Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Nov 25 · 27
St. George
Pasquino Nov 25
If I walk through towering books
with marble busts that sneer at them,
and if I ***** hardened walls
laced with Greco-Roman stars,
and if I keep my lance lame
and shield away from prying looks,

And if the only guard I keep
is that of my heart, bleak
and torn by Eden’s beasts
kept awake by night and charred,

If I raise the stone but keep back Raphael
and never let you hear the bobbling bells
that drive men mad and move my hands
to endless bend of bleeding maps,

If I can sing no anthem
though my throat aches
to shout loyalty chants,

If I can wave no flag
though my back demands
a heraldic honor sign,

If I can’t pray to God
though my knees do beg
to fall on wretched ground,

If I see gods dance around the room
like specters, and my patron’s ghost
is held by lusting shades that roam
and long for light that oft’ engrossed,

How am I to arm my heart in steel?
How am I to face the sea, and rain
and snow that burns with azure hue
and crackling light that bleeds blue?

Why does so easily my guard now break?
Why does my grip now lose its strength?
Why do the empty blows now strike
and injure past my plates and spikes?

What do I have, now my faith
in godly love is compromised?
Lace my chest with Paul’s command
and ****** the world upon my hand.

Let Corinthian designs show
the freedom I possess,
and my service and noblesse.
Nov 1 · 46
Untitled
Pasquino Nov 1
If someone will remember us
then I wish it would be now.
But, who am I to ask if most,
even Byron, fate allowed
to slip away in life–
but, maybe, I just might.  

If someone will remember us
I hope they know the words
and the blood that flows in
and out their burrowed sin.
Or will my work forever be
the subject of a lost decree?

If someone will remember us
I wish it were you who understood
the lines of this gushing sun
that burns in paper clues.
But your eyes glaze, o muse.
Pasquino Oct 31
I rap my knucklebones against your gate.
I pound and hound at the beloved frame.
And you, Lord, better let me through, lest I nail
your word past Luther’s song and Pontious’ bail.

Bronzen hammer and bronzen stake
and bronzen words that you embrace,
and the servant saint’s toil to beat
to fit your ghastly, phony wreath.

You didn’t answer then, princely lord;
you didn’t think it necessary.      
So now, the decades past and borne
have brought necessity for Mary.

I enter vestibules of doubt for you.
I chase the threads of fate to hang in might
your soul on bronzen razors, old designed
but, invoking justice, again are sharped.

What happens to the man that lies?
what happens to the lord that cries?
what happens to the christ that bleeds,
and those soldiers, martyred beasts?

What is truth, and do you dare look
towards the lines yourself, godhead?
And, tell me, is the pain of love
your cursed making or my own?

Hear the trumpets of judgment’s call,
Ozymandias, hear those thundering bells
that call all men to liberty
and rage the sword of possibility.

Dear old friend, now I wield the word,
and you’re the serpent in my soul.
Arrived the archangel of Heraclitus
now to brand your throne superfluous.

The men whose knees you bent now haunt
your halls of marble and replace
the cross with Greco-roman taunts
you so often thought were base.

You won’t enjoy a decayed death
but perish through my bronzen steel.
Cups raise the wine-blood for good health
and celebrate the ending of your will.
Oct 31 · 38
A helpful contempt
Pasquino Oct 31
Hold back your stream, no water shall flow.  
Tis' not fit or august that you know    
that this ghost-prince, whose realm is lost,  
is nothing but a trembling boy.

The Autumn rain showers on your head
but won’t wash away the holy oil
which marks the lamb of magnanimity–
none can deny thee the hallowed bread.

The dew, which bleeds down your scourged arm
like mad rivers marching off to war,
now tenders with its cold your hand,
that, shaking, grasps the bronzen wand.

You light the Roman furnaces to bake
the ancient meal of Plato’s christ.
Be it on mighty courts or slaver's gate
the breath remains in you alight.
Oct 30 · 40
Blanket Love
Pasquino Oct 30
Just for once it won't be
a ghost Aeneas lunges for,
but Creusa he embraces
drunk with darling warmth.

