High upon the hill it lies,
Forlorn in darkened dour,
Praised by many, known by few,
The Castle Glora's Tower.
Hoisted high upon the ridge,
The shining beacon's hope,
Left to rot in the abyss,
The Tower's mithered scope.
Penned upon the rotten pages,
The cries, the screams, the wails,
Bereft deep in the antique annals,
That of which, all now hail.
Stones that hold their secrets,
Like a note contained by twine,
Still held to its defiled name,
Stands Glora's Tower, divine.
Sep 19, 2021
Sep 19, 2021 at 3:24 PM UTC
Cycle, cycle, cycle.
Heart a flourish, mind ablaze,
Up-and-comes a tainted gaze,
Wander into Des' maze,
Living hours, counting days,
Everlasting, fleeting phase?
Watch and wonder who you praise,
When consort becomes disciple,
Cycle, cycle, cycle.
Apathy, our fragile doll,
All we seek is all we stall,
Rather wait, or rather bawl?
Yet I sit, and here I scrawl,
Watching me, fly on the wall,
Watching me, apathy's thrall,
When idle becomes idol,
Cycle, cycle, cycle.
No, no, it cannot be,
Through my eyes, you cannot see,
No, no, you mustn't flee,
I still wish yet to be free,
No, no, hide the key,
Keep "out there" away from me,
When denial becomes recital,
Cycle, cycle, cycle.
Circle, circle, spin, and stop,
Stop—to reach towards the top,
Don't repair, just reap your crop,
Stop—downward you may drop,
Water falling, wet blacktop,
Stop—Lest your mind is prop,
When a spiral becomes spinal,
Cycle, cycle, cycle.
Don't deny the heart the mind,
With repentance comes the bind,
Ears are muted, eyes turned blind,
Connect the eternally twined,
Don't embrace—forgive your grind,
Lest you put your past behind,
When survival becomes revival,
Cycle, cycle, cycle.
Cycle, cycle, cycle.
Jul 15, 2021
Jul 15, 2021 at 2:42 PM UTC
Far, up high,
An idol's cry,
Her shining tears,
Sprinkle the sky,
Infinity's tomb,
Brings cosmos bloom,
Bringing life,
And starlight's doom,—
—Shining through, Celestia weeps.
Painting warily,
Creating merrily,
Braiding hues,
Working wearily,
While painting shells,
Her eyes still swell,
Her canvas, sprinkled,
As shining tears fell,—
—Shining through, Celestia weeps.
Gaze shifting upon her opus,
To the Terra, formed with focus,
As she peers, she fails to notice,
Her heart's expire, soft necrosis,
Yet again, a grieving seep,
Striking hard, striking deep,
Off again, her focus turns,
Her mind taking a blinded leap,—
—Shining through, Celestia weeps.
Jul 7, 2021
Jul 7, 2021 at 12:58 PM UTC
Slipping free from yester's time,
A Feather trapses yond the way,
On wind it floats, a step, sublime,
Dipping and ducking flakes of grey,
Those forged by winter, the sun's decay,
Plates of ivory, why must they hack?
Torn soil, a relic of why you turn away,
Soar away, O Feather, and don't float back.
O Sea, so fair, shimmering as a chime,
As the wind you switch, and you sway,
And your blues shine like a dime,
But if he drifts beyond the bay,
Will waters claim him, as they say?
Or shall he wash back, with the wrack?
To you, O Sea, he mustn't stray,
Soar away, O Feather, and don't float back.
O Mount, your peak, the rigorous climb,
At your summit, scores kneel and pray,
Your caps glow white, with a grass bed of lime,
If you were where the feather must stay,
Shall your perils bring him fray?
Must he lie in caves of black?
Nay, a feather must fly, and outward he must splay,
Soar away, O Feather, and don't float back.
O Feather, O Feather, where will you spend your days?
Here I must halt on the trail of your track,
Seize the wind, O Feather, the world is your prey,
Soar away, O Feather, and don't float back.
