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
Who ‘neath the dark of ego’s monument,
has’t prayed to god both of peace, of war,
but I, none other; too what reason for
than to save a self from its own descent,
Who amidst drunkards and harlots spoke
of the virtue in wine, the vices of a virgin
but I, before faith; falling prey to burgeon,
bearing the bastards of our heaven as yolk,
Of remorse; a thistle and solace; its garden
who didst gather all but bloods carnation,
malevolent; I, and far from seeking pardon
for transgressions less instead more elation,
And love, O but love; of flesh, of splendor,
like a sybarite’s; exiled, disdaining abandon,
I give unto ye, then unto ye I surrender
what is left of yours unto me, I imagine.
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.”
No fragrance, of soul, of dust, of breath
can vanquish that of hers lingering; sweetest,
a flower of the desert; within me, she liveth
now unto ever, withers midst them she lest.
Nor taste, of wine, of bitter sweet death
can taint that of hers, not on wastelands shore’
my flower of the desert; within me, I knoweth
seeks of me silence, for she loves me no more.
Wouldst it please thee, wert I the pope of fools,
for is my fall here to the very least of,
a blasphemy to myself or to ye?
Shalt I rather stand atop Plato’s monument
in awe of all but love, orphaned will,
departed dreams and hollowness?
For doubt I do, shalt thou yet be pleased with
such a wiser fool or even a foolish sage,
or I with myself, a bard to wasted years
and yawning egos too empty conquests.
I speakest of fate, and what you, my love;
morals, decency and fear of silence?
they mean naught, and naught to me doth thou mean.
Fare well the echo of time, without me,
as it deafens ye to be no different than
those I abhorr to which thou liken me,
and see if it pleases thee, O beautiful fool.
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.
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.
Every path that leadeth unto my lovers home,
resplendent tis with flowers, scent of flowers red,
as countless currants droop where ever I do roam,
among them sweetest faith, tis where I am thus lead.
He hast not felt a woman’s touch,
nor purest wine has had its may.
Too foolish he, in fact a child,
to dearest death no longer virgin.
Who among us, far as One most sagacious
can ever tell apart, with a word most certain
living from breathing, one cruel from gracious
hard ashes from dreams, a veil from a curtain.
Poems & People 