And maybe, just tonight,
you get to rest your head
and lie with mine in bed.
And babe, if only I could
I'd hold you ever tight.

I'd shoot a prayer,
for only then I'd pray,
that you knew I love you.
Oct 30 · 26
Latin Vows
Pasquino Oct 30
What if there are gods?

Then, in heavenly a church, I'll testify
that she had the most divine charm
and my devotions so are justified
which true religion loved firsthand.


If we are atoms in the void?

Then she willed with human fury
in me a demiurgic noble goal
to love her– there is no more worthy
object of attention for my soul.


If the cities are to fall?

None would matter to my mind
that marvels at the wondrous storm
that brews within your eyes, alight!  
Precious stars my firmament transform.


And I now gaze at the azure might–
for no sideral beauty can compare,
and none can undo me like your sight
saturated with the wine of love most rare.
Pasquino Oct 30
It is the stars that bear witness
of loving words pronounced
under that hallowed firmament.

Be it tempest or stormy rounds
we steadfast still embrace
under starry skies unbound.

There is no hell Dante could raise
that would prompt me to leave
those eyes divine I face.
Pasquino Oct 30
I've read the tales of people
devoted to a cause
that marked their lives
and changed their minds
forever, and for now.
St. Augustine and Aeneas
renowned for piety
and Socrates to holy voice
would follow and would ask.
But pity I'm consumed by
for men of abstract sights.

Of beauty I see wonders,
Of laughs, I hear divine.
Of fiery soul and potent song
I have the right to brag.

Would they think of you a god
or beautiful a muse?
With pity I'm consumed  
for them of other times.
For they would never see your eyes
and know what is divine.
Pasquino Oct 23
The summer air by the true cross
the sweetened stench of the petrol
of cars that speed by the main road
as I glance at the stock of his gun.

The sun rises on our most Serene,
A knock-off post-Colon Venice.
And I see the bodies in the streets
as they laid a hundredth years ago,
they lay now on the pavement floor.

And, you see, I never saw the end
of this maddened caustic gun.
But my dynasty is bleeding gold
and it’s only days before we’re gone.

But where to go and where to flee
and who to trample over need?
Watch these burnt-out Medicis
Invoke their God out overseas.

The crown of gold is never torn
and never comes to temples thorned.
You saw the family chapel forged
on backs of men with future’s scourged.

And never did you say a thing
about these patrician Latin habits.
You never were someone to refuse
the sublime charm of Roman marble.
Oct 1 · 172
Roman Prayer
Pasquino Oct 1
Though the fingers that anoint
my face are gone from here,
my own remain to point
my way across this hall of fear.
Oct 1 · 41
Procession
Pasquino Oct 1
The bagpipe paints out air with the brush of solemnity.
A robe showers my shoulders with flimsy cardboard history.
The professor maintains a liquid courage
on a desert of dispersed eyes and glistening rage.

polliceor me legibus pariturum, traditionesque

How would they know the procession is sadly
a passing fold across our eyes?
Except they told us well before, madly,
This would make for warmer sights.

meliores eius culturum, ita ut praeceptis eius

They insist on a flag bearer to produce
who will shining ensigns bring for Zeus
and bend to chains of golden foiled community
and yield to insulting cries of unity.

fuerit per reliquam vitam procuraturum.

I shall be your enemy then,
without a banner to rally behind.
If it takes a ram to see the light
I will tear your walls ornate.
Oct 1 · 39
Trojan Burial
Pasquino Oct 1
Ai, Ai, Aiax–
so thunders on across the field!
into these hands
shivering through my copper ring.

