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TimelessWavePoems
This is poetry-- Unknown and discussed In no particular matters Until death Doth part the Poet from his art And ought to be-- But the saddest lovers are the living-- Who weave dastard tragedies In goldpence and fame And in hope, break Foundations on laureled mounts, Calling desperate to empty crypts Which once housed their Muses Praise and please to you, Polyhymn Us hominids speak so bold In our kindness to you! While this is computed And tooled to the ringing of gold Glass And transitions-- Mere sparks In the ember of forge That these mint implements Are the forgery of that art Consumes Hephaestus in his doubts Of a father's true fires And the alchem of his own Clio, remember thy crowning! The doubts of this mournful sphere And the pain of our pasts Are yours to cast within the stele And praise be, toward your simple carvings of man! Doting and careful could I be, Lashing my wrists with decay Stash my words by the reeds I could hold the world up to keep Our own love of the earth In the same way she should be earned There is a certainty of that Loveless act, the plotting of land To place corpses upon the earth For circus and grandeur This is ultimately The fate of you poets, Cast as stones amongst the stream Blackened and cold And you will not know but the soul of you in deed And your words will fall Deaf Upon these fears of the freed When they devour themselves in the temples And massacre the streets Exhume worn roads Which bridged their father's feats And when it is done And the words come to rest In the ruins and the spires All but symbols and jests No more, no more! For it is all in their speech It is all in good kind And all left to me.
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Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 4:55 PM UTC
Incalcitrant: In Chronicles, the Fall of the Old World
This is poetry-- Unknown and discussed In no particular matters Until death Doth part the Poet from his art And ought to be-- But the saddest lovers are the living-- Who weave dastard tragedies In goldpence and fame And in hope, break Foundations on laureled mounts, Calling desperate to empty crypts Which once housed their Muses Praise and please to you, Polyhymn Us hominids speak so bold In our kindness to you! While this is computed And tooled to the ringing of gold Glass And transitions-- Mere sparks In the ember of forge That these mint implements Are the forgery of that art Consumes Hephaestus in his doubts Of a father's true fires And the alchem of his own Clio, remember thy crowning! The doubts of this mournful sphere And the pain of our pasts Are yours to cast within the stele And praise be, toward your simple carvings of man! Doting and careful could I be, Lashing my wrists with decay Stash my words by the reeds I could hold the world up to keep Our own love of the earth In the same way she should be earned There is a certainty of that Loveless act, the plotting of land To place corpses upon the earth For circus and grandeur This is ultimately The fate of you poets, Cast as stones amongst the stream Blackened and cold And you will not know but the soul of you in deed And your words will fall Deaf Upon these fears of the freed When they devour themselves in the temples And massacre the streets Exhume worn roads Which bridged their father's feats And when it is done And the words come to rest In the ruins and the spires All but symbols and jests No more, no more! For it is all in their speech It is all in good kind And all left to me.
Poetry is art and art is dead, and it cannot be resumed unless understood in its