What heathen mons of churning breath,
in ferity spurn who, writhing death;
can’st in retort to such howls of they,
serve madness to those mad astray.
Fore these thunderous furies ground
to desperate fools such luring sounds,
beware the gods of men less meant
Sierra! the gods of dreams misspent.
Whence only didst I awoke but verdant,
upon the myriad descendants of light
didst gaze and found within them refuge
sought by darkness, forsaken by day.
T’was only in the finite of all the boundless,
only in the vanquished of all unconquerable
nature of god and mountains and men
didst I find the dreaming and the dreamt.
If orphaned, does hope find a refuge yet
amidst shadows trembling under our step,
let it falter not by the thunderous fury then
of fallen souls vanquished by lesser men,
let it not be servile to that which is known
of the days now past, or to come it seems
for art lesser minds which abandon hope
than those abandoned by hopeless dreams
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.
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.
I hath spoken to the mounds of dirt
even then hast returned to me reason,
But of empty souls ask me not O Lord
I vouch neither for the dead nor hollow.
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.
Poems & People 