Do my brightened eyes
that see the snowy lights
dance across with might
like his when sad he died?
Pasquino Sep 3
In an ocean of ink, my iris shines
like a lantern– illuminating threads.
I tug at the grandeur of the holy vines
amazed to learn her word unlocks the webs.
Pasquino Sep 2
Anointed eyes by loving lips
that set ablaze my trembling sight.
Under a chapel of ice-cold stars
I marry what is only fit through Antigone.
Pasquino Sep 2
The incense of your tongue lights my eyes
that gaze above to starry lines          
and grapple with their plan divine          
that plays ripples throughout July.
Sep 2 · 78
Atlas Murmurs
Pasquino Sep 2
Hope is for farmers and the peasant poor;
for idiot poets, thinking of the green,
who can not see the logic web beneath.
See him tangling at the silver strings
taking note of how they quiver by design.
Except, there seems to be a lack of law
besides that of nature’s axiomatic hand–

If there is no dribbling fingers meddling
across the stage directions of Eden,
then there is no one to anoint me
with oil of Roman equinimity.

Stupid words
and stupid rhymes,
and stupid thoughts that keep the lines;
stupid fate that clocks the hour,
and stupid gods that rip my lyre.

I will roll up pages into a crown
of the only words I can stomach now.
My Platonic diadem will set free
this jester-king to keep his lonely guard.
Pasquino Aug 9
It came to me at night
an odd little hellish light
not unlike the circling sprites
that roam around this time.
Relampago!– tolls the bell
and tempts to let me sell–
which the spirit, with a spear
and with Roman strength, will tear.

But he remains– with a grin and mocking
knowing that the contemplation’s tempting
beyond any pathetic pleasure you have seen
or any fear of repercussion by Athene.

Tonight it’s all decided, tonight I make my choice
and rid forever cowardice out my emptied voice.
F*ck your philosophizing and the demonic will
that keeps me within this moralizing standstill.

Please forgive me, wisest princeps!
Haunt me and burn my eyes with incense
We never need them anyways
to write our thousand lonely essays.

A thousand lonely essays-
a sea of ink-blood flows
before I shake the evil hand.
Fine– take it all, all the pain.
all the rhyme
all
reason.
All is worth a moment where I know
We are safe– bluest
are we safe?
Reason
and rhyme will
evaporate (tonight) now that I have struck? The
deal.

The deal, dear? my dear, fear!
For his firm grip still keeps me in check.
Doesn’t it, dearest dreadful princeps?
Pasquino Aug 8
Stay around the fire to hear my tale
and don’t be distracted by the petals
whose primal, defiec, and sharpened gales
we tame to expunge our thoughtful devils.

Clever little evils, lonely little devils!        
Greek, apocalyptic– they choose the black of night
to ask me “how?” and “why?”, leaving only letters
I learn again to rearrange without my sight.

Lo, lonely little devil that I am!      
Though sweet spoken, don’t trust any old hag
who would make you think about the poetry of a flame  
before sharing the promised ale they struggle to reclaim.
Pasquino Aug 8
Here's to the West! Our song we raise
to dreamers and thieves in search of a rephrase
of the lies that we had all rehearsed–
Our hearts while life doth last will look farther away.

Vivat libertas! Freed from the gold,
lest their groveling crowns come knocking down our door.

And I did not knew it then,
but in its last bastion I slept.
Nowhere left to run– 
resounds the fired gun.
Aug 2 · 53
Mr. Time
Pasquino Aug 2
Mr. Time wacks your feet with his stick      
Wack, wack, wack! Oh dear, don’t be mad.    
Be grateful he keeps all the clocks running    
which spin and slip and keep your soul churning.

Slippery Time, I’ve forgotten to call you– Mister.
But your tick tock, click clock– chop chop!        
No, Time? In time! To process your own twister.    

Mr. Time reminds you to breathe  
and that each exhale bequeaths  
the seconds you could spend      
what can not extend.
Pasquino Aug 1
When Thanatos comes knocking down my door
I’ll tell him, “Sir, let me get off my floor,
for when I heard your icy steps my way
I had to sing and dance the night away.
And, now I can’t get off my floor
on which I stumbled down to roar
drunk with laughter and a jolly spirit
that my fathers told me would inhibit
your wretched bony hands that hesitates
now that it has seen me in such a state.”

