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Cyrus Gold Jan 17
Misplacin’ entitlement,
bannin’ visitation
Crime ridden, broken windows,
lack of education

Survive the death of the soul,
a sole survivin’ nation
Shatterin’ family cores
and forcin’ new displacement

Wanderin’ hand is a force
we simply can’t escape from
Evil is bought and endorsed
through coded conversation

Don’t be afraid to show emotion
when you least expect it
It’s simply proof of your devotion
doubt is intercepted

Minutes turn to hours
as I savor every part of you
Sharin’ in the power
doin’ favors just to start anew

Demons fly to start a feud
Easy just to call a truce
“Betray your excellence and
your defeat will surely follow suit!”

So keep your head up
Don’t you let up ’cause the city beckons
The hourglass has been broken
as hours turn to seconds

Just let it bleed
and cut the ties that are bindin’
Feel the size of the lapse and write
’til your thoughts are unwindin’

Lace your mind with your talent
watch how the synthesis rises
Paint the ink with your truth –
the one that your demon despises

Start your count from eleven, writer
It’s down to the wire
Final hour requires shunnin’
your pain to the fire!

(Crack the hourglass!)
Never take for granted a single minute
(Crack the hourglass!)
Spend your days ascendin’ beyond your limits

(Crack the hourglass!)
Don’t let a single second go to waste
Invest in your expression
Believe in yourself and keep the pace.
Cyrus Gold Jan 15
Held in place by an insatiable jolt, he heeds.
A feminine landscape, gracious in its bearing
and fiducial in character and grace,
commands the screen by way of a privileged audience.

Words of a genuine spirit are uttered,
producing a flavor of static serenity
potent enough to lead the meek away from sorrow
and into her pacifying warmth.

Majestic, both in name and persona,
normalized greys are cast aside
in favor of Kore’s illuminating, celestial sky.
Wrath disintegrates at her muted embrace and euphony.

William himself would reanimate
had life given him the gift of time
in servitude of the Priestess and her
tender and captivating adjudication:

“Et’rnity beest ****’d f’r having did produce an embodiment of majestic grace.”
Inspired by an online personality.
Cyrus Gold Jan 2018
I lay, of my own volition, in a space meant for her:
a confined and achromatic scene.
My hands, malodorous, muddy and splintered,
leisurely rest on my chest, free from labor machines.

Here I rest, hackneyed and discouraged
in a pitifully human attempt to simulate death
I curse my virtue; it chastises back as it
mourns the curious exploitation of my health.

It was meant to last only a minute,
as sorrow chains my putrid despair in place.
Yet I, to this day, cannot begin to explain
how the darkness manifested itself a face.

I attempted to strike a movement but remained still
as the daemon began to smile.
The plan was to endure without oxygen for seconds,
yet the creature stayed my conscience for a while.

In a surprising and trepid consternation,
I find myself in service to mendicancy.
The creature, a devil with venetian red oculi,
salivates at its newest and prized delicacy.

I cry at the fleeting mastery of my faculty,
yet the tears remain inattentive and departed.
Time blesses the creature with a dominant sentence
as reality registers a dialog that I had started.

“Where is my daughter? I demand to know.”
The creature’s smile grows ever wider.
He then takes the form of the stuffed turtle toy
that used to sleep right beside her.

The creature, in a droning and unmelodious voice,
utters a perplexing, yet commanding noise:

“ATIV ARETLA NI MAN ES ED OLEF”

Frightened yet discouraged, I aim to find the sense
in the puzzling command the creature produced.
“She’s been missing for days! I need to know where she is!”
The beast speaks again, letting its anger loose:

“FELO DE SE NAM IN ALTERA VITA!!”

Suddenly, albeit boundlessly, the stillness was lifted,
and my structure was free from this tenebrous stead.
I raise myself and clasp at the summit’s precipice
after having danced with a beast in this wooden bed.

The vacant coffin remained pristine,
fitted with natural calico cotton lining.
The devil you fear the most is the one you create
and mine emerged with impeccable timing.

The creature’s malevolent ballad persistently tattles
as The Lapse rebroadcasts the “truth” it wanted to utter.
It had told me, “Become a felon of oneself,
and thine own life shall be traded for another.”

