It was a demon's night,
traveling alone in Cindar forest;
the wind pushes me forth
and steers me into madness.
Gripping at grooves in scarred bark,
my balance is constantly steadied;
my sanity constantly endangered
breaks at the seams for a swift escape.
Thrown about the foot trail,
bones broken with bleeding clumps of muscle,
in shock, resemble that of human
and little skeletons of hunted beasts.
My name is Francois Martyr,
a true monk employed by Christ's church.
Though the name does not interpret my resolve,
I shall not want, nor desire,
to accompany the souls of our deceased!
Reporting, now in the third month
of my extended travel in Germany's ranges,
feeble stories of the invention, Lycan.
Evidence acquired in short tales,
birthed from the touched tongue of the poor,
speaks of fanged savages evolved from man.
I, Francois Martyr, can assist
the church's needs in evidence of my own
having never suffered my eyes
to be that in nature of failing.
Deep within this enchanted wood,
wind filters out yonder screams
that seem to derive from cliffs that tower,
descending me into a darkened void that's terrifying.
My once sharpened mind
was once notable in reason,
always employing the rational narrative.
I fear the fisher
has become the shadow target.
In what realm of God should I deserve this?
The air is of great thickness in muggy mephitis,
clinging on my loose trails of cloth, soiled.
The stewy broth of sweat, death, and wrath
permeates a, now, threatened heartland.
Millions of full moons wane and wax
in the reflections of forest blood splatter,
like the landscape of hot wet garbage
primed in yellow, olive-green rigor, fanned.
A formidable spectacle in form,
silhouetted by the expanse of cerulean space,
with the threat now real; becoming surreal,
I am left with that, which corrupts my faith.
The putrid rot of congealed pus and blood
revealed itself in the chewing dissolve
of the menacing monster perverting
life's natural design, before me, in its voracious state.
I write with danger looming in my sight,
watching, waiting for something to ensue,
passing out deep breaths to the unseen mosquito;
echoes of bones breaking like snapped branches horrify.
How impressive of such imposing display
that this creature feared is of this world;
alien in disguise, damned by God himself,
coat of hair, bristled and black, matted in grand supply!
The creature has applied fell eyes upon me,
seemingly wary of the cross I bear,
with eyes rent and fired in their sockets;
a profane mastery of evil incarnate!
This death dealer of a life discarded
has attended a baying at the Hunter's moon,
dripping, spitting, shape-shifting from wolf to man;
Wait, he has seen my face!
I have been sentenced to my mistake!
The man, from wolf, drilled his stare
and upon my presence, growled the words to John 14:6
John 14:6= “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me."
Even now, as we lie here, heartbeats like a metronome for the coming storm, I write songs in my head for you. And though my voice will never sing them, they are the soundtrack of your kiss. Each record scratch on my heart like a pressed vinyl love letter. Shaping my sinking chest into drum skins that my pulse beats against.
If I were covered in magic dust, you would be my happy thought. And all my childish notions of what it means to be romantic would be written down the sides of Chianti bottles in melted wax, like an oak. And in that bottle we would keep our hungry mouths.
And still I find my heart adrift. Ripped sails and ropes leading skyward like veins. Split and tattered and stitched haphazardly together, waiting for the lightning to strike twice and bring it to life. My throat a bricked flue, leading to an open mouth, spitting smoke from the torches my heart fears but always seems to carry.
And I stretch my spine skyward. Trying to wedge my head back into the clouds but manage only to cast the shadow of an orchid that has begun to lose its color and wilt at the edges of its wingspan. Coming to terms with the idea that it may never be picked. Not even its petals, even numbered like a deck stacked against it that it might lose in a game of being loved and loved not.
We want for a little more time. Arm wrestling clock hands into submission with god like fury. Ticking tongues to dampen the prophecy of false mediums. We practice fighting so we may fight for each other. Fight for the greener grass on the other side of the pavement walls we draw our chalk hearts on.
The clock tower is a lighthouse. The lighthouse is a windmill. The windmill is a giant. The stories never end.
Even now as we lie here, heartbeats like a metronome for the coming storm, I write bed time stories in my head for you.
I write a poem for the director
who's life was written in cut time
when he thought he had nothing but time.
And while the music flows and grows,
the ones left behind move on with their movements.
Sometimes you light a candle to remember
and end up burning from both ends
and in your desperation for safety
you end up with nothing but a soft mass of wax
that can be used to seal a memory you long to keep.
Tonight, I write a poem for the actor who took is final bow,
but before he did he taught me to sing like no one was watching,
and when that didn't work,
sing to someone I love.
Our lives are like kites soaring to the sky,
only to be raised one more time,
holding onto the world by one small string,
and nothing but a tale to leave behind.
And at the end of the kite string there is a little girl
in awe of the tail like its a comet,
bursting across the sky with the intensity of the sun.
And maybe, one day,
she will tell her son or daughter about the
inspirations that reside among the stars.
The winter city breathed,
and I was nervous in the evening
while you waited for me,
I drank your voice slowly,
I tried to sip you silently,
so that I could hear all you had to say with all of my senses,
You sound like bread and butter and strawberry jam,
and look like calm water in the early morning
like I don’t know about the oceans you protect,
and I feel like a fisherman
fishing for some sort of heart shape in the vastness of your sea,
and I want to sit on the shore all the time,
or at the pier,
somewhere where the sadness and silence are equally soft,
where the silence might be kissed away from you
and the sadness melt like candle wax,
warm and willing
On the day you were born,
Two Candles were it.