Oh, you’re so shy pathetic dearest death
that you can’t stand my cheery jovial breath,
or so I tell myself, like my father did before me–
what a clever little lie we tell that I’ll refuse to see.

I see,
I’m so scared.
Jul 28 · 39
Freedom Road
Pasquino Jul 28
We’re the heirs of revolutions
that birth hollow constitutions;
the liberators of people
that remain in faithful steeples.

In the cities that we walk around,
steadfast, sickly, crumbling to the ground,
know it’s a feudal drum that keeps the beat
under our mocking skies and ***** beach.

And some will dance along the boring night
because they know their singing drowns the blight.
But, some can’t ignore the nightly spewing lights
and know that dreaded blight holds its breath tight.

And so they make their way down freedom road
because they know their bronze could fast erode,
and not a future could they hope to see
where brutal reigns will not allow the free.

If Fascism means war, then incompetence, migration.
We lay at mercy of a hundredth men with no imagination–
they plot and scheme and become rich beyond our comprehension
and sell our souls to ***** lords for profit and salvation.

And so we make our way down freedom road
because we know our hopes could not evolve
in some such a place with haunting beauty
but with a republic awfully fruity.

We step past those we’ve left behind
whose life may not have mercy lights
and who we leave to sing and dance
muzzled and veiled around their eyes.

The boots I have I did not work for,
and the food inside my gut is not my own,
and the bodies cry out– lucky *******!
as I make my way down freedom road.

And some have made it to square,
and some of them were born in there
who, though our burdens share
of outrageous fortune’s wear,
can know at least they are free
and that much we who walk can see.
Jul 13 · 42
Literary appropriation
Pasquino Jul 13
Out my window, I smell the ****** air–        
the sound of reckoning is all but fair        
now that the ocean rises at our gates        
at which we have surrendered all our fates.    

This world could burn for whole nights over,    
and I’d still need a life and a lover.         

When multitudes of passion flood my room,      
with the horrible bleeding hymn of gloom      
of disenchanted grievous jacobins,            
I have to set my sights on righteous sin.    

The red rose in my lapel gets younger,        
but I still need a life and a lover.          

And weary I tread on the doubtful path        
of godless, hopeless, and uncertain math      
and of principles that tell me nothing        
of the way I should or could do something.    

They can tear my chimes of lightened copper,  
but I’ll still need a life and a lover.          

But, fortune truly knows no solid bounds,        
dearest, because tonight I hear the sounds      
that let me know I've got the best of both        
of that which lends me life and gives it worth.  

They exist not one without the other,            
my wonderful life and darling lover.
Jul 7 · 38
Commentary
Pasquino Jul 7
Now that my lire’s frame is worn and proud,
and its strings ragged thin by wielded sound,
and that my lips, not sealed with jealousy,
are free and spewing cantos furiously–

Now that the Delphic takes his rightful place
among the clouds of self and keeps the pace,
and that the rotting horrid feasting sounds
are heard, but distant, in that saddened town–

Now that I can see the blue clearly in the sky,
and that its lovely breeze sets ablaze my skin
when the godly lips rest upon my own at night
to tell me truth with gasping melodies therein–

Why is it not peace I find,
but a tattered trite thwarted rite
that I just can’t seem to complete
fated to lovingly repeat?

The ritual spilling of my ink
is but a tired bitter mix
of what I like and what I need.
Exhausted, jet–black ale I bleed.
Pasquino Jul 4
Can you leave the battlefield behind?
My-my! for now, the jester will try.

But the saber and shield follow you close
and the sadist’s thirst will always come near–
now your ridiculous fittings are loose
when the chill of fear now comes to ******.

Can you leave the far-off shores behind?
My-my! for now, the poet will try.

But names of forsaken comrades expose
Your phony and slow written lines, my dear.
No matter how much you pose as a bard
we can all read the address on your card.

Can you leave your very own self behind?
My-my! for now, the wanderer will try.

