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Rhys Hebbs Mar 2021
As the leaves breathed relief
upon their fabled flight from trees
I kissed the feet of the former me,
(Or at least the one who bleeds)

For freedom is just a season
that changes with the wind
without a rhyme or reason
unless its a song that we all sing

Only You know your truth
and if your life is being wasted
yet regret is a bitter blade from youth
that most old folk have tasted

but only a coward flees from dreams
and only the lonely are what they seem
yet most slaves forsake faith in change
when its paved the saviours way
Rhys Hebbs Mar 2021
When the darkness harkens
in the light of the night,
do not flee or be faithless
to what ageless sages say
at the dawn of the new day
when mockingjays take flight
Rhys Hebbs Mar 2021
Those who have glimpsed the Truth,

can not hold on for long

before fate forces their faith to ensure they either;

break themselves upon the shore of seclusion,
in search for the harbour of their fortitude
in lieu of fables of greater fated fortunes,
which behold the gateway to the main vain for the space between the rain.

Or

wither into the weeds
with a heart filled with bliss,
whilst their inner Being bleeds
unholy woe to their smothered soul;
Its the price all must make
when they forsake becoming Whole
Rhys Hebbs Dec 2020
Just like a child to the adult,
so too do the mighty start as fools,
so long as the fruits of their truth are not rotten,

but take heed,
for rituals live long
when their reasons have been forgotten,
and within this space
is where the darkest devils dwell
Rhys Hebbs Dec 2020
When all the wounds and eyes have dried
and all that remains is ambition,

will you seek to speak, harken and find
the unheard heartbeat inside the mind?

Will you plea with your inner-seeker
to usurp your under-dued preacher,

as you sense the spectred seizure
of Lifes tender-touching fever,
weave within your inner-dreamer?

Or will you prefer the feel of dreams in the dark?
Rhys Hebbs Dec 2020
I spent twenty-three years
gathering my army of One.

So, on the eve of the dawn
when all inner-demons are born
and forlorn dreams all bleed at the seams,
the whip-snip of winters wind
will decimate the gold in the day
to proclaim the heir to my king...

and the sacrifice I must pay
for the essential exchange
of any ail-led aspirant
to annihilate any alinement
with the archetype of a tyrant?;

All unearned falsehood must never depart
from any sacred facade held in my heart
lest the lust for Pura Vida be the preacher
to my inner-creatures beseecher,

for adversity is the shunned sage
to those who prefer comfortable fables
and a prophet to those
who harken to heroes.

Thus,

it matters not
any amount of pain that you gained
from playing the truest game
you could play,
with whole heart,
in the wretched world of man,
when now all that remains
are the paint strips flaking away
from the walls in your room
with old age greeting the faith
concealed in your doom

nor, if the portrait of your greatest fate
has forsaken its grace
for the sake of that gorgeous
echoing bellow
heard within the hole in your soul,
for it’s the price all must pay
in the pursuit of being whole.
Rhys Hebbs Nov 2020
Theres a hunger for passion in this world
so devastatingly delirious
and paradoxically toxic,
that it can bring a starving, grown man to his knees to beg for more of his own hunger.

I’ve seen it in the eyes of those that never tried.
Those that could have held the world
in the palm of their hand,
had they only decided to do so.

Now their eyes shine a different way
to those of their golden days,
the way of hate,
the way of submerged fury,
haunting reasons to erupt at the world they could have held,
now their muse of beatings.

Never present and always hunting,
always festering at boiling point
from the moment they arise
to the moment they dream those dreams
of all that could have been
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