May 26, 2021
May 26, 2021 at 6:08 PM UTC
On a night where no moon shines,
I lie and brood in my confines,
Nocturne's wolf has come to dine,
Gnashing canines with sharpened claws,
Over is night--devoured by the maw,
The wolf opens wide, an unhinged jaw,
I stare in awe, in saccharine fear,
A beastly roar is all I can hear,
Yet I feel no pain--Only a lonesome tear.
I open my eyes to a room bathed in black,
On the floor is a woman, in a dress of lilac,
She stands with a shiver, and turns me her back,
Dark hair covers cracked skin--porcelain but soft,
She stared at me gravely, shaking oft,
Then slowly she danced as I sat and watched,
She twirled, pranced, and spun, but once she botched,
Then she sat, knowing night had its victim notched,
The Ballet of Shadows had come to rest--
--but not yet had my final test.
I slept again, and woke in the dark,
Now, there was a mirror, a saviour from stark,
Painted in white, it was fit for a monarch,
On top, a remark, a blackened skull,
My reflection itself, appearing so dulled,
My face was blank, and emotion was null,
My eyes were closed, but I could still see,
As I watched my smile twisting with glee,
And crimson nectar leaking through teeth,
The mirror shell cracked, my nerves were wracked,
From the mirror I retreat, but with me it backed,
My instincts raced, my psyche attacked,
The me in the mirror began to convulse,
Quickening was the beat of my pulse,
Beating like drums, a rhythm repulsed,
Then it stopped, the mirror froze,
And off to sleep I began to doze,
Not before my mirror had one last prose,
One finger raised--be silent, mouth closed.
Apr 12, 2021
Apr 12, 2021 at 2:49 PM UTC
Depravity dines, corrupt calamity,
Twisting lines, vile virality,
Prophets scream and children listen,
Deceptions deem what we may christen,
"The world is dying--have they no morals?"
Eternally spying--I observe the laurels,
Gold that glistens, tightly weaved,
A blight of ricin, so slays the leaves,
The **** does not wither, it does not collapse,
With chill comes a shiver, consumed are the scraps,
"The world is dying--have they no charity?"
Eternally prying--At last, I have clarity,
The world, I had swore, may one day find peace,
The world, it's at war, a war that shan't cease,
Weapons need not, we fight with mind,
Nary a lulled thought, serenity is blind,
"The world is dying--can our home mend?"
Eternally trying--I can't stop the end.
Feb 28, 2021
Feb 28, 2021 at 2:38 AM UTC
Forsaken shrine,
Nights align,
In a spotted chalice,
Like onyx wine.
Out rings a bell,
A raven knell,
The wicked cry,
And doleful spell--
--Of witching's time.
A wayward soul,
On blinded stroll,
As through the dark,
They must patrol.
The traveled path,
A harsh lambast,
And so return,
The hour's bath.
Fore a shape,
A phantom escape,
Awaiting idol,
Past a molten scape.
River quelled,
Fusion's shell,
Lest a shade and shadow weld,
Beware the spell--
--Of witching's time.
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 11:01 PM UTC
The sun that shines through morning sky,
Need not compare to your shining light.
The birdsongs blended with flapping wings,
Need not compare to the words you sing.
The glow of dawn, and awe of life revived like Spring,
Need not compare, to the beauty you
bring.
A Summer's breeze, nature's ivory dove,
Need not compare to the grandeur of your love.
A flower's petals, as pretty as lace,
Need not compare to your elegant grace.
Grey skies or blue, any version of daytime,
Need not compare to a love so sublime.
The safety of home, an escape from night,
Need not compare to your company's respite.
The warmth and safety of a roaring fireplace,
Need not compare to your loving embrace.
A climb into bed, nay, any day, any time,
Need not compare to a reminder
you're mine.
Every day my love grows stronger, and that will never end,
Only to you do I wish to tend.