Now comes the final challenge to oppose–
this vessel which you continue to steer
must brave through callous a tempest to fade,
never dead, but to suffer a sea-change.
Jul 1 · 36
Noah's Ark
Pasquino Jul 1
The church bells call for my betrayal
and the downfall of my quiet ways      
that I don’t deserve or ever earn.    

So they jingle for despair            
and they jangle for my fear          
and they’re roaring for my fall      
and the whip that never reached.      

And their murderous ring              
will never cease to sing              
of my youthful disasters              
that insist on being recanted.      

But I know to run than to believe    
in justice for my skin and bone      
that know too well the awful scenes  
where judges much too often stone.    

And so my selfishness returns,        
gone after I had lost my youth,        
to lead me through the toils and turns    
towards the mount of free-speared truth.

And though I may never make it
to that odd and wholesome land,
I will walk the paths of myth  
to leave behind the motherland.

So, when you pour and ask me what I seek
know it is liberty I run towards      
and away from the horrid putrid reek      
of my lonesome horrid trotting tracks.

I’ll throw away my sacred rules          
If I could get to start anew–        
no talking of deserving now              
but a steady walk towards the beacon.

So point and fire your gun to guide–    
Show me light, so I bleed out for freedom.
Jun 22 · 142
Dear Old Spirit
Pasquino Jun 22
The Daemon comes at morn
like the gadfly of the hill
to scrutinize my questions
and to reap complacent seams.

The Daemon comes at day
When the church bell swings for them
and my lover steals a kiss
from demiurgic starved lips.

The Daemon comes at night
when my brow is meant to rest
and my thoughts are running wild
with dilemmas of the mind.

The Daemon comes to me
with a loud and roaring scream
tells me softly of the lights
blazing around my caverned sights.
Jun 22 · 551
Prospero
Pasquino Jun 22
“And I’m almost there– I’m almost there”
wouldn’t it be a shame if they died then,
wouldn’t it be perfect for the script
if they collapsed without air or prayer?

“But, I feel some pain– I feel some pain”
wouldn’t it be a shame if it swelled then,
wouldn’t it be perfect if the dagger slayed
and they cried out in the pouring rain?

Oh, dear architect– dear architect
what an odd and sad masque you play.
Your poetry and lonely sights
have brought on your own despair.
Jun 13 · 39
Re(s)publica
Pasquino Jun 13
In this land of blight, you promised me my soul        
In this world of lords, you promised me a home  

Why do I find an incision at my feet
and an AK-47 at his reach?              
Why do I find him entrapped in screens    
that show darkness unlike that we’ve seen?    
Why does the flag reek sick with blood  
of bodies left behind the road?        

You left me in a rotting land        
where vino is blocking out the light      
and in the frenzy of the fight      
and at the height of Bacchanalia          
I tore poor Orpheus’ mind, off-hand.      

God, what have I
what have I done

The terrible party is done.
And the wine-blood beaten and wrought
to ink that keeps me from distraught;
In coming nights– et regina.
Jun 13 · 39
Canto
Pasquino Jun 13
The bard sings quietly into the night
he doesn’t whisper, he doesn’t cry.
The bard asks questions up to the sky
and paints a picture, and writes a rhyme.
The bard strokes the lyre for the moon
a soft motif, a gentle tune
a sacred ritual, a lonely rite
that burns the remnants of that frenzied night
of sun possession, and godly spews
that threaten to taint all his views.

He takes the ember, he takes the fire
and he forces the ink to a line
a line of power, a line of hope–
maybe it was worth the pain after all.
Jun 10 · 30
(A) Longing Liberation
Pasquino Jun 10
I still freeze when she kisses me,
and melt down to nothing but a bliss—
so I hold tight, and I know still:
I love her; no apology.

Muse, with a touch you break me down,
and crumble walls of apathy—
you leave me with no cape or crown,
but longing for analogy.