They were two very different towers:
One just a lump of discolored, black, wax,
The other a solid Construction of white.
Now it's your first day of school,
Two Candles burn.
They are still very different towers:
One a hill of black wax,
The other a Mountain of white.
High school rolls along,
Two Candles blaze on.
They are shifting, changing shapes:
One is a small house of blacks and brown,
The other is a Mansion of white wax.
Your wedding day has arrived,
Two Candles shine.
They are nearly the same hight:
One is a dandelion of black,
The other is a Sunflower of white.
The day has come to light new candles:
Two Candles for a new life.
They are with no similarity:
A puddle of black,
A Waterfall of white.
You watch their candles change:
Two Candles for your child.
And as you watch theirs, you loose track of your own.
Two Candles dying.
A Tower of black,
A mound of white.
You're on your death bed.
Two Candles flicker
Black grows strong with a red flame,
white shrinks with a small blue fire.
They lower you into Earth.
One Candle rages on.
Black - strong and tall as ever.
white is no longer.
They place your Candle
With the billions of others.
You name engraved in silver.
That's what you will be known for: a tower of black wax.
Inside my ears, away from the moving mouth, jolly potatoes in sprout.
they sing and sway in my golden fertile valley of wax,
and when the moving mouth outside is talking of her dead cat,
they sing merry tunes that make me smile and laugh,
but then they hear the mountain thunder which is her slap.
The village elder potatoe watches for the wind and hail,
and the fire in sky which is her red polished nail.
" You need to clean out your ears, you haven't heard a word I said..."
then hundreds of potatoe and po-taytets slain in their bed.
But they pay thanks to the wax builder, and build their merry singing again.
As cavemen with half-yard sticks
smudging soot on open rock
over carcasses of donut boxes
(the wax paper skin folded,
use all parts of the animal)
and grunt in chorus.
stocks are down this quarter,
(anger of the Gods)
sacrifice to the sun,
perform the ancient gymnastic of
rain dancing while kissing up
let the blood ink river run
smooth and whole
pray our intake outgrows
our categorized expenses
let there be profit
(the vesper smoke stings
with the haunting of paygrades
and budget cuts)
My love knew not of borders when I heard
My heart and soul embrace her in my life,
though beauty captured freeing heart from knife;
It knew not of the years she walked this Earth.
A ray to dance upon my skin in Spring
Brings knees to clay that sees a silhouette
Enduring pain of love and what is left.
Observe Nicole, unequaled, hence I sing!
It is not the desire in the eyes
When masks are worn and peel to fall away,
Attending new tongues speaking to my core.
If I caress her mind that tried to lie,
Will hearts request creation of new days
If friendship lasts to my forever more?
Do I attract the serpent's target bite
With poison venom coursing in my veins?
Behold and love her making wax of chains,
For in the heart of hearts, I feel her light!
I knew this girl when youthful years were bound,
Creating rhymes to tell her future soul,
"To mind the faces and the world as whole
Leaves little room for friends that you have found!"
My mind's a journey finding peaceful track
That sometimes leads to perfect beauty dressed
In smiles innocently sending love.
Abandon care that only they react
To while I'm breathing wind sent from the West
Where I have searched for you on skies above!
I stopped a girl at school one day
Just to tell her how pretty she looked
And a smile swept across her face.
She seemed surprised I’d ever say that,
As I am “flawless”.
I tossed my head back,
And pretended that the situation didn’t make me sad.
I told her I wax my upper lip
Because my pale white skin highlights my black hair
Perhaps a bit too much.
I told her my breasts haven’t grown since I was 12,
And I dye my hair deep red
Because I feared my black hair was too boring.
Not to mention my skin isn’t in its best condition
And blemishes pop up here and there.
I put unnecessary amounts of effort into keeping them to a minimum
Because I’m just sixteen
And they will never go away.
It’s not just my face, though,
It’s my back, arms and chest, too.
The blemishes are simply on parts of my body
That not everyone gets to see.
But those flaws are only skin-deep, I said,
I’m overly emotional.
I over-think and analyze,
Thus hurting people I don’t mean to hurt.
I’m often self-centred, too,
And forget the interests of others.
But for an analyst, I said,
I often forget to think a little harder about things.
I’m overly anxious and stressed out.
I want to change, but I never do.
I’m hardly serious about anything.
Never look into the mirror and cry.
You may not be flawless,
But neither am I.
To wax poor tidings
to all unkind,
where it is such
that gentry steel hearts clash
in a throng of royal dames,
cease painted eyes from view.
Was it not a lady
to tax a pricked ear with gossip,
only to rule her sole desire?
Breed to marry,
but to marry unwise to marry a fool?
Where to be wed, indeed,
would be their garish vagaries
Lovers of fools
know not of love that gains,
but the swell of fell tongues feign
the coward's brittle shell,
deducing where plans are crafted
to bring the light;
a heart that seeks pure truth!
Risk is in the dim clutch
of many a darkened well.
practicing love in throes
under that of distant covers,
pull back the descending,
smothering, greying cloud
which doth not cage purity
behind a just crown
to burden jest
and suffer a dolt for ages!
Hide those hands
that catch these not
to bear a petty brood
in sin with thee!
I loved you as
I have loved not
in a heart that rents and wages
betwixt true love and loyalty.