Summer rains and pleasant breeze
Gracious shade from reaching trees.
Balmy days and mild nights
Charming smells and vibrant sights.
A solstice born to a lover's June
Heralds Fall that comes too soon.
Idiocy is not inherent;
It is, altogether more terrifyingly, habitual.
When we are fed with lies
We lose our taste for truth.
We growl and moan at our starving kin,
As we march so hungry into the grinding teeth of war.
Time well spent is good investment
Time wasted in good company
Is, thankfully, much the same.
Pretending to know where I am
While deeply lost in thought.
Holding on to what I can
And missing what I could not.
With trembling heart and flickering flame
I'm guided by worry and followed by shame.
With each creaking step, grievous mistake,
I lose a bit more of the courage I fake.
I curse my bravado for coercing me out!
As it's slowly and surely replaced by my doubt!
Shaped by shadow and forged in gloom,
A devil is born to fashion my doom!
Behind every corner, window, and wall,
The horror draws nearer with hungering call!
"Hear me Villian, make yourself known!"
Any fear I pray I've kept from my tone...
Oh what madness for the midnight mind!
To seek a beast I hope not to find!
A terror- I know it! I'm confident and sure!
The apex of fright, in essence so pure!
A lashing tongue and eyes in rows,
Razor sharp teeth to feed on my woes!
Legs much too many and mercies too few,
My advent of fate has come for its due!
I wish not to witness the monster I've made
So I blow out my candle... and welcome the shade.
To the darkened door I step
My invitation inevitable.
I wish to arrive fashionably late
And hope to be dressed for occasion.
I do not knock from fear of entry,
But rather that you won't be there to greet me.
Dedicated to Scotti
Some puppeteers perform upon their own stage.
A theater made by and for themselves.
They enjoy an act of selfish design
Then bow to raucous applause
From hands pulled tight by string.
"Blasted black bats in belfry!
They blight the blessed bells!
I am bedeviled by beasts born without beauty nor belief.
Break them from their borrowed burrow!
Banish them back to where beasts belong...
Beneath the boots of their betters."
Are my skies dyed with melancholy?
Are these roses red with rage?
If fields can be greener on either side,
Then whose envy is the gauge?
Between the brightest blacks and darkest whites,
Grays a gradient of up and down,
Can I trust the amber in your eyes,
When mine are dog-**** brown?
In dark times...
Call upon comrade and brothers in arms.
Together, cheer and hold fast against ruin!
Take heart, you fight with friend and fellowship!
Link shields and brace against inner daemon
For yourself is an enemy one should never face alone.
Tender light of gentle star
Splendid night by lunar measure
Loathe the shining kiss of day
Where busy work takes place of leisure.
Did you revel in my exile...
Did you enjoy their praise?
Their blind belief that you would save them
At now, the end of days?
You ignore the mortal's plight
Yet still you are their king.
They love you for all they have,
But pain is all you bring.
Your sheep in shepard's clothing
Who claim they speak your words:
Lambs leading lambs to slaughter
A mass of bleating herds.
You take my wings for these wretched things
And proclaim that you're divine!?
I've come to storm your gilded gates
And claim what is truly mine!
So I have wrought a tide of brimstone,
A sea of hate and fire!
An ocean of forgotten ******
With song of sinful choir!
At the precipice of your paradise,
Meet me and despair.
War for a kingdom too large for you
And much too small to share...
Is this a question worthy of an answer?
I'm sure the sane answer is "no."
Is there poetry in farting into a milk crate?
Maybe not, but I'd very much like to think so.
I bumbled through the bramble,
****** and stings and me entwined.
They cut me deep and deeper
As I stumbled through the vine.
I fell out onto a clearing
Where I bled smally on the grass
And though this moment pains me
I pray to gods it lasts.
She sat above me, beautiful,
Upon a throne of thorn.
Her supple frame caressed by they,
Yet remained untorn.
A lady or a fairy...
Or even better still!
