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Let me dream these Barmecidal dreams
And on my bed of asphodel lie
With charming you by my side
Yielding sweet douceur of the flesh
Amidst the decresent embers of concupiscence.

R. A. Tyndall
We die before our own eyes;
Our blood paint crimson the fields
Lords left at the mercy of flies
On beds of broken swords and shattered shields.

The image of eternity before my eyes
I dread my terminal breath
The wind alone hears my aphonic cries
Of how ill-prepared I am for death.

R. A. Tyndall
Ah, man
How high the pedestal on which he stands
Lost in reverence of himself and his deeds –
Prone to forgetting his nature and ‘civility’.
He is a menace to himself and all that breathes;
For he is as feral as the beasts
Above which he holds himself.

To what ruinous end would he drive this world?
What manner of destruction and death will he unfurl?
He pays no heed, not even to his own kind
He has such magnificent vision, but he is blind

Holds a brush of ruin and paints such foul ends
His every stroke on the earthly canvas, rends.
It lends intensity to misfortune and torments.
Now even the breathless sigh and weep
For man bears the scythe and he will wantonly reap.

Capable of every ill, it would seem
Yet, the fool has hope of being redeemed
He holds on dearly to his dire dogmas
Sat astride prevarication - an embodiment of Ananias

Man will, by his own designs, meet a jester’s end.

R. A. Tyndall
My mind is handicapped
It is need of a crutch
Give me ***** as raw as my thoughts
“Laugh!” they say
But I lust, loathe, and lament
How I wish for the melancholy
To depart from me,
Well before my years are spent!

R. A. Tyndall
At the cusp of dusk they billow in,
Great black beasts, gravid and wroth;
They devour moon, they devour stars,
Thundering across the celestial sphere.
Roaring eruptions and lambent light –
A bacchanal of Babeldom.
Eden fire pierce, fierce, incisive stabs;
Instantly illuminating,  
As the great black beasts birth torrents.

R. A. Tyndall
A chance reflection
On a rain-kissed pane
I look at the wretch
With such disdain
Great affrayer
Descends on plumes of corvine wings
Singing a lullaby of desolation

Great usurper
Dwells in the shadows of my mind
Ravishing thought and memory

Great beguiler
A shroud thrown over me
Sickens my soul and fetters me to the dark.

R. A. Tyndall
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