I refuse to concur with the creature’s decisiveness
as my unyielding faith will ensure my daughter’s return.
Her weighty and boundless absence must cease
and lead to the terminus of my inexhaustible concern.
Tales from The Lapse - Entry I
Cyrus Gold Jan 2018
Lost in conversation at a party
with a friendly person
I ended up almost tardy
but the event was worth it

This woman older than myself
had lost her youngest son
He had a bout with depression
and used his father's gun

A teen that never listens
comes with the territory
Blamed herself for doing the same,
called it her "horror story"

A touch of blue hit her face
as she remembered his smile
Her hands continued to shake;
they had been for a while

It got me thinking quite a bit
of what we leave behind,
be they achievements or kin,
by them we are defined

We tell the world of our struggles
with words and demonstration
and teach the kids how to live,
preventing devastation

Our legacy will continue
past their life expectancy
and through the passage of time
raise their dependency

The stench of death is rotten,
but still our biggest fear to date
is living life to the fullest,
yet remaining forgotten

And not to mention
raising sons and daughters;
we do our very best to keep them
from the guns and slaughter

Living in the here and now,
ever considered a future
where your experience today
will tutor newer users?

So* leave your mark - *be it poetry, melodies,
artistry, pedigree, even guiding infancy or
serving in an infantry, believe in your legacy
You're remembered infinitely.
Cyrus Gold Jan 2018
I dream of* lovers
who fascinate me to no end,
veering the course of their affection
from something they understand exists,
to something that they fear to understand

I dream of
hearts
yearning for their better halves,
as they seep deeper into the very chasms
that engulf their intimacy within

I dream of
sinners
who do not wish to speak of sin;
rather the innocence of deviance
and its naiveté when it comes
to matters of the heart

I dream of
writers
who bleed from their pens
as they wholeheartedly express their emotions
and aspire to quell the heartache
that they endure every day

I dream of
innovators
who wish to present upon their peers
the next invention selected
to represent the advent of a better tomorrow

I dream of tears.
I dream of
tears....

Why? What sorcery forces one
to shed so many
that they leak past
the prisms of known consciousness
and into the peaceful slumber
that comforts aching minds?


I apologize.

Now you know of the dread, sorrow,
and sheer wonder that comes
when I dream of earthly elements
begging for peace.

I dream because I am a coward.
I apologize for
*dreaming.
Cyrus Gold Jan 2018
From the void that beckons,
we see that heaven's near,
but the darkness that engulfs us
keeps our cries from shedding tears

The rain would fall and cleanse the Earth
so the people praised it well
The castle walls had heard its song
right as midnight struck its bell

But when she cast infinity
the rain hadn't had its fill
so sadly clouds were forced to flee
yet the days grew* darker still

Pluck the wings of ravens
to prevent the coming flood
The ones who offer haven
let their fingers run with blood

The Court was born to trim the herd
who swear to Ravenswood
They seek the one ill-fated girl
to restore our land for good

'Cause when she cast infinity
the Earth was standing still
Her soul can harm eternity
as the days grow
darker still

Believers of their noble cause
shall be met with open arms
They only seek to halt the pause
by the grace of love and harm

Putrid souls are sacrificed
for the weakness that they show
The Court shall welcome crimson tides
as their looming shadows grow

'Cause when she cast infinity
it was nature that she killed,
but now the Court will set us free
Advent days are
*brighter still.
Prologue to a multi-part series I wrote.
Cyrus Gold Jan 2018
Puddles of exhausted days cleanse the Earth,
absent the promise of advent pain or joy;
greatness, humming its tune in a muted voice of desired power,
masquerades as a lone lily eagerly awaiting growth.

Once a maiden, borne of love and wanderlust, though
pierced by an agonizing reality synthesized from doubt,
now royalty, paving her path to ascension on slanted land
keen on ensnaring her under its shared deprivation,

yet she beckons! Her demons unfathomably whisk away;
nightmares suffocate within her potent cocoon,
and her bright soul illuminates the dawn that breaks.
Alexander shamelessly bathes in its everlasting warmth,

for dawn is absolute, thereby equal to her word.* **Consume it.
Dedicated to a close friend.
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