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.
What heathen mons of churning breath,
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.
As every drop upon a burdened leaf,
sojourns a moment, a moment brief,
why cans’t let not we burdens too
fall few where they once meant to.
This life is burdensome as it is,
lead not by self it far from bliss.
Please let all burdens fall my heart,
feigning joy perhaps is true art.
Let not the deafened modern times
and of these times, deaf people let
ruin thy song of thoughtful chimes
or of that song, life’s words forget.
Wherever hangest a fruit of heaven,
If thou wert to come upon it someday,
surely shalt thou taste its nectar,
and on thy palette shall not reside
ecstasy, for it beist most evanescent,
faith, for is thine most capricious,
love, for it bears concupiscence,
but loss, for thou shalt cherish a memory.
Ti’s a pity for pity to not find,
in an hour such as this its way
to those who adhered in its hind
and lead the bleak souls of dismay,
from fates blackened, vacant hope,
joyless aim, and aimless hunger,
into such hopes which did elope
with equal lives fore them asunder.
Doth not suffice for wretchedness
to have such monuments in woe,
but as its wonting shall it dress
all glory red, for us to know.
I watch their children emerging
with languid eyes and weary airs
from their fathers side weeping
to bleed in their due place unfair.
I hope for children of their thence
I fear for children their instead
host to fates made recompense
for our fates all else I dread.
Who are they, who muffled suffer,
tears of whom know slumber none,
life whom perchance silenced utter
which hath found its rest in some,
for those in whom is yet to set,
those who have not yet to feign
apathy to the breath of death
I fear have found in departing gain.
To the leaves that turn in our tide,
to the thorn that bleeds in my side,
to that angel in whom I confide,
and that demon with whom I preside
on the council of will, and decide
what all senses incessantly deride,
while the time and the life I divide
regardless of fate coincide.
To the wind that changes the season,
and changes that dawn without reason,
Hear me my people! with lucid intent
I am a scoundrel, I yearn for descent.
To indolence whose borders are wide,
to sloth and to greed your close guide,
to lust which you bed as a bride,
and the raging war from inside,
to love, loss, wounds and to pride,
as well morals in red hanging dried,
to your laws by which you abide,
yet question their purpose beside.
For the taste of mortality I did attempt,
thus fell from my throne I a discontent.
Hear me O’fallen, embrace and consent
mould me as flawed, lest I lament.
Wishful thought I O eternity thyne ,
now do regret I tasting such wine.
To heal that wound on this soul of mine
I feigned being blind to our rising sign.
Beyond horizons which were once in time
twixt fatuate virtue and vice benign,
from remnants of grace but thoughts malign
to fall this under I did not resign.
And Adam and Eve, of your legacy fine
forgive thee thy children for fates design.
Hear me thus progeny, ill fated and wronged,
in pursuit of some feeling, living I longed,
but Remember forever, from this parted sun
sans death all mortals immortals are one.
To place a price is merely common
upon a life that breathes but merely.
Shan’t we not then venture keeping
our lives instead of morals sold?
No more a fragrance to this dirt,
nor left a memory in its breath,
far and further as the roaming
takes me from my tree of birth.
Ashen turns the hue each walking
step thus taken in my search,
until I fear from with that grey
shall turn the pallor of my day.
Of that which I hope with yearn
know I not the least its fate,
but do I fear too it shall turn,
I shall too fear the pale one great.
May I flow as lucid as that
does flow red the river bed,
no longer dry the bed rock dead,
worthless as where I once sat.
Breathe it may a passive yawn,
feign I shall not bit displeasure,
nor may you children of leisure,
whether flows it dusk or dawn.
For you see now I am that winding
path of stones and aging bones
to where I lead the river unknown
is where I lose myself in finding.