Your kiss, my dear, unchains my chest
that is now nothing but a mess
which now can breathe— expectantly.
A second kiss, when will it be?
Jun 6 · 70
Loving words
Pasquino Jun 6
If we are destined to live alone then you and I are the exception.
No pretense of total understanding or immortal souls completion–
something more human, sacred, lovely lurks between our quiet words.
Knowing that, while with eyes we see and pulse we hold, we won’t be on our own.

But, if my heart doth last no more or to a strange land I am flown,
lover live on with this comfort,
my love doth live on for you with ink for blood and prose for incantation.
May 23 · 735
Tell me about Penelope
Pasquino May 23
The strings of my lyre I gently pluck.
To the moon I sing my saddest ballad
and pray it brings me news, with any luck,
of a queen alone across the canal.  

“Please tell me if, my love, it hurts tonight
or if she is dancing without me?
But either way I’ll weep; I’ll write a line,
another mirage short-falling from her sea”.

I’ll be ****** if, for me, she lights the pyre
and in saddest ritual burns her hands trying.
No word I’ve ever spoken, or ink I’ve put to paper
was ever worth a tear from bluest ocean’s labor.

I’ll slay gods and swim across the Aegean
If I get to kiss your hands to health, protean.
May 11 · 48
Worship
Pasquino May 11
Will you leave me behind?
My god, will you leave me
even if I bow and curtsy
will I need to prostrate
for you to stay with me?

The declaration bites me back–
a false prophet I am called,
but was I really wrong? No.

A saddened god, a distant god.

When my prayers are not enough
and my worship insufficient
for your heavenly affection
to point at my weary head–

A loving god, a god of warmth.

But I keep coming back for more
the ambrosia from your brim,
and daily bread at the altar
(always a little stale).
I know your devotion remains,
It's mine the inadequate love.

My god, say, will you stay
even as this fades away,
and a better worship comes along?

Will my hymn be sufficient
for the olympian to remain?

Could it be I kept you here
when you belonged elsewhere?
Is the mountain worth my prayer?
Feb 19 · 253
Eulogy
Pasquino Feb 19
In a mysterious shroud, I find you
without recollection, I now come
with an honest song, to bid adieu.

But when I smell the burning oil
a gentle fear does creep on me
of fights we wage and lifelong toil
that leads to nowhere but the soil.

The ballad caught up with you and in the endnotes
no fuel is left, but neon glowing posts
of a far unknown life, to my belief,
reduced to nothing but a universal grief.

your loss demands a modest rhyme of words  
and an impossible reprise at most,
which will remain forever out of grasp–
a vital mystery unsolved by us.
Feb 18 · 82
Melancholia
Pasquino Feb 18
It’s been a year since I’ve had a home
and the city that I used to call my own
slowly melts away through the tip of my tongue
–remembrances that once were
from someone who is now dead.
No time to mourn the bus stop.
No ode is sung for the coffee shop.

But, should we only remember grand design
and cast away the quieter signs,
shards of time that illuminate the night,
which keep us ember company through our time?

It’s been a year since I’ve had a home,
but the remnants of it do still glow
and like golden ale, they warm my soul
’til their light expires, glowing for me nevermore.
Feb 17 · 348
Lovely night
Pasquino Feb 17
The summer night air crept on us;
the seconds past, superfluous.
Between the laughter and the chat,
a soft blue– matte.

And a million thoughts come to mind,
like passion fits or grand design.
But, they fall short in theory,
lovely glory.

What perfect occasion– alive,
and, forever the present, the drive
for one more minute, one more night–
gladly, thus I write.
Pasquino Jan 13
though just a single name you bear,
you’re faceless with a thousand eyes–
you’re lovers of a shameless prayer
and blameless of a thousand lies,

you will never be aware
that I not plot against your name
and in grand communion swear
dissent from sad and hope-sparse place.

And, if I’m not to leave these shores,
I’ll break and burn your flag
with horrid mortal cry–
yours dies with mine!
Jan 2 · 181
True Religion
Pasquino Jan 2
Bless you, young wandering poet–
to know she was, as are most,
worthy of apotheosis
and yours the honor to bestow it.
The command of words you boast,
though no ink could oppose hypnosis
which struck your lyre’s notes then spoken
to none– be mute, thy lips are broken.

