The calling of Calypso trapped many sailors to their hell-festered detainment. To the mortals living in serenity outside the borders of the siren’s realm, all the ecstasy and brilliance shining from have them received with a lover’s embrace? Perhaps these men are prisoners of madness?
With ignorant thoughts bred and assumptions made, the candle of hope of freedom for the helpless enthralled men were extinguished.
Calypso laughed in triumph, her dexterity unchallenged.
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 5:24 PM UTC
We are living in a dictatorship, a tyrant is at large.
The Aristocrats are clawing on to their wealth and privilage
Ebenezer Scrooge pales in all spectrum
The Peasants awakened in anguish, brews a tempestous whirlwind.
Torches brought to life,
roaring ******* flames of justice
Torture’s a friendly foe,
the time for lamenting has been extinguished.
Directing their stubby fingers, master of guile,
stroking their overgrown stomach
“Leech the Swines!
Bury their bodies, all but their sham crown
Garlands of heads, draped on my wall.”
A source of warmth for the winter’s plight, A trophy
triumphing the seeds of abeyance
Desolating fate is sealed by this stern decree.
Free hand-reading; not requiring an oracle.
“Am I not a benevolent King?”
**** out the roots.
One by one,
**** out the roots of evil.
For the root of all evil is good.
The peasants thin and scrawny.
Hunger, their morning advocate and evening lover-
Lusting to sink their teeth in to Pride.
The Nobel robed in mulberry silk
making love to a ********** pastry, birthed by a coinless *******
Ascended into the abyssal inner circle of Hell
Those armoured with royal blood adorned in leather costumes
-vagrants cannot discriminate-
slaughtered while Mercy slumbers.
**** the aristocrats, for they are selfish!
The abolishment of poverty, the bane of the Monarchical eradication
A diabolical scheme!
Says the soulless estranged with peace.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 9:56 AM UTC
Awake, awake my little Boy!
Thou wast thy Mother’s only joy:
Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep?
Awake! thy Father does thee keep.
“O, what land is the Land of Dreams?
What are its mountains, and what are its streams?
O Father, I saw my Mother there,
Among the lillies by waters fair.
Among the lambs clothed in white
She walked with her Thomas in sweet delight.
I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn—
O when shall I return again?”
Dear child, I also by pleasant streams
Have wandered all night in the Land of Dreams;
But though calm and warm the waters wide,
I could not get to the other side.
“Father, O Father, what do we here,
In this land of unbelief and fear?
The Land of Dreams is better far
Above the light of the Morning Star.”
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 9:07 PM UTC
"Why one writes is a question I can never answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me – the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art.
...
"We also write to heighten our own awareness of life. We write to lure and enchant and console others. We write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth. We write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely … When I don’t write, feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing."
('The New Woman', 1974)
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 8:56 PM UTC
If I hadn't fallen in love, I wouldn't have seen the stars so within reach,
and yet I would've remained unscathed by the supernova.
If I hadn't fallen in love, I wouldn't have held the divine restoration of cycle,
and yet I would've been ignorant of the end.
If I hadn't fallen in love, I wouldn't have been acquainted with the exultation of sentiments,
and yet I would've prevailed the storm of loneliness.
If I hadn't fallen in love, I wouldn't have captured the cinematic magnificence of a wild and seismic vista,
and yet I would've stayed on the path.
For all I know and feel now is pain.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 8:53 PM UTC
I once saw a beautiful garden.
Between the red road and a beautiful sea,
curiosity got the better of me
and I examined all the greenery.
The flowers, with their remarkable beauty,
stands out among the rest.
Picked by everyone who passes by,
adored and treated well.
But as they grow old and wither,
used and tattered like pieces of paper,
they are thrown and replaced by another.
The trees, while not the most beautiful,
are sturdy and tall.
From a simple seed they grow,
years of patience and suffering they endured,
just for that view on the top.
But not every seed survives,
for storms can take their roots off the ground,
and take their hopes away anytime.
And then there's the grass,
lying about on the soil,
stepped on by everyone
and barely getting by.
They are not pretty nor sturdy.
They have nothing special.
But still they try.
To grow taller and taller,
so they can at least see the view,
and enjoy the breeze at the top.
And as I left the garden,
I looked back and smiled,
Because even though they're different
They live in perfect harmony.
Because they all just want to see,
the view at the top.
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 12:59 PM UTC
I've often wondered
What it would be like
To die by the pen.
Hold myself down
Between paper and ink.
Turn my art against me
And be killed by my own creations.
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 12:58 PM UTC
Because the world was never meant to be unfolded. A sphere with horizontal illusions, ghost hands tugging the strings of its puppets. Cut the core, force it open, its life-being oozes out. Blood on your hands! The cosmos sing a siren’s song, narrating your imminent departure. Death has come knocking and you’ve reached the end of the road.
Hands reaching for the icy door **** ignorant to your proposed actions of cowardice. A molecule of your cramped finger contacted the handle, transmittings bolts of Zeus’ mighty power through your veins, reaching the crown of your head, dropping explosions of trepidation.
The sand clock grows anorexic. Teeth chattering seizures, a panic attempt to shake off Fate’s shackles, bellowing prayers you could not initiate. Growth of perspiration a physical secretion of your anxieties, the beads forming constellations, symbolizing Death, cascaded, tracing the hollows of your cheeks, the contour of your face, the valleys of naviety, mocking the seconds sinking.
Grasp onto the latch. The future awaits you. The Three Winged Seraphs guiding their blade, stroking the String with your name, so deliciously yearning. Release my tensions.
A rebel against your demands, your hands animated to life- Come to life! rotates the mechanism, summoning the hinges to succumb.
The last grains in the sand clock streams down, descending a route of design. Envisioning a waterfall, so pristine, so innocent, so natural its intent.
The String relishes its fragility and vulnerability, purring against the caresses of the Blade. Like dead skin curling, the wings of the String spread. Expanding, preparing to take flight.
Three, two, one. The last revolutionary Will continues to fight a dying battle.
The mercenary lays his eyes upon Death.
Could Death ever look angelic? A familiar face combing through your mangled hair. From the time you were conceived into a stranger’s world, you were en route to Him. Spiting all human faith, He was the true messiah. A messiah cloaked in Lucifer’s shadow.
Innumerable anecdotes to be contrived, however has he once broken a promise? He was fair and just. Not a soul was mercilessly shut off from Him. Though He was shunned from His children, passed on from father to son through word of mouth, did he not offer paradise at the end?
Death opened his arms vowing Zion.
A matrimony.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 4:14 AM UTC