A godess of those prickly vines
That wrapped around her will!
With every step the ivy squeezed
And yet I dare not care.
If she would waste but a breath on me,
I would not want for air...
I walk with will into umbral dark.
Fly through broken boundary of tempered veil
To unknown worlds beyond description.
I mingle with a forgiven strangeness
And become both act and audience
In theater foreign and familiar...
Then I cruelly slip from such sweetened state
And wake and live so mundanely.
Fast lane or slow lane-
A life driven from the backseat
Is equally sure to crash.
Gangly ghouls and ghastly ghosts.
Grimy goblins, gremlins gross.
A graphic, grizzly gallery
Of grim and gruesome, giggling glee.
The mark of a true fool
Is not the lack of knowledge,
But the firm belief that he has
Nothing left to learn.
Placed on pristine pedestal.
Its posture proud,
Its presence phantasmic.
My soul, do you take the shape of me?
Without this vessel, are you free?
Tethered here by blood and bone,
Are you truly mine to own?
I am unsure so tell me true,
Are you mine, or am I you?
Our own eyes can never really see the self;
We must always rely on others to look.
Only through each other can we truly know
The shape of our character and the color of our essence.
Shifting sands, shaped by surf and sea.
Sunlit shores shine and shimmer.
Sailing souls, slaves to siren song,
Suddenly sink and slumber silently.
These beakers are my canvas
And brewing her is my art.
To craft the deadly elixir,
That stops and starts my heart.
Two parts lovely,
Another three of yearn,
That subtle hint of sweetness
Gives it that extra burn.
Her crimsons blush and her violets spark
Then crash into her blues,
They swirl and twirl and bleed together-
A dance of violent hues.
Her colors mix into a bubbling
And her scent fills up the room.
Mesmerized... I am transfixed
By my bottled doom.
I pull out her stopper
and press her to my lips.
I drink her down, fast and slow.
Large gulps and tiny sips.
Immediately my body's seized
By her cold embrace!
Then I feel my insides boil,
Blood rushes to my face!
A foot through darkened doorstep,
My nape in devil's jaw!
She tears me from inside out
With tooth and fevered claw!
Desperately I reach for her-
Just a few drops more!
They trickle slowly down my throat
And pierce me to my core!
I need not water nor fine wine,
She is my only draught;
The taste of either, happily,
I have long ago forgot.
I will draft another batch tomorrow
Of this their is no doubt.
My love, my venom, my sweet ichor...
The poison I cannot live without.
Born in nineteen seventeen,
And died in sixty-seven.
His heart gave out, he became a ghost!
But did not go to heaven...
So now he haunts these hallowed grounds
From silver nights to dewy dawn.
His spectral frame glides above the grass
And drifts across the lawn.
But when morning comes and moonlight fades,
He knows it's time to leave.
To allow the other graveyard patrons
Their own time to grieve.
So he floats off to his tombstone,
Lies down in this coffin bed.
Every morning he dreams he is alive-
But each night he wakes up dead...
Foul, hideous, and horrid
Unfit for natural light.
An image, none as grisly
As the man named Simon White.
Once his heart was broken
So he kept the pieces in a box.
Tethered safely to his hip
With tight chains and key-less locks.
His mind was wont to wander
To clouds too high and skies too far.
So to keep himself grounded down to earth,
He kept his brain inside a jar.
His teeth would never smile.
Traded some and sold the others
Each to an unfamiliar home
Now all without their brothers.
Oh, his tongue was such a bore!
So he minced it to a paste.
He boiled, baked, and seasoned it
Yet still it had no taste.
He grew tired of his eyes
Looking down and looking back
So he took a brush with inked tip
And painted them pitch black.
The shrieks and wails of the passerby
He could not stand to hear.
So he melted a *** of candles
And stuffed the wax in each ear.
His face had done no wrong
But with fear it one day might,
He took a knife and chopped its nose!
Less from prudence and more from spite.
— The End —