I've found my one, and if you are keen,
For life, I'll be your king, and you'll be
my queen.
Feb 14, 2021
Feb 14, 2021 at 4:44 PM UTC
Autumn's eve, tinting leaves, the breeze creates a gentle hiss,
A sun shining bright, wooded air
that bites,
Would meet to kiss, rebirthing night.
A hunter trawled through forest sprawled,
it flowed and rose before him,
With him came prose he must
prepose the winter snows that awaited,
The winter snows, would end his hunt,
and so off he set with a subtle grunt,
To complete his latest autumn hunt,
a stunt raught with err.
A fortnight prior, the hunter slept in a spire, a vision came as he did tire,
A shimmering gold figure, whose shape
bent and flickered,
With haunting words it smiled and
snickered;
"On a jaunt to forest haunts, not an
arrow shall be nocked--
--lest all effort be for naught."
The hunter gave the lot no thought,
An archer, he is, a prophet, he is not,
And so was his steed set off on a trot--
"--Lest all effort be for naught."
A hare was eyed, time now nigh, prey and predator had arrived,
Hunter prepping a bow draw, as hare
gingerly awed and gnawed,
As hare gnawed, a warning walked, out
to the hunter's mind,
Reminding him, to his chagrin--
"Not an arrow shall be nocked," inside his mind it ticked and tocked,
Words flicking like hands on clocks, the
ticking clock, he cleared with knocks,
And so he returned to his stalk, but once
an arrow then did nock--
--Alas, all effort was for naught.
The ground caved in, his head spins, as his punishment begins,
Take from the forest, and the forest
takes back,
Our hunter grasped, as he fell to black,
his dream was no dream, but real life,
He strifed over omens, regret that stung
like a knife,
But descent had already begun, with
darkness endlessly growing rife.
He had spent his whole life gloating,
now he felt as though he's floating,
floating deep to an abyss,--
Nay, not safety, nay, much darker, nay,
unnatural-- nay, remiss.
Body meets tension, and blood meets a flood,
A splash, and a crash, as the hunter fell
with a thud,
He had berthed on a river, clothing and
blood curdled with mud.
Awoken from slumber, skull pounding like thunder, his mind felt asunder,
Rolling over a flower, he climbed
from the river,
Perverse cold forcing a shiver, as he
looked to the sky, and began to quiver,
Onyx above, with a moon shining three, scouting around, he shan't find many a tree,
Or any sign that from this hell, he'll be
freed--
--Lest he notice the shimmer,
approaching with speed.
The shimmer approached, the hunter recognized he,
The shape from the vision, that whom
warned thee,
"I see that my warning, thou did not heed, now thou must travel, if thou wished to leave,"
The words strengthened the thunder
inside the head of our hunter,
But then he spoke, with an intrigue of
wonder,
"Where must I go, with my head pounding like thunder, and self so asunder?"
The shimmer glared, its gilded eyes
flared, freezing the hunter like snares,
"Voyage to the Druid, speak to thee, ask for relief, and thou shall be free, but when the deal has ended, have not a spare thought--
--Lest all effort be for naught."
And so the hunter travelled endless night,
Bulbous purple pods glowing on the
ground, providing light,
As giggles from around echoed, causing
fright.
Our archer saw faeries, goblins and elves, hiding in the shadows, deep they'd delve,
Child's fairytales, nay, did not match
the whelm,
He felt as if in his own mind he'd lost
the helm,
In the so unknown, yet familiar realm.
At last up ahead he saw a light, the shine of a lantern, a beacon in the night,
Ahead lie a hut, a small abode, he set for the door and trekked the road,
He made it to the home, hoping for
luck,
He grabbed the doorknocker, adorned
with a buck, and rapped three times,--
--"My door you've struck, and summoned me, state your name, or propose a plea."
A frazzled voice from the other side, so
quickly, the hunter knew he had little
time,
His thoughts, a clogged drain, but finally
became fluid,--
--"I, the hunter, wish to speak to the
Druid!"