Bless you, foolish lover of the wild–
to know no greater expression
than those of simile and reprise.
Burn the heretics away, ye helpless child!
And make way for the godly procession
that bleeds and laughs before your most pious eyes.

And, pity you most have for her.
Thy goddess is nothing less
than the mortal frame that lies besides.
Could only mutable imperfection give off such godly warmth?
Jan 1 · 211
Northern Fields
Pasquino Jan 1
Perhaps I should have stopped.
The heavenly fields called me then,
and could have been my resting place
of final peace gratified.

And perhaps I could have stayed myself–
and be spared of metamorphosis
that excommunicated all my ink.
Nothing left.

Perhaps I could have been me.
So that at least then  
I’d known I was free.  
Now nothing but punishment remains.

But I remain– nihilo– for now,
and waiting, hopeful for the next bow
of creation, somehow.
Dec 2020 · 162
Circular waiting
Pasquino Dec 2020
I’ll admit, the quiet gets to me–
among a crowd or busy street
when I realize I’m standing here
and it'll be some time ‘till we can meet.

I’ll admit the quiet gets to me.
Through day and night, it just won't stop–
but I would hope they could just see,
I’m on my own, and so is she.

I’ll admit the quiet gets to me,
But a text’s “ding” snaps me back to life
and yet a part of me is still weak.
The waiting drags on– unequal strive.

And yet, I would wait my whole **** life
just to be with you the day I die.
Dec 2020 · 470
Orion
Pasquino Dec 2020
The gleam in their eyes,
broken.
Shattered into a million glints,
morphine.

The calm to their stormy minds.
Shards of fire make constellations:
burn the sky, bleeding lights,
the myths of our celebrations.
With a special dedication to the Orion constellation, which, if one is lucky, one can see at night.
Pasquino Dec 2020
I see the shores now,

but I can not feel the warmth. 

Was there warmth before?
Dec 2020 · 240
Asymptote
Pasquino Dec 2020
Sea-change of old,
why come you to bother me again?
Alas! In me, you spark doubt
that mustn't go away.

Promise of old, please do say
And, I beg, answer truthfully:
are you path that will stay,
or mirage I grasp wistfully?

Apex of temptation,
please reach a destination.
with a special dedication to math departments.
Dec 2020 · 362
Amor vincit omnia
Pasquino Dec 2020
Cohen wrote of broken praises,
and Shakespeare of unchanging light.
Aurelius of unyielding ways;
Descartes of impossible sights.

An ironic Socrates goes
on to fetch the hemlock cup,
while Nietzsche wanders on to rot,
content, he never drank hemlock.

But now what am I supposed to
believe– which truth is really clear?
When I see your gorgeous eyes– blue
I remember only Virgil, dear:

“Amor vincit omnia, et nos cedamus amori”
The only truth I’ve ever seen.
Dec 2020 · 209
Anointment
Pasquino Dec 2020
At the end of it all, aren’t we worthy?
The glass marks the line, and we cannot weep
For the wheel marks a different journey,
and the hourglass now drums to the beat.

When our saints fill the cities with ashes
and the north star is long gone from above,
let’s roll the dice to settle our chances,
pray to Tyche they settle on love.

There’s a spear by your side, pariah–
when the animal comes out for a fight,
’Tis no land for a wandering messiah,
nor reward for believing what’s right.

’Twas only a mistake that cost paradise,
but a thousand more to be baptized: man.
Dec 2020 · 97
Schrodinger’s text
Pasquino Dec 2020
I hope to say its not temptation
but a calculated risk I take–
untouched by aces of persuasion
when the cards all fold and I remain.

Wonder hath cued the wandering man,
and I remain between the walls.
Two sets of books lock the leviathan
away, as I trudge on through the halls.

Shh! it’s coming now! It hath arrived–
the moment you all came to see,
the hope that could not have survived
is christened now, and sent for all to sea.

— The End —