Terminal winter

Cold and clear the dawn. Awakens the birds.
Not over bright, clean. A sense of newness
A bracing feeling. A tang in the air.
Don’t feel the cold. Stay. Its your friend.
Times don’t pause. Its own to enjoy.

The cloudless sunshine penetrates the hovels.
The city sleeps. The hovels crawl.
Birds unsure the noise to make.
Fluff their feathers. It be the better this.
A whirr. A rip. Soaring into the night sky.
Devoid of embellishments.

Time hurries past. A whirling cloak of mystic.
Hurry. Hurry. Yet. Ere long. It be of no consequence.
The house. it sits on its own. Cold slatternly.
On its own. As if winter has taken abode there
Devoid of the warmth. A cold does radiate.
Oh. Calm. Stay awhile. It be too good to look in.
Such a pleasant day, unknown yet.
Inside racked with pain a mortal soul does wait.
Silent. He be not a dweller of the city.
Nor the hovels claim him for their own.
A barren tree a companion makes. Shedding comfort.
Oh. Its nothing. T’will pass. Good sir it be his friend.
Mayest it venture, in death also. It be dead.
Fanning him in paradise.
At last the winter in remorseless nature carries him away.
To enjoy the cleaner sun afar.

And time in its own meaninglessness. Carries me away.

An apology in other words

The moon yet to wane
The sun to rise. Yet.
Ere long. A lone quill
To scratch. Tracing a creaking line
Across a tree bark.
A paean to the gods. Mortal written.
In light ill got. Night it be to fade.
An evil thought. Quiet got. Lost faster.

To sit quiet, in oneself alone.
Stillness. It be yet a friend.
Hearing the song of the night.
To hear a shrill whistle in lofty tunnels.
Revolving. Tracing unknown dreams in the mind.

And yet this vigil be yet long. To not go easy.
A quill to race alone along a thought predetermined
A lone thought, still in the outer cold darkness.
To pause now.

A chance to be got through clever words.
To carve in apology a prose.
Tender. Quiet. A sound speaking.

If through an unintentional act of mine,
I to cause mindless grief, I take an opportunity
To deeply apologize.
Ill realizing the hurt caused to you

And yet what joy to rework time.
To be as before. To find peace again.
To realize our better days.
And to realize nothing was better than to be with you.

A thought

Oh mind that you would play the fool.
A butterfly on flowers rest.
No rest would thou give a weary soul?
In a search so purposeless that a folly
It be to take it further.

Thou doest get enamored in fleeting thought.
Which but no real use serve.
It be a fools praise to get this aphrodisiac.
That the very gods to shame put.

Oh mind. It be a malaise of thine youth.
To but chase that which would
Unattainable be. When then to such avenue turn.
Which would end in self pity and sorrow.

With the ardour of youth thou would the body turn
To thy bidding we be like puppets.
To be reviled and scorned to fall bodily. Yet thou… to rise.
Thou would play a trick on even the learned.
String along promises on the good path only to fall in unseen pit.
Thy work indeed a mystery. We all turn.

Becalm thee. Thy muse does yet uncertain stay. Ever changing.
Thou wouldst scarce still understand the poetry thou conspire.
In thy search of the epitome of beauty thou
But a fool made. This hundred times. Nay. A thousand times more.
Thou wouldst a zenith approach
Only to see its nadir.

A night story

Arise. See the morn burst.
To dispel the lone vigil of the night.
It be yet the last watch. The longest.
Laugh because morn dispels the terrors of the night.

The birds in their dwelling sweetly sing
A new dawn. The world again to see
The day knows. That, which would foolish look
The world yet dispels in waking
Shaking away the slumber.
That has enmeshed in rigourous bond.

The fields to welcome. Fresh dew still sparkles.
Catching the fresh rays of the new sun
Spreading slowly over the sky.
Which was the reign of stars.
Giving to light. Previous dark.
Nature in joy abounds.
Arise. Awake. Dispel thy weary name.
For day is here

World awake. It be yet pristine like untouched snow.
On the mountain peaks. Slow the stillness disappears.
And the moon takes an unfriendly hue.
Dispelling the peace.
The best of the world in repose lost

And the one who writes. In deep slumber falls.

On my own

Far above drifting dreams
A memory plucked out of roving mind.
Adrift afar. Tossed gently in the currents
Tracing a lonesome track in the lonely sky
Wheeling and twirling
Catching the last rays of the gentle descending sun
Reflecting pure essence… innocence
It rests now. The wind drops. High it moves
Only to come drifting down

It to a journey infinite trapezes
Having seen magnanimous sights in its travels
The fish teeming in the ocean,
Only to bid adieu in poisoned shores.
The animals in their self same pursuits engaged.
A cycle fulfilling.
Not realizing the reasons.

Man with man, their petty vices indulge.
A thought now. Intensely to follow… and then to discard
It means nothing, their theatre.
Just a wisp of dreamy reality
Seas roar silent,
Their voice long dead

While afar off adrift, the memory of a thousand minds
Cuts a path and observes intently on its own
And a secret of a thousand generations it does treasure
For a correct time. Not to reveal.
Serving a purpose. Already dead
Of past importance if revealed
Its waltz a slow languor displays
While fast moves the world below

A soldiers’ grace

A rose I saw once
In a lone crevice on the far mount
Thunder and lightning given birth
And nature’s own hand seen
A splash of colour, catching the sun
In the black space, erupting
To show nature itself of piety made

A rose. A hope. A rebel. Clinging to everything
In a treacherous cave. A bloom. A stark white
Contrasting the dark gray, where no colour seen before

A thousand trampling feet, passing by the cave.
On a path carved by nature. Untouched by mortals. Sheer
All passing by to fight another’s war.
All culled from peasants, fishermen and ironsmiths
None having eyes to see beauty.
An infinite tiredness seems to grip them.
Inured to it.
On a prayer that they return to their families safe.

I was part of this. This exodus of men going nowhere.
Without destination no signs of arrival greets them.
Only departure waves a solitary hand soon forgotten
Passing the cave I saw the splash and intrigued
I stepped in to behold the rose

Good sir, I have yet some suns to see rise, moons to fade
Do not pluck me before my time
For its said a rose sighted is luck
You will live
Today let me stay, to enjoy the sun

A cry in distress

What demonic fancy does yet enslave
To not breathe, thus made impossible.
To be puppet like, drawn by strings.
A lifeless being, serving an invisible purpose
Never letting go, the grasp. It clings
Always a pray on the mind

To become emotionless. To do things previously enjoyed
As a chore.
It saps the energy, leaving one gasping
Always the mind thinks one thought
All others make no sense

One goes about the tasks not looking
To do as a duty. Something not to be liked
The blessed reprieve when it is at last done
Yet a gnawing sense of loss
Hurrying on to a new task as one obsessed
Its claws deeply embedded into the conscious
Making a fool to think anything else.
It’s a distraction. This demonic fancy
To slay it a final hope.
To be free again.
To shed this unseemly weight of doubt
That creeps in making itself manifest

The question always. Why. When will it all end?
It does not. Like the waves, it ebbs and wanes
A vengeance now displaying. Leave me. This I pray.
Yet words seem fanciful little.