Inside the shack, the two had talked, after the knocked door was locked,
The hunter had the holder chalked, the
Druid she was, and so he hawked,
Asking, pleading, and begging for help,
until she finally talked,
"I can read your future, boy, I'll call upon my Tarot, but in exchange, when comes the First of Snows, you must not lie low."
The hunter was perplexed, reluctantly
he agreed not to cower,
The Druid then laid out all three,--
--The Fool, Eight Swords, The Tower.
"Before I explain the Tarot to you, I must ask a question too,"
The Druid spoke with wretched ardor,
But as she hissed, our hunter had to
listen harder,
"Do you know, the shimmering glow? It's the one who shares your fate,
But beware its trap, within a snap,--
--You could both open the gate."
The Tarots meant only one thing each, Naive, Hopeless, Doomed,
Shocked by landing on The Tower
locked the hunter into gloom,
Then the Druid had one last warning,
a mourning that froze the room,
"You will find that Tower, boy, and you must hold our deal,
Resort to zeal, and turn your heel,--
--And The Tower will be your tomb."
The hunter tripped and left the Druid, rushing back on trail,
His spirit felt as though a fawn, frail,
and his path like a train, on rails,
But he knew as the wind did gale, and
freezing rain began to hail,--
--Traveling the veil, he mustn't fail.
Then he sauntered off to wander, not a stretch away, he sensed a haunter,
He saw a damsel, through rain's silky
curtain,
Looming, deep within the black, a
vermin frame which flowed as glass,--
--To persist, to leave, that which
he must pass.
A serpent, it slithered, our hunter shivered,
A feminine side revealed, as it got closer,
a familiar poseur,
Our hunter had to steel,
But as the ghastly creature neared,
his composure wept with yield.
Half-snake, half-woman, it spoke soft and slow,
"You're brave to show, you're weak here,
useless I'd say-- the Tarot told, I heard, I
know!"
As it spoke, its tail flickered, eyes alight
with rosette glimmer,--
--Our hunter knew, he'd met a
trickster.
This snake, it claimed it was part of the hunter,
Part of the hunter, surely a blunder, he
was no viper,
But the snake became hyper, its voice
high like the shrill of a piper,
"I know you and you know me, but your feeble mind, it cannot see!
I would say to look within, but you're
powerless, you couldn't even begin!"
The snake had spoke with a giggle and a
grin, and quickly turned sour,--
--"My name is not snake, please, call
me Flower!"
Flower ended up a consort, nary a slithering foe to thwart,
They'd walk and they'd chatter,
The soothing rain's patter, appended by
small creatures scatter,
But before long, Flower had stopped,
with something the matter,
"A mirage, I've sensed, do you feel it, the air ever so dense?"
The thought forced the hunter to tense,
he felt the air, ever so dense indeed,
But Flower he could read, her face
screamed with plead,
"The Tower, it's here. The one from the Tarot,"
Flower spoke slow, speech reaching a
crawl,
"I can bring the Tower, it will use all of
my power,
But you must keep your deal, you
mustn't cower!
Within you will always be a friendly
little Flower,"
Her tail flicked, she smiled, "Close your eyes, archer," and so our hunter did,
Alas, when he opened his lids, his only
ally was rid,--
--A Flower replaced, by a tower.
He took a moment to reflect, upon the roads that he had trekked,
The warm river, the safest he'd felt,
before he was shook by a jolting, cold
shiver,
The druid, the scholar of fate, the
friendly mystery from whom he hid,
Yet Flower, the extension of him, a
snake he'd judged and wished he'd
forbid,
All assistance lost, warmth had turned to frost, as he looked to the tower, he did fraught, but he must begin,--
--Lest all effort be for naught.
