Yours is not to question, Why not?
Yours is to sit alone at night and cry.
Yours is to accept that,
you will not win;
you will die trying.
Yours is to dream of a world
that could have been
if only one more soul stood along
and then another, and another …
but alas!
Yours is to vision the ceiling melt into a starry night.
Yours is to pick a spot amongst their mighty company.
Yours is to shoot across it in a brilliant streak,
that slows time,
and for an instant,
which seems stretched into eternity,
all those stars cease blinking,
and night turns to day.
And in that brilliant diamond world,
you'll live forever;
a star for stars.

Art I worthy of such privilege
To love thine true beauty?
For I'm but a humble stalk, my  
silent flower
aloft resplendent in a Sun beam
conferring meaning to life.

Alas! perfidious winds grieve
as a triste petal trickles
to the ground rent asunder
in the capricious hands of fate
I metamorphose to a sceptre  
you a jewel in its crown.

And it is in sight* -
a vision of the world through the eyes of one's soul,
rather than,
a vision of one's soul through the eyes of the world -

for those who -
imagine sunrise when all else see sunset,
are the ones,
who can turn the world up side down -

believe -
never give in and accrue wealth,
but set their mind free;
go out, and change the currency.

This beauty that we see,
of the future; how it can be,
and we want the world to know,
so we fight and die to show.
But a flower of genius must fall,
So the tree of wisdom may grow,
And soon in Spring,
its petals in wild winds will blow.
With a message:
No power can build walls so high,
that can stop the winds of change.

Calumny for extortion
Bias confirmation by distortion

Pitchforks and torches in the dark
The unleashed hounds of hell bark

Unbeknownst, the grievant scurried
Foremost the truth is buried

A self-righteous mob clamour,
incensed by allegations gossamer.

'Tis true, the devil dwells within
Pray who? 'em Beguiled by spin?

In introspection lies the key,
but they smash the door, to see

the ominous figure, in a hood,
is but a lover of faith, and good

actions in pursuit of greater good
are the easiest to be misunderstood.

But before the monster in defence spoke,
defiant torches took the house in smoke.

Midst falling cinders dawned comprehension,
blood scrawled: “it lies in self-ascension.”

Through the rejections and all the hate,
Just before your faith crosses the Pearly Gates,
Though allegedly claimed impossible by the Fates^,
taps you on your weary shoulder - "Hi,
could you help me, no one else is ...” -
the lonely voice of your soul-mate^^.

^Rumour has it those Greek hags have stock options
in the military-industrial complex, the cosmetics industry,
and favour Eris's 21st century avatar called Consumerism.

^^Your soul is not a super-market produce,
For feckless mass appreciation or consumption.
Your soul is a dauntless beautiful sapling, that
'the one' will rescue from its interminable fire,
and nurture it, till it blossoms and glows.

Such beauty I have seen,
That took the eyes of me,
And left me in its wake,
An unquenchable misery.

No birds in the canopy now sing,
No light of summer, No sound of Fall,
But a forgotten tomb; a sunken spring,
I crawl, awaiting Rejuvenation's call.

Standing resplendent in a baroque topiary,
Under a florid arbour as an arched canopy,
Her pulchritude in moonlight, is the plenary
Picture of, the muse, the Goddess Calliope.

My heart’s reminiscence of our first encounter,
Like a fragrance in my mind wafts around,
Whose Pareidolia in every-thing sketches her
Face, to which it is entirely spellbound.

Were the Fates to keep us apart,
As the sculptor Pygmalion I would be.
But Aphrodite won’t breathe life into my art,
For not my Galatea, I love my Calliope.

I am here to fight, until the end,
For the one thing, I think matters.
And all the while I watch around me,
My whole world of dreams shatters.

No matter how much, to yourself, you lie,
In the end everyone will surely die.
But the one who will be called above,
Is the one who chose to fight for love.

It matters not, how much pain you inflict,
How astute your spin, how sharp your wit.
And even though they may fail to infer,
To see past your smoke and mirror,

The one left standing in the end,
Is the simple one who would not bend.

Try and die,
Or,
Heed and succeed.

Where in either
does wisdom lie?

Do smarts give in,
Or,
Blindly vie.

Is it for all,
Or,
only for some.

This non-commodity,
called
Freedom.

It is not sold on Amazon,
Or
bid upon in Ebay.

Unlike a Ferrari,
no one looks twice
upon this ride
called Freedom.

It runs on blood
of patriots,
who saw the light.

Always picking up
hitch-hikers, carrying
someone else's baggage.

Hello! my love,
Won't you cruise
with me,
in my ride called Freedom.

This silence instils me with dread.
Perchance 'tis me, bereft of knowing ear.
Golden reciprocity; nought be said.
Would dialogue ensue, if thou art near?

'Tis insipid; moonless every night,
and empty; cloudless every day.
Black and blue; colours of plight!
Oh, hast thou nothing to say?

A silent whisper once graced my ears.
Sunrise over spans 'twas once frozen.
By who? The receding shadow disappears.
Why was it, that I was chosen?

In a surreal wasteland I awake;
every blinking star appears a ticking clock.
All space and time I'd forsake,
for the key to destiny that thine lips lock.

Knocking on heaven's door, questioning,
'twas her – my angel – that you sent?
Imploring the Fates; will she educe a king?
They reply: “the future is always silent”.

The signs above say:
“Feed not the caged doves.”
Fight the cage,
for their choice of freedom.
For if you have a heart that loves,
song of a caged bird will break it.

It might surprise you,
That your bird will despise you.
Both cage and you will together fall.
As you lie their battered, gasping your last few,
Your eyes shutting upon the sky, bright and blue,
She flies across them in freedom,
singing you gloriously to Elysium.

When speaking of prince charming,
The charming part is easy:
A disarming trap is simple to spring,
Shower 'em with summer's breath,
Until beguiled footsteps end in winter's death.
Entombed dreams are crowned with a ring.
In eternity, nymphs her sordid epitaph sing.

When speaking of prince charming,
The prince part is hard:
Helm the war for peace to the storm's eye,
Where Gods confess, that the angel's kiss,
The ambrosia which, the thirst for truth, slakes,
Is in the courage to stare into the abyss …
… for as long, as it takes.

A rousing inspiration, or
A peaceful repose?

The bugle at start of battle, or
The lyre at calm evening's close?

The mother of joy, or
The child of pain?

Only seen in sunshine, or
Only felt in rain?

To acquire and possess, or
Ephemeral, a lifetime's pursuit?

Perhaps 'tis sight to the blind.
Perhaps 'tis voice of the mute.

Demons of my past come and throng
My mind; query me of dreams forlorn:
“Isn't dwelling on redemption for the strong?”
But, I am a leaf on a rambunctious river, I reply,
My purpose is forever to be moving on.

Swept by wild winds off my grip on the tree,
Splash! Fallen! pressed on to the edge of me.
Flowing by, flowers and thorns, since I begun,
And though the current often swept me under,
I've always re-surfaced to look upon the Sun.

“But, life off the tree lacks meaning, dead wrong!”
“You may get swept to the wide open sea,
Or you might get struck in a forgotten billabong.”
Yes! Though perilous the Jungle may be
to the lone. I am still alive, and finally, forever me.

I wish I were her tear drop; to
Caress her face when she, is blue.
Wash the pane of her soul, and view
In her reflection, her beauty imbue.

I fall in her sight; though I try
To hang on her lips, they deny.
Unto the dirt, on my knees; still I vie,
For in love I've fallen; my home, her eye.

I wish they would see me; genuflect
and before she trod over me; reflect.