Aug 2015
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
As I walked the cobbled road,
a fallen leaf had called to me
“There, they sit atop the elm
and sing in wing'ed harmony!”
As I looked beyond the limbs,
t'was as the amber leaf had said!
Crows—a trio, black and jade—
sat sewing thoughts into my head.
Doting all, their call, acute.
Feared, as they began to chime
and paint the scene in cackled rhyme—
a stunning scene of ag'ed time!
“As the Earth sits up on high,
Await the end; the end is nigh!
And shaken from its pedestal,
a common custom—gone awry!
“And as the scrib'ed granites tell,
the darkened lord shall cast his spell,
and all of praxis slashed to
barren ash and taken to his Hell.”
Their words, a curse to roam the world—
a call, aloud—a siren's scream—
their call—the Cawling of the Wind;
this flawless song's an endless dream.
They sing an endless, painted dream.
They dream of endless misery.
As I walked, my mind raced on
and paced about this patchwork key,
both singing of that cursed song
and laden with reality.
And then this bent my hashing mind:
this pasture’s blinding paths abroad!
So ****** by its ****** disguise,
what once was fair is now but fraud.
The thought of sin had bound my feet—
a burning chill that once was good.
His hell was just beyond my reach.
My body fell; yet, there I stood.
And through the void, his spirit falls.
Gone, entranced, as he recalls
a house of cards with meager walls.
Atop the crown, his spirit calls:
“Hell is just beyond the green;
past the lies and life you lead.
As you age, the world will die.
Your questions, answered;
so, says I.”
Around me, then, were those a’brood;
their dreamless nightmare once bestowed.
Our numbers fall; his rise in lieu.
Alas! Submit! We chose that road!
This pasture waned an age ago—
a mountain, this buffet of lies.
For in his realm, the truth will show
that deaf ears harken not our cries.
To a deity of piqued display,
upon a steed of dark dismay,
a fleeting wish, we're told to pay.
He'll raise his staff and he will say:
“Hell is just beyond the green;
past the lies and life you lead.
As you age, the world will die.
Your questions, answered;
so, says I.”
Your eyes say no, but his say yes.
A curse is thrown, and so we stress:
Our Hell is just beyond the green;
past the lies and life we lead.
As we age, the world will die.
Our questions, answered;
so, we cry . . .
*. . . and so, we cry . . .
As I walked the cobbled road,
a fallen leaf had called to me
“There, they sit atop the elm
and sing in wing'ed harmony!”
As I looked beyond the limbs,
t'was as the amber leaf had said!
Crows—a trio, black and jade—
sat sewing thoughts into my head.
Doting all, their call, acute.
Feared, as they began to chime
and paint the scene in cackled rhyme—
a stunning scene of ag'ed time!
“As the Earth sits up on high,
Await the end; the end is nigh!
And shaken from its pedestal,
a common custom—gone awry!
“And as the scrib'ed granites tell,
the darkened lord shall cast his spell,
and all of praxis slashed to
barren ash and taken to his Hell.”
Their words, a curse to roam the world—
a call, aloud—a siren's scream—
their call—the Cawling of the Wind;
this flawless song's an endless dream.
They sing an endless, painted dream.
They dream of endless misery.
As I walked, my mind raced on
and paced about this patchwork key,
both singing of that cursed song
and laden with reality.
And then this bent my hashing mind:
this pasture’s blinding paths abroad!
So ****** by its ****** disguise,
what once was fair is now but fraud.
The thought of sin had bound my feet—
a burning chill that once was good.
His hell was just beyond my reach.
My body fell; yet, there I stood.
And through the void, his spirit falls.
Gone, entranced, as he recalls
a house of cards with meager walls.
Atop the crown, his spirit calls:
“Hell is just beyond the green;
past the lies and life you lead.
As you age, the world will die.
Your questions, answered;
so, says I.”
Around me, then, were those a’brood;
their dreamless nightmare once bestowed.
Our numbers fall; his rise in lieu.
Alas! Submit! We chose that road!
This pasture waned an age ago—
a mountain, this buffet of lies.
For in his realm, the truth will show
that deaf ears harken not our cries.
To a deity of piqued display,
upon a steed of dark dismay,
a fleeting wish, we're told to pay.
He'll raise his staff and he will say:
“Hell is just beyond the green;
past the lies and life you lead.
As you age, the world will die.
Your questions, answered;
so, says I.”
Your eyes say no, but his say yes.
A curse is thrown, and so we stress:
Our Hell is just beyond the green;
past the lies and life we lead.
As we age, the world will die.
Our questions, answered;
so, we cry . . .
*. . . and so, we cry . . .
﹊
∘ ⊱‧⌍ ⌈✞⌋ ⌌‧⊰ ∞
﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋
∘ ⊱‧⌍ ⌈✞⌋ ⌌‧⊰ ∞
﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋
