Beauty! O Beauty!
Be you a woman
Whose skin be smooth and pale,
Yearning for a wave of joy
To wash over you tenderly?

And have you raven hair
To fill the night with envy?
I pray, Beauty, that you do.
O how wondrous it would be
To be utterly blanketed
Under the cloak of night
And vanish from beneath the sun!

And have you protean eyes
That shift in hue, I ask?
When sorrowful, I long to see
The halcyon eyes of a goddess
To inspire me with a gaze,
And when I have not a penny left,
I wish to look heavenwards
And see a sapphire pair
Glistening before me.

And be you timid –
A hare obscured in the grass –
Or be you bold –
A cat brushing his master’s leg?
If timid, then I shall seek you
With inviting arms and a smile.
But my search would be less arduous
If you were to be beside me.

But alas, I know you are no woman.
Beauty is far too divine,
For She is but the heavenly gold
That all seek merely to win.

This is why I now ask you,
Disciple of Beauty True
Who mirrors her every trait,
If I may worship Beauty
Through your very image,
Magnificent wonder that be.

The hammer and anvil,
My tools of Creation,
Have yet to serve their full potential.
Every day, I wield them.
From the depths of my heart and soul,
I muster the strength to forge.
The strength is abundant,
But such strength is thunder
Without proper restraint.

The fault is not my loyal tools –
Certainly not –
It is my own.
It is my hands –
My frail, limp hands –
Hands that can hold a gentle rose
Or caress a snow-white cheek.
Strength is unneeded there.
I am safe among the fields,
Comforted by the embrace of the flowers.

Every evening, I took a tulip
And by the stem, plucked it.
O, the beauty!
The beauty I held in my hands!
The same hands of Promethean might
Could too hold a budding flower.

But Master scowled at me.
He punished me for my hands –
My weak, pathetic hands.
“You must be stronger,” he barks,
“Lift the hammer above your head,
And bring it down with might!
Stoke the fire! Keep it burning!
You must be stronger! Keep working!”

My hands would burn, but still I worked;
Master’s words rang in my skull.
And how they would redden and swell!
With every blow, I yearned for the embrace again
As my gears clicked together
And the machine slammed the anvil.

One evening prior, I fled to the fields
And tried to hide from Master.
While among the tulips, I plucked just one,
And the stem broke in two,
Graying and withering.
Now a corpse in my hand –
Hand of iron and lead –
It is without purpose.
I searched for others to place in its stead,
But all wilted in the iron grasp.

Behold! And see, my friends! ‘Tis me,
Your knight of shining might!
The hero, the savior, and might I add,
The victor of many a fight.

But I regret my quota is set.
My fate may be too great,
All maidens saved, all dragons slain.
There is no one left to sate.

“So I leave at once, at last relieved!
My steed is all I need,”
Said I not half an hour before
The dire call to heed.

He ran about, a gentleman stout.
He said, “’Tis what I dread!
My cat, I fear, has climbed a tree,
A tree just overhead!”

With lightning speed, I left my steed.
With glee, I slammed the tree.
The oak did shake, and the cat did drop.
Hard? I disagree.

Further forth, I reached Far North,
A town so well renown.
There, a girl beckoned and said,
“That boy there stole my gown!”

With hefty sigh, I did reply,
And found the thief unsound.
He found himself within a cell.
‘Tis why I’m so renowned!

And as I rode along the road,
I met a widow beset,
Beset by hordes of harmless hares.
She feared the furry threat.

Hesitantly, I helped, you see,
And shooed the hares’ adieu.
She thanked me so, but I cared not,
For tired of this I grew.

And on my horse, I heard, of course,
A speech to me beseeched.
I rushed to the aid of a man who said,
“Open this can o’ peaches.”

“Egad! “ I yelled, “You’re hopping mad
Bar none! Why, everyone!”
I shan’t go on! Certainly not!
My work is said and done!”

A large mob came, cried my name,
And prayed I’d come to aid.
I did refuse, and while I slept,
I saw not the dragon’s raid.

I saw the town a crispy brown
And shrugged with smile smug.
“T’was not a very memorable sight,
But its beds were rather snug.”

I called my steed of noble breed.
“Stew, there’s much to do!”
But I heard not a whinny back:
The dragon ate him too.

Days pass like winter winds,
But memories of ****** sins
Of prisoners mine forever live
So long as I shan’t forgive.

