Amazingly I exist

Of Gold crafted, finely formed
Yet, Tender in its Embrace, this Flame.
That once raged free,
Roaming on tender embrace
Small, quietly yet, the tender embrace
Yet, enmeshed, surrounding in fine wrought dew
This the quest at last ended
Of Raging Titanic God and feeble man
In Tartaerian Abyss Locked
an eternity away,

An yet, out of lowering doom,
Arises yet a new form,
In the quiet zephyric dawn,
Caught in the sweet embrace of the first dawn
Of God and Man united, the age old daemons
At rest, at last, breathe the dawn,
See the new form,
I.

I exist with the heart of man
And the thought of Gods
in Glib candour
The Tartaerean chasm here I cleave thee
the war is dust. The battle unsung
Here lie a thousand in blissful sleep
of past deeds to ashes remove
Their souls caught up in manors bright.
of saints and angels administer
In Omnia Veritas hominem Veritas
In quiet triumph, I stand.
The new dawn Breaking anew
The truth, a calm stream,
that flows by laughing

Witness to the Rain

The sky. Overcast. gray. Foreboding
Still the distant thunders shatters roiling
Music, by Titan composed.
The Earth new, washed, waiting expectant
The rain, lashing, unforgiving here has passed
Sweeping everything, deliver thy judgment
it bestows novelty, pain, sorrow
To some it gives, to others none
but taking all - Joy. Sadness.

Distant thunder stutters and wails
Brings in report from lands distant
O joy! o Grief! what this, that swift passes
like birds...
Like fleeting dew on early leaf
And the sun in brilliant hue
bursts from clutch'd rain - desperate
To cast its mellifluous radiance
Free from oppressive grip giants command
It lights all, free from shackles.
Revealed in clear light.
that which rain obscured.

Bringing hope to shelters asunder torn
The play of titans, havoc wrought
The sun still to shine
In peaceful serenity
A promise long etched...

The sun to unravel dark cloak'd rain.

The last laugh

Where is death’s sting?
Where, grave, thy victory?
Thou doest win a false battle
Of a war thou hast lost ages past

Thou doest a fool be
By thou insipient act,
Thou does release us.
From this groveling earth,
Free
To fly like birds to heaven
While thou doest grind thyself
Deeper into thy heathen throne

Moves thou in the outer darkness
Sharpening the reaper’s sickle
Thou doest come before thy appointed time
Pestilence be thy eternal ally
It needs just someone to serve you and
Found you

Mere mortals are around you
Thou may’st a thief be
To deprive a friend,
Father, mother, brother, sister
For death hear this
Life is to be enjoyed
Thy fear is no longer that.
Eternity mocks you, scoffing at your attempt
Man does wearily go about his tasks
Behold Thy hold weakens
Until death does death end? – Ever?
And the last laugh does yet ring out

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.

A pair of young strollers

Pleasant the sun,
To compliment the young strollers
Fit it not to turn
A heat’d glance scarce to burn
Nor induce discomfort
To allow and let live
Wind soft, rustling over the grass.
Scarce a sound does echo.
Fanning the mid morn
And bringing a sense of unknown
The noise. Outside. It does stay.
Far removed from the ears of the
Young strollers

To them only they exist
Moving along at a pace they set.
All the lives in front.
A sigh for the geriatric.
Oh time, which would but stop.
Cruel irony thus it jests.
They. Not a care in the world.
The problems are for others.
Afar. Stay afar. It has no transactions.

Be truth. The young strollers do enjoy.
A walk. Of pleasant environs.
The very air doeth conspire to
Fulfill that which often times
Remains but a fantasy.
Oh. That this was true. A reality far removed
But. It does possess a dream like evanescence.
The time. It flies. Waiting not. Tarry. Still.
The day is young. Sweet birdsong to encompass.
Troth, it does play the imp. Time. Flitting. Impatient.
On a will, slow, other times, it does run faster
Than a hare in pursuit.
And yet it affects not the fate of the young.
To but live in a knowledge secure.
That the night might draw its veil close.

Only to allow another dawn to rise.

Silence

Silence. The dawn awakens.
Hush. Now. It casts away the moonlit night.
A garment. Ill worn. Cast away. A decadence.
Waiting for the ephemeral first light
That would but tear itself out of the still quiet sky.
Casting away the sentinels.
Like dew. That fast disappears with dawn.
Awaken a grand scheme.
A moment in time. A quivering hope.
A moment awaits. Trees still.
To disturb… to destroy.
Be still. Calm stay my heart.
Or like the free bird escape now.
Atwitter. The sunrise.

That old hill far gone. Remembered. In dreams.
Where at first sight you were present.
Standing in the old cottage.
Ensconced all about. Your light a welcome in the night.
The mountain. Looming behind. Silent. Waiting. Watching.
All is quiet.
Awaken not. The sky, my soul. Rest. Becalm thee.
For tis the truth. That a unseemly word would destroy.
The night is yet old. The winter of its life. Enwrapped.

The night yet stays. Birds would sing, but late.
They in cozy dreams snug.
The dreams of nature. Collected anew.
Silence. Hush. Don’t break the glass.
Or else noise. Like an evil stain, spreads on the harvest.
Wrapping itself like a rag, hastily worn. Yet useless.
Silence. Quiet, preserve the magic. To observe.
To be one with nature.

Yet that which starts does end surely.
Silence. With an infinitesimal crack breaks.
Its broken shards as a memory lost. Fast replace.
Outward noise. Redone again.

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