He entered the spire, and his soul felt dire,
As he seeked up to see stairs seemingly
spun by a spider,
The climb felt wholly bleak, but he
summited the peak,
To the top suite he'd sneak, and look in with a peek,
To see a familiar physique, shimmering
and sleek,
As he scouted the room, lost in ornate
mystique,
His legs felt swiftly weak, a lavish floor
creaked,--
--And this piqued the figure,
who began to speak.
"Thou hast found the Tower, the Druid, and the Flower. Yet the taste, it still seems sour?
Worry not my hunter, ye need not scour,
your hunt has reached its final hour."
As peril did flow, our hunter did know,
and reached for his sidearm,
His trusted bow.
"Sheathe thy fury, and do not worry, just enjoy my show,
Set down thy bow, and peer the window,
But surely, thou already knows--
--Thou hast reached the First of
Snows."
The light had lingered into night, soil stifled by ivory plight,
As the hunter twisted back, he heard a
composed crack,
The figure had snapped, and the walls,
collapsed,
Then they were out in the sleet, the
frigid air a silky sheet,
The indigo sky danced like a marionette
of winter,
A violet aurora, sliced through like a
splinter,
Iris flowers in the wind, shuddering
with a shiver.
"Thou art getting what thou desired, dear hunter,
Or doth thou wish to wait and wither?"
The voice of the shimmer, it spoke with
a chill,
As if the snow had forced it to a shrill,
The hunter felt a thrill, as in a glance,
the shimmer's intentions would spill
from its stance,
"Thou knew this would come, I know thou hast great skill,
Alas, thou art a hunter, now come
for the k*ll."
The hunter drew his bow, and an arrow he nocked,
He could feel his heart ticking, counting
down like a clock,
The shimmer turned pink and purple,
with eyes black, like a portal.
"I never craved to hurt thou, yet thou broke thy own law,"
The shimmer had said, but yet it stood
still in awe,
The hunter thought he was ready, he
locked on, then draw,--
--Then he felt a pain, a thrash, and
his heart began to thaw.
He looked down and saw crimson, a **** let loose velvet ribbon,
He fell back to the snow, and as he
gazed skyward,
Up stepped a purple glow, to look at the
hunter below,
Their eyes met, and at last, true nature would show,
The hunter's woe, he'd finally know,--
--Was the furthest thing from a foe.
Behind the figure a gateway, a gateway of silver,
Then the figure turned grey, his
shimmering grew dimmer,
Defeat still boiled in the heart of the
hunter,
It was met with ease, and the two
would melt and simmer,
"Our bond is obvious, certainly, dear hunter, just as our dreams melt in snow,--
--My heart ignites, infernally."
It was then the hunter noticed the arrow,
His shot had hit, but the shimmer shook
it off, unevenly harrowed,
Then the hunter's vision narrowed,
and he realized his last arrow, he'd split,
"I didn't want thy death, or mine along with it,"
It spoke as if for two, and open the gate
flew,
"We're connected, me and you, I need
not be blunt,
I loathe to see the river dry, alas, there's
an end to every flow,
But blood in the snow, under a
violet glow,--
--Befit to end our hunt."
Jan 21, 2021
Jan 21, 2021 at 5:09 PM UTC
The ashen mirror that reflects our world,
The support, the barrier, and the gateway,
A resting mosaic of serenity,
A whirling portrait of distraught,
And the connection of two contrasting worlds.
A slice in the silence, pain shoots from the wound,
No shatter, nor collapse, only scars of a memory,
Accompanying signs of an unknown future.
But as the clock ticks, the mirror warps, and age begins to wear,
A hail rains down, beautiful cries and solemn weeps bleed from a frigid shield,
Miniscule waves and movements rock the support as scars and sounds are birthed,
Then, the pillars fall, and the mirror bends.
But even if all were to crumble, the only feeling would be sweet relief,
A cathartic collapse, the wound releases,
The noise is cut, serenity and silence return, beheld in new forms,
For the only woe an eradication feels is held within itself.
Dec 13, 2020
Dec 13, 2020 at 3:02 AM UTC