IN HOC SIGNO VINCES

Atop a bench of elm,
The throne that rules this realm,
I, judge and jury, tread
The path of justice dead.

IN HOC SIGNO VINCES

A soul, grieved and daunted,
By malediction haunted,
Shall drop before me, praying,
Whilst I lean in, saying,

IN HOC SIGNO VINCES

“He is not I. Silence
Your foolish pleas of guidance.”
“I beg!” he shall say, “Save me!”
“Nay,” I shall say, “no mercy.”

IN HOC SIGNO VINCES

His penance I shall write,
And with eyes blank as night,
The soul will gaze, pleading,
With eyes he shan’t be needing.

IN HOC SIGNO VINCES

Their prison is not a cell
So solace cannot dwell;
Their fate: a wall of stone
Where they shall hang alone.

IN HOC SIGNO VINCES

I shall place his wrists in chains
Though I have not the reins
To latch his iron locks:
He bound himself to the rock.

IN HOC SIGNO VINCES

With a cry of a thousand woes,
A coal black mass of crows
Will swarm the soul to feast
And eat the morbid beast.

IN HOC SIGNO VINCES

After which, I shall call;
A soul shall approach the wall.
He shall gaze upon my empty face
Praying for fickle grace.

IN HOC SIGNO VINCES

Pray as he shall, no salvation
Follows recitation,
For I alone decide
How far from the path he strides.

*IN HOC SIGNO VINCES

In the comfort of blackness,
Beneath a veil of wool,
And with eyes without duty,
The symphony of night fades away
Like limestone in fiery rain.

And as I fall into a sea of darkness,
My eyes, still without purpose,
Grace me with fantastic apparitions,
And I hear whispers that echo in the void.

And within my weightless head,
The tumultuous gears and cogs
Grind and turn with speeds unheard,
And in the clockwork, a single spark
Flies from the iron machinery.

The spark is an entity of many names.
It is often a bonfire where tales
Of phantasmagorical beings and
Phenomenal landscapes are told.

There are times, however, when the spark
Takes a different name:
Inferno, a terrible creature
That destroys all life it touches
And ravages Nature’s beauty.

It is a dark roulette at times,
And though I know I cannot revel
In evening’s dusk eternally,
I now dread the blackness,
For fear of Inferno’s wrath.

Joy Kogawa’s Obasan,
Vonnegut’s Cat’s Cradle,
Fitzgerald’s Great Gatsby,
The Ninja Handbook…?

Dalai Lama’s Open Heart,
Haddon’s Curious Incident,
Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment,
Brook’s World War Z…?

The Life of Adolf ******,
Crichton’s Terminal Man,
e.e. *******’s poems,
Jon Stewart’s America…?

Dante’s Divine Comedy,
Leonard’s Rules of Writing,
Poe’s Complete Tales and Poems,
Book of Useless Information…?

Smith’s Junk English?
How to Lose a Battle?
The Ultimate Guide to Spider-man...?
I’m beginning to have my doubts…

Maiden, maiden
With locks of hazel
And skin of pearly white,
I beckon you, dearest beauty.
I present to you a rose.

But what is this?
The rose does wilt,
As if smothered by winter’s grasp.
Had I not plucked it a moment ago?
What spell or trick is this?

If only I were to see your eyes,
The eyes of an angel fallen.
I beseech to you vulnerably,
Yet your eyes never stray from your lap.

And what purpose do you have
On that boat in placid waters.
I pray, come, my pet,
For these mists are friends foremost
And undertakers in due time.

And yet not a word has escaped
Your rosy lips, fairest maiden.
‘Tis silent as death, this marsh.
I doubt your senses are dulled.

You hang your head as a holy sister,
But in mourning or not, I am unknowing
Speak of your pain, and I shall remedy;
Your wish is all I require.

Still, my lady, your voice is unheard.
To heal a foreign wound would be, at best,
Foolish, but perhaps, with your invisible lyre,
I can ascertain what is needed:
You, my delicate flower, can be saved
If you, in turn, save me.

I was blind before but not now.
No doubt, my lady, the frill of your dress
Reigns above all else, the grains of wood
On the boat’s hull is what you fancy most.
I see it now, true as every morn’s dawn.

Before my eyes this very moment,
I see but a mirror, and on the other side,
True beauty, beauty admired from a far,
Beauty to tease the poor souls who reach
And wish for something more than frigid glass.