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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

The scales are imbalanced,

As they have been for millennia,

Our time rushed to its end,

Like water off a sheer face,

Life drifted and swung like a pendulum,

An uncertainly guaranteed fate approaching,

At a capricious time and place,

Ticks were counted in reverse,

An attempt to fathom the unfathomable,

False prophets spoke as confidants to the future,

But no man can see to the end of the world,

Not the end, nor the limit,

But all will experience the unseen fall.

Mosaics scrawled in oak,
Charters to a new dimension,
Candles bring forth grey smoke,
Filling a stygian room with tension.

A hallowed oversoul awaits a sacrament,
Crimson stanzas chanted, a return anticipated,
The King still needs a benighted advocate,
Atonement was made, with a blade of onyx, serrated.

Throughout the hall, a sensation,
First came the scent of velvet nectar,
Then, the impact of consternation,
And all among the walls, dark and unearthly spectres.

An observance had concluded,
As the veil was torn by madness,
And the microcasm, polluted,
A world overthrown, by the abyss.

Skin supplanted by steel,

As pigment falls to paint,

A hollow duralumin chariot,

Ridden by the affluent,

Fortuitous souls, borne to their heart's requests

Down from below, as antipodes clash,

The behemoth clamors, with metallic clangs,

Conflicting privileges, one invulnerable,

Touted lands turned to tarnished wastes,

With a destiny targeted at armageddon,

Humanity's fate glides, like the zeppelin.

It's gnawing at his bones,
and clawing at his spine,
he knows he's not alone,
but now is not the time.

The woman behind sings,
broken voice brings life like spring,
enlivening his actions,
but stressing her malefaction.

He'd been running for years,
or at least, that's how it felt.
Despite his eyes' red tears,
and skin starting to welt,
his drive had never reared,
but soon, to enervation, he knelt.

He fell into the leaves,
pain stung like blades unsheathed,
now too faint to run,
he peered up to the sun.

Then, the blue turned black,
he heard a familiar chime,
he knew, his lover was back.
She heaved her axe one time...

He still lies in the leaves,
no more cries or screams,
he speaks only silence now,
in a place that won't be found.

The Night sets in,
with stretched out sins,
and daylight starts to thin.
Time yet to be paid,
Night's song is played,
and so your climb begins.

The songs are howls,
grave wails and growls,
quavering in your core.
But alas the yowls,
are now your score,
they'll play forevermore.

Your eyes spot nothing,
as the sky is bluffing,
shadow cloaking light.
But now the darkness,
your adverse catharsis,
will coat you through the Night.

You mount the wall,
Night's idle thrall,
as screeching leaves you stunned.
But as you climb,
a rock slips high,
and now you know you're done.

You put up a fight, saw the light,
but now the time is nigh.
The Night has won,
the songs are done,
and you never spotted the sun.

Water flows, as if racing itself to the end of its path,
The dark blue sky is alight with alluring purples and pinks,
with nebulae like otherwordly glistening waves.
Silence surrounds and embraces every being nearby,
as peaceful as even the sweetest of melodies.

Colorful flowers of blue, yellow, and pink grow scattered on a river’s shoreline,
jewels upon nature’s crown.
The river’s lifeblood runs blue, matching the Iris and Brunnera that line its own edges,
enchanting any who lay eyes on them.
Small whitecaps develop, a blemish upon the serenity,
even in complete beauty, nature’s imperfection manifests.

A forest grove spreads nearby,
green leaves and crimson red flowers swirl from shadowy, thick shrubbery.
A purple-blue glow emanates from bulbous pods along the outer edges, pinned on bushes like ornaments.
Pines, towering stalks that pierce towards the enticing but dim sky loom overhead.
There waits within the grove a tender darkness, holding secrets seen by few.

A campfire blazes, illuminating the surrounding tranquility,
warm red-orange flame whipping and snapping back and forth.
Adjacent rocks are scalded black, torched by an agitated inferno.
Sparks are lifted to the ether like minuscule fireworks,
before crashing down to the grass below, as if bombing the terrain.

These wilds are a mystery,
touched by few, but experienced by many.
They await all of us, close by at all times,
but many lack the sight to see them.
If you enter these wilds, enjoy your time,
but do not attempt to control them,
Simply hold on, and enjoy the naturalistic beauty,
It could be yours.