In pursuit of nightmares (Dreams of a fundamentalist)

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.

The Children Of Eve

O Raise not thy gaze at a visage proud,
that be’est fate, my most ingenuous dupe,
set instead thy gaze at yon found
very end to which life must stoop.
Listen my progeny, as I know not of joy
so when’st thou giggle I feel only grief,
and might I add thou art a bastardly boy,
I abhorr thee at best, regret thou in brief.
Lead thou I may, but I swear not to days,
of enduring peace or of eternal wonder,
I merely lead, perhaps to uncertain ways,
and I only lead unto prospects under.
Argue of nations with lesser a founding?
inheritors least of morals in standing?
children that came at moments misfortune
yet fathered not same an era withstanding?
But see my rascal, the same is not true,
though if even it be, I do hardly agree
for agree I shan’t in opinions lieu,
and agree I must in opinions dreamt free.
If thou recoil’est at the sight of me,
I wish you to witness all that I hath,
what people unto people thus dole unto thee
the children of eve, the dogs of days wrath.

Valley of Blood and Henna

Scarlet I must always turn to
scarlet of burnt summer eves,
golden flakes of passive heaves
dirt and dust which redden hue
of wine’ful taste, scent’est henna
unto’ich spake the flowers of war,
naught a reason they grew for
but which due I dub them scilla.
Drunk on fallen dew their’s yonder,
memory mine is tempt to wander
far from this sweet valley Wana
fragrant as deep scarlet henna.
Passing I must always turn to
passing suns in mournful too,
fading fragrance with each noon,
to Hearkened dark, O! come thee soon.
Of where to has trodden darling
and where hath joy trodden to,
scent no more, no more of parting
henna burning summers through.