All within the dyed robes of rhyme,
and the subtle dispatches of sinful woe...
Enchanted in wisdom; a pilgrim's trot,
waging and waling at the spot.

Fringing at the hands that drew his fate,
ever so lonesome in his wait.

With scattered fears, roaming earth,
in search of what, truly, is dear and dirth.

There is much freedom, need I say, in passing time...
In the careless precision, pattern, and chime!

Dearest dreams, do float away,
and water my sight, with not grief this today!
While sweetest passions, of ides a-due,
devise in garnishing thoughts of two!

Later mine hearts, when candles do,
shalt guidance us to all, when I am through!

And when thine waters cease further fall,
all virtues when on then, shall hitherto stall...
Beware of that widow, that mocks at our night,
in pitch perfect light, stings mostly she might!
for when golden braids,
spike at God's feet,
away, shalt thy singing,
make surely we meet!

A.r. Bazian

And in the Shades...
Lingered a memory!
Under the dancing braids...
Of a morning sun!

There...
Stood an aging log...
With many years undone!
Where we loved and laughed...
Kissed and Cried...
Lost and won,
And all that we did, was there and gone!

Yet, in this memory,
Laid at hand...
A visiting spirit,
I understand!

Do we pass us by?
Do we bid us goodbye?
All, into the yearning of skies above?
Or do we set farewells,
To near tolling bells,
And part in hopes,
Of finding love?!

Go, dearest...
Be free, at will and ease...
Fly away, white dove...
Upon the western breeze!

But when ye're back...
Oh, Glorious day,
Remember this parting woe, I say...
And do slumber please, there and then,
So far away, and never again!

A.r. Bazian

I am sill here...
And I still sound through the muddy plies of your illusion.

Still, even now, do I resound
through the crooked void of your presence...
I am the change!

And you, dearest mine, still so unbound,
so colourfully, you resound,
through the mundane madness of the hour.
You are the war I wage.

We are the frailty of desolation...
We are the winds that blow...
You, and I,
are the god we bestow.

We are the abstracts of absolution... We are the dancing hymn of death.
We are the raging scorn of delusion, we are society's failing breath.
I am change, I am the bringer of doom.
You're the war I wage, and the coming bloom.

And here we are again...
The wilder me,
storms the colder folder planes...
Across the distance that separates all that is between us.

Where do we go from here...

A.r. Bazian
*Written in 2012

Do we forgive ourselves,
so often a day....
That all our dreams,
Bestowed ar't through?
Regardless now,
Of all common delight,
and all the blasphemous pleasures,
in a long day's night,
do we forgive ourselves, so often?
Do you?

All these rafting lots in my memory,
Merely ar't the solemn shades of you!

O' yellow, fellow, mourning braids,
shalt we dance along our black parades;
lest parting long-wards, O' fair daylight,
and golden shrews; the sun, we might...
O' gathered fortunes, gone and done,
and the countless bruise we hide; that's one,
that you may shine so bare and bright,
upon the coming pale, and peaceful night!

Dear parting, jolly, loyal chap,
bemind the turning, pacing gap...
And when yer folly turns a-bend,
remember one lonely, and most loyal friend.

A.r. Bazian
*Written in 2012

Sunlight braids rained onto the dusty folds of our parking-lot-like schemes,  'cross the gaping leaps between our sentenced deaths with the occasional intervals of blindness; lighting the path torrents for black light on black, and the little hopes, still held back.
Pocket poles and bullet collars decorate the walkways to the stockyard, where we piled our words and promises before; we stood bare and helpless to the passing winds that swept the misty passages empty, through the urban woods of vanity and fair.
Still the overtures sound light carried on the sealed whispers of the distant dream; that we would live! And portions of our existence rest down the wasted years, on the rocky crust pavements of a river. Floating streams of living things that pass down into oblivion, with their faces cold, and impotent smiles alike.
Perhaps the fading wonders of the breeze one midnight would sweep me away too; perhaps it will take me on to you.
But this that extends down through the rot and the veil of beasts, in to light the flares of a broken heart... It was not you! It was something else, something awfully lovely; it was totally something new!
A father's dream set into the breed of a pointless purpose also set into the wilderness and into the vain colours of a feint folly for greed; as the vacant corpses pose the prose for fortune bring, and for the songs we sing.
Beatitude in the sense of a crime for the sake of a lesser scream; a voice through the void that echoes against the street lights shaping the crossroads to hell; the tolling bell! The little left, gone and strew.

A.r. Bazian
*Written in 2012

Untie the wielding shields that hold the wings of this barricade together, and reach into the core of the man I am. And when you do, care for the shades that you illuminate through the darkness within. When you do, bare that this cornered child is tender, behind the rock solid fences you laid down!
In the distant plains of prolonged dream, enchanted with the presence of the hopes you bring; kindly lit by the warm fires in your heart, so bravely leaping across these godforsaken scapes and shades of gray.
Waltzing sonnets to the rhymes of age, time and decay.
Only ever so close.

A.r. Bazian
*Written in 2012