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Sam Winter Aug 2017
A laureate once wrote of how earth's pale history runs,
Equated it to "the trouble of ants in the gleam
Of a million million suns."

Frankl lived the **** curse, abused and almost killed;
Yet spoke of his countrymen's sins
As a father scolds food spilled.

I'll neither justify or condemn actions, many or the few;
My righteous judgement is saved for me,
What holiness have you?

Have you walked the steps of the Austrian man who took
Power to avoid abuse? Lived to love the torture
For which your fragile childhood shook?

What god or demon lifted you from the despair you only knew,
That you'd blindly follow - just for thanks -
Upon the corpses your hand slew?

Ideally, pundits and anchors both are true in what is spoken,
Yet only the blind, the deaf, and fools
Blame the builder for what is broken.

Instead of pallid horror...instead of prophesying to the doomed,
Maybe we can pause a second, take stock of all that's blessed,
And expend a little effort to leave callousness entombed.
Tennyson has left his mark upon me. What's the profit in arguing about vapid, pointless politics. when we have the power to change our outlook - and thus, our actions and impact - regardless of the circumstances?
Sam Winter Nov 2016
Ophelia, in her sorrow,
   Gone mad by love's own sin,
Felt oppressed and closely dressed,
   Clothed weightily in din.
She cried aloud, she wrung her hands,
   She cursed the thoughts she had.
She died inside as her own heart lied
   Telling her, "Be glad!"

What of gladness? Where's it put?
   When all you've wanted...lost.
What of smiles? What of joy?
   When scraps are all you're tossed?

No, my friends...onlookers, all;
   Safe within your crowd,
Look on again, I say, look on!
   And find what she's endowed.

She's taken the good path, my friends.
   She's done what all she could;
Met all her strife, and loss, and ends
   With all the maddened sorrow she would.

Envy her, my dearest ones;
   Envy her escape.
With all the madness that we wreak,
   Who'd scoff at madness' shape?

(c) Sam Winter, 2015
Sam Winter Oct 2016
Anesthetized and scoured clean, my mind reflects these halls
Of almost-forgotten ***** spills and madness within these walls.

Artificial sleep,
Restless, blood-shot pits;
Reflections, dark and hollow,
Echo visions in raving fits.

This place is said to heal - return sanity from whom it's fled:
Ammend the twisted, save the wretch, cauterize what's bled.
Sam Winter Feb 2016
Chaotic, I may seem; but you've witnessed all my game.
Yet, for all of my monotony, I never seem the same.
I shift within a void that slips between your thoughts,
Shifting voidless, namelessness; what you've tried to hide, I've sought.

I interrogate electrons skipping neuronic paths:
Unhinged and broken walls and doors that kept livid fear at bay.
Dripping Holy Water on evil dreams, giving steel acid baths,
Tinker, toy, explore, destroy; I'll find your "hidden away."

Disguised and masked, though they may be, the habits always show.
Through twist and turn your shadows burn, recoiling from the glow
Of a searching heart and reckless eye and selflessness below.
I've found you once, I swear to you; I'll hind again, I know.

Despise me all you want, retreat from ling'ring words,
In this knowing - of my doing - I've seen the truth behind the lies.
Flit about as you may, controlling thought like wild birds,
Someone taught a treacherous thing; and I'll break those ephemeral ties.
Sam Winter Feb 2016
D**id you know that when Ceres formed the moon, and hung it in the sky, it shone for you? That Apollo races his chariot across the skies because he wakes to see your face? When the seers see beauty in the bones and rocks, they see your eyes shine back at them. When the witch-men in the darkest, deepest parts of the jungle wish to bestow beauty on their callers, they invoke your name! When the Delphinewhi Oracle rocks her body, possessed with the wisdom of gods, she smiles savagely, and thanks Olympus for fashioning her in your image. When the roses blossom, and the honeysuckle blooms; when the violets show their beautiful dress, and the magnolia flaunts in the sun, they mimic you! When the lilies swim their graceful circles, and the snapdragon ushers forth it's sweet scent; when the lilac spreads its musk through my nostrils, or the dogwood dances in the wind, they devote their lives and beauty that it might stand in the shadow of your presence! Rocks crumble, and sands shift because they know you will need soft ground to tread upon. Thunders clap, and wild things wail because they envy any other that looks upon you but them! The stars themselves cast forth their light and burn themselves out because they know you will see their long-dead light, and appreciate their token of praise to you alone.

