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
Crippled is the will of unto whom is woe,
protests he in envy of all souls sleeping;
“Of what doth ye care, and why if ist so?
saved art thou from it, only ye dreaming.”
Fades the hour of whom it cannot wake,
thinks he in rebuttal of those who tempt;
“What canst thou yearn, for heavens sake
O if only ye dreamt, O if only ye dreamt.”
For each tide that bathes’t thy evening shore,
tumultuous is rendered this ocean: my being;
For a fleeting sigh of thy intending and yore
heaves my dusted now in its fury receding.
Doubtless, adore thee for always and forever
I, though if even one black robin doth nest
‘pon thy heart with woe and woeful feather,
I shall leave thee for boulevards to better rest.
Sesame sprouts crumble the sweating dirt,
a summer breeze warms a valley’s breath,
brimming shores under the majestic sun
pave an endless river to all fates unknown.
‘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.’
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.
Quiver the leaves while bathed in orange
breath of the winter dawn and its sun,
quiver for now, then without abhorrence
do fall in the arms of fate, they are done,
while known not to you O wearied child
is yonder thy lattice, weaved by the pane,
are the winds of change, of fate, unmild
embraced yet hither unfelt all the same.
Painting the walls a capricious vermilion
its cadence, time, and its time, this dawn
the hour of change sits upon that pillion
which for a steed has our fate, now drawn.
They shall not return, if left unheeded,
not for our children or theirs when needed
the winds of change once left shall heave
no longer O wearied, O wearied believe.
I still hear the sound of its silent march
reaching and rising, that dark waters game.
Drowned the dreaming, it, always shall parch
my sore hearted throat, all morrows the same.
Tide into tide and into tide rolled darkness
until of what remained I could draw only death,
floating in my hours, in my gaze thoughtless
soulless those vessels of life sans breath.
There shall not ever, from that lifelessness
come to remembrance pasts visage untainted
nor shall emerge, from that endlessness
a hope which to hope may be acquainted.
Yet I do not mourn the many fields now lost
nor the memories reddened by the river of mud
not even my ones kindred or their life it cost
but the fact that I remained to witness the flood.
“Pity! It failed, that piper’s march”
sang the awoken prancing children,
moments ago even though each larch
bore witness to their joy’s meridian.
Now breathes wistful the conquest wind
one that lead once a myriad to pinnacle’s
prerogative, Alas! for the myriad rescinds
adherence to sense with airs most cynical.