Every night I lay down to rest
The same old visions keep on creeping around my head
They scrape my mind and burn my core
I don't think I can take no more
Will I get through the night?

On the edge to insanity
I don't know what's real or fantasy
The demons sip on my coffee cup
Their screams get loud they never stop
My ears are a red masterpiece

The chaos beings to rise
I'm falling down the rabbit hole to my demise
Sticks and stones may break my bones
But loving you will make me whole
The chaos drowns me tonight

A seesaw is all that's left
Bouncing anxiety inside my chest
Strangers steal my loneliness
Patching up my self-made mess
Frozen in the concrete jungle

Jon said we're halfway there
But it seems to me I'm stuck in second gear
I lay my back flat on the ground
Here I'll die with no one around
Out of reach and with nothing to fear

A light in the dark calls my name
Safe and sound it guides me home with its flame
With a broken wing left to die
I could still learn to fly
Once lost but now I'm found

.
(The Dream)

A single ear of corn,
in a meadow of flowers,
stands proud
in its enforced isolation,
marvelling at the beauty
around its placing,
a sense of envy
as its pale golden yellow
fades in the ensemble
of majesty's riotous colours,
and the scene shifts …

Ravens screech in flight
breaking their shackles
as a dragon
dances on a honeycomb,
and empires fall
chased by ribaldic skeletons
into history's cesspool,
the Maiden reeks havoc
in a harem of vice,
guarding the purity of life
from scavenging sins,
watching as the fat maggots
crawl under the skin,
they devour and destroy
spreading rancid disease within,
and the scene shifts …

the ear of corn
sways with unexpected breeze,
as the floral attraction
surrounds its ugliness,
it bleeds to shy away,
hide its foulness,
so as not to taint or scar
this panorama of life,
The offering as ritual
to keep so dear
as a drop of morning dew
slides down a leaf
to hang suspended, inert,
and the scene shifts …

and a chair stays silent
waiting by a desk,
a book and quill lay idle
as he dreams disturbed
in a cot, cold and hard,
an internal dialogue
complete with visions
as the warring parties ride
in subconscious battle,
the raven screams,
the dragon dances,
the ear of corn stands proud,
the Maiden cries.
And the quill is a symbol,
a badge of honour,
adopted for the heart
to capture his dreams …



© Pagan Paul (05/06/19)

.
Walk through the silence
of a lonely tapestry,
its mute single thread
trying to Canute the night,
knowing it must ride the Moon
to dance with the stars.
Blood red ink.
Ink red blood.
Across pages it falls,
words of needlepoint pain
screaming at the audience,
the Moon has been deflowered
and the stars dance alone.
Cedar wood smoke perfumes
the stench of lethargy,
from an open log fire
throwing flickers of hopeful light,
flame fingers burn the Moon
as the stars cry for the weaver.



© Pagan Paul (02/06/19)

It will be written long,
when Nature takes her own
and quenches life's flame,
when all the sadness
has been noted and versed,
packaged as final words,
having ******* with regret
or discourse with nostalgia.
The taming of the mortal coil breeds
the Last Poem.



© Pagan Paul (03/06/19)