splendor of day,
the fear of darkness hath crept to stain
thy conscience clean with the mark of dismay
and no longer then dos’t thy bliss remain.
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.
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.”
To each his wont, each man his want,
and to each muse, her silent might
with which her lover she does haunt,
his rest of days, and all his nights.
I wonder if the sound of silence is, falling of a dewdrop late,
I wonder if the sound of patience is, waiting in the aisles of fate,
I wonder what eludes all reason, words aramaic written on my wall,
I wonder if the parting leaves of autumn know the secrets of fall,
for this wall is my companion, to indolent skies I pray,
heavens that heed no worship and Idols shaped out of clay,
I wonder why the Ha’it ul Buraq venerates Babylon to seem Holy
yet the cherubim guarding life’s tree, forbids me to bathe in your glory,
where light mates with true darkness, where a ship mates with its shore,
lies my event horizon the sight of you save for your door,
I wonder if the sound of hope is, my soul that sings evermore,
I wonder if the sound of tragedy is, mourning a dying love sore,
upon my wall, the aramaic, I do wonder if I should read it,
reads it Lo! “ever and always, the meaning of life shall be zenith”.
Wisdom does not reside, nor resides selflessness
in mourning a mulberry’s demise or its bare arms.
For the sacrifice of more than countless,
always more, never less,
yields but a piece of futile silk,
a piece, not even a yarn.