Redolent May sings,
lays of perplexing antique,
wooden rose flounders.
...
Fungi is in rout,
war of mushrooms is halted,
desolate treescape.
...
This is not a game,
the colours rest in spindles,
the flag is in truce.
...
Paragon of ice,
tractive glacier, no friction,
chronotropic death.
...
Scourged almighty sea,
symphonic ocean blasted,
tranced undertaking.
...
Mort, syphoned blood grass,
waving like entrails, flooded,
blood spins, grave now swims.
...
Gritty stagnant bole,
refurbished hybernation,
the scent come to play.
...
Reminiscent moon,
gather ye, encompassed light,
that we may know life

In days to come,  I know I will regret
not sitting by her bed,  just to regale
a hurried rhyme, or let go a soft tale,
all while in thought,  I knew her days were set.

Oh my dear, where fly you now,  I wonder.
Is life a better place where you now shine?
I hear your voice commingled within mine.
It comes in droves, hitting me like thunder.

Do you smile on the life which I have built?
Do you cast your eyes aside due to shame?
I heard all life was just a vicious game.
For which the ending prize was often guilt.

Oh what of I? What am I to become?
I let her down. Abandoning my mum.

Spear of life, crown of virtue,
blood relaxed on slab of hate.
To the wind, in raised agony,
metal shards crush bone and fate.
There the light, the helmets glint,
forsaken he, in hour of shame.
But never bowed, in half life saved,
to the skies, and not the flame.
Parched soul, but never succour,
bitter taste of blood and brine.
Feels the tug, the Lords right seat,
one last breath, now is the time.
His spirit flees, mountain cracks,
from quaking mighty land and whence,
his body gone, neath tomb of stone,
to rise again in three days hence.

In terms of life, I sunk to lowest form,
and all about,  my glory came to naught,
for God had sure abandoned His creation,
and I was living in the death I'd wrought.

No life for me,  beyond this current hell.
No hope to ride,  no meandering retreat.
For sure as heaven spat upon my presence,
so too did Hades signal my defeat.

So where to go. I lingered within madness.
I wandered through a shame I'd bought with glee.
I thought if only I made my own choices,
then God would surely let me to be free.

But never in the history of heaven
has one like I been left to wander madly.
For just as that thought entered to my mind,
so too God cast aside my heart... and gladly.

Now I wander sadly through the darkness
wearing my shame like a hardened quilt.
But I know if I could redo my choices,
I'd do my best just to avoid this guilt.

This pen could write as others write,
all full of woe and self defeat.
Or send this ink,  like tears of shame,
to tell a lie,  and forge deceit.

To moan of loss,  and whine of life,
and sit there seeking eyes
to hold this heart,  and hear these words
and see through a dark disguise.

To never perceive in reality
what lingers beyond the dark screen.
Oh,  but to shelter a pain, we hold in vain,
is nothing less than obscene.

So tell us a tale of why you are loud
and why you don't accept the fact,
that nobody cares bout how you once lost,
or that day when your words were attacked.

To write of this woe and signal denial
of the social encumbrance all round,
is to harbour injustice for false offences,
and to always lie broken on the ground.

Could we lift up our hearts and sing of the past
when love was not just a myth?
Or would you rather die to get attention,
a plain,  barren,  wordless wordsmith?

So, with love,  I tell you,  all wannabes and such,
to quiet your voices and listen.
For when your mouth shuts against life's complaints,
then that is when your life glistens.

Dear nature stutters to a start,
and warmth fills in the cracks.  
The heart no longer seeps with cold.
The core's no longer black.

So on a twirl of leaf and grass,
and other things that grow.
There came to life a living thing,
which melted all the frost and snow.

He rose upon a starlit night
and wandered with a stutter.
As trees gave bloom, and flowers sang.
Water flowed, mountains muttered.

All wilted things, each drew new breath,
and gloried in this sight.
A godly host. Powerful spirit.
And lit all things with natural light.

He fashioned bird, and crafted beast,
and said that it was good.
He hollowed out the very stars,
crafted every glade and wood.

Then in the last, he blew a breath,  
and from the very sand.
A form with legs and arms there grew,
and this he labelled man.

He has become a poet recently. He could
not believe it.  The pen he had used all
these years had only given words...
and structure. Form and flow. Rhythm
and rhyme.

But the Evening whispers things.  Cruel
truths, only he can understand.

'You are not a writer!' she whispers in
a current which almost deafens his spirit. 'Look at all you have accomplished.
Your pen writes life, not imagined folly'.

His soul departs from his body in an
attempt to flee this truth but the evening
grasps it by the fingers and smiles.

She disappears and in the moments
after...  her voice in his ears.

'You are the flow of the universe. Be like
those before.  Be like the greats ones
who knew no boundaries'.

So he picks up his dagger and cuts open
his finger. Dipping his quill into the
blood he looks at the open air around
him. As he writes on the wind... the world
begins anew.