Dream the dreams of dreamers.
But.
Do not leave them that way.

You can not keep them happy.
They wish to tell the deaf,
how to listen.

The Ghost of Sparta,
does not hide in the shadows.
As the founders do.

He lives in the flames disjointedly.
The rest dream.

GRAHAM MURPHY

I stood in the riverbed.

Watching the sun rise.

The sound of the birds so simple.

The flicker of feathers and sunlight.

I wept for what seemed the first time.

I held the earth in my hands.

But, now did not feel the need to join it.

Instead I let it drip between my fingers.

And deny the tool of Dusk.

My tears told the tale,

of what lies ahead.

Watching as the sun goes down.

And the day begins.

GRAHAM MURPHY

Eating toast in bed.
The tasty crumbs never leaving my lips.
Savoring the buttery taste.
After breakfast I went to stand outside,
in the morning heat.
So strange.

A light rap on the door.
My mother goes to answer it,
Oblivious to the strangers news.
The young ones are in the front room.
Their clucking kept me up.
She came back crying.
My father had fallen.

GRAHAM MURPHY

Soft kisses.
Who could have thought to be so aggravating?

Death never watched the Spartans.
I feel, as Brutus did, stuck in Gaul!
And Caesar's words do not convince me to stay.

His words are poisoned with too much thought.
My own carry on the wind...

Maybe...
Maybe a distant ***** shall hear them.
And save herself from a life of,
pleasurable misery.

Alpha-centauri does not concern itself with
these matters.
So neither will I.

GRAHAM MURPHY.

There is trouble in Paradise.
While the Madlands seem unscathed.

Those scholars were smart.
They should have known better.

Now we are left to smash it.
And I couldn't wait.

An age old question to be answered.
I want to find a new place.

I shall become stardust
and rid myself.

This plague.

GRAHAM MURPHY

This, this ogre.
He is quite stupid.
I can learn from him.

The philosopher thinks too much.
He wears his soul on his sleeve.
And sees clouds in July.

My shepherd knows nothing.
Still tries to preach.

Tries to preach about
otherworldly beings.
While the ogre is content.

I can learn from him.

GRAHAM MURPHY

Its beauty,
is its stillness.
With the long grass hiding it,
the serpent is hidden.
Waiting.

The drum of its heart is,
ever present.
Those venomous eyes.
Spearing the skin of me.
I bleed to a symphony of suffering.


How inquisitive!
Have they no secrets?
Have the not murdered, themselves?
They cannot grasp the tarnished gold.
They are too good neighbors.

Ink spills the parchment,
as red as roses in the midst of war.
My life is unwritten as two.
Then they offer me water,
with the ripeness of poison.

GRAHAM MURPHY