     Did you? Did you know that when Shakespeare wrote about his beautiful, mysterious woman, he thought of you? Did you know that when Horatio sung of woman's beauty, he had your face and figure upon his eyes? Did you know that when Beowulf slew the seven serpents, he fought them in your name? That Helen of Troy, and Cleopatra are your ancestors? That when Cockney resolved to fix the language he spoke, he did it in the endeavor to accurately describe your beauty?

     Alas, my littless, there is no man, nor beast, nor god that can comprehend your beauty. Save those you smile upon, all are lost in life, trying in vain to grasp the extent--the breadth and height and depth--of your immaculate form. Oh, if one could describe your smile, the earth would narry need the sun again! If man could describe the pools of color in thine eyes, man would be happy to look at a grey world to keep the memory of those prisms of light. If only one could touch you, caress the silk you wear for skin, he would be happy to never feel again....
Sam Winter Feb 2016
U**nder this gleaming metropolis of glistening soot and dusk-wrought neon where the glint of warped metals meshes with the matte stone of forgotten monoliths, alone among the smoking alleys at the feet of the colossi, where the refuse of life struggles to cling to its short existence – dug into the niche of mortar and debris…dies the man.

     Through blistered, twisted lips; across a swollen and useless tongue rushes the smog and ash of a moribund city. Among the remnants of plenty and bounty, surrounded by the epitaphs of hopes and dreams sags the flesh of a forlorn and desolate being. Behind the cold, grey lens – worn long thin by atrocity and anguish – falls the gaze of the wise embittered soul.

     Across the winding paths of debris and twisted shapes, stretched thin by lives too quickly used, that infinite, tired stare falls. Upon the familiar and torturous vista of rubble and decay and struggle, recognition bids its due; and acknowledgement greets this truth: “All I see before me – this dull, and sorrowful struggle – all I see will meet its end. What looms before my eyes and hides beyond…all will perish.

     “As my brother bloodies his nails against the façade and spills his passion upon false altars, he will seal his fate and his soul will know no rest. And my sister will cry alone amidst the vastness at the expanse she has yet to cross; and she will cross it still, until her bones crack and grate against the pavement…and yet, she will crawl until her life, too, is spilled to mark her passing. And I will stand where they have stood, and bear witness to the crimson testament of their stubbornness. And I will not grieve.

     “For I have left my warmth to false gods. I have marched upon the zenith. I have bore witness, and bathed in the sorrows of my fellows, and cried at the torment I have found, and stood among the jagged peaks – these headstones of steel and strife – and there have I known my purpose.”

     There amidst the cold, hallowed edges of night and eternal sleep, the man lies alone. Atop the bones of his life and his companions rests the weary traveller, where strength has no hold and pain has lost its fangs; where the zenith meets the twilight and the wound bleeds no more. For the march will end, and the worshipper will fall, and the ash and the light will mix with the hum and stench and all will be lost to the frail, last glimpse. And give way they shall as the man removes his sight from his dark and dreary life and looks upon the stars as they dance through the whisps and ghosts and whisper his name and beckon his soul, and usher his life from the stones.
Sam Winter Feb 2016
How high and mighty can I think I am?
How much more hurt must I feel to think?
How far I’ll fall to learn I am a man….
My head is wading, my heart’s begun to sink.

I’m optimistic before the cheery best,
I take every chance to laugh at the mundane,
I sing in joyous chorus for the rest,
And endeavor to assist my fellow’s gain.

My heart and will are stronger every way,
My mind and body are sound, and one,
But my heart is sore and aching every day
To keep a companion; not many as was done.

I know my youth is with me, still;
I fear no death nor strife.
But yearn no more for chaff and till,
I want myself a wife!

I want a friend to talk with,
I want to listen well,
I want to be admired,
Not ridiculed to hell.

I want a hand to hold,
Shoulders to wrap my arms around.
I want to babble onward, bold.
I want to touch without a sound.

I want companionship, not a friend,
I want passion, not puppy-love,
I want truth to never end,
And blessings from above.

Why’s it so hard to find a woman I can trust?
I’m going out of my mind with loneliness and lust!
I want to give away my heart, and never have to take it back;
But finding love seems like an art, and my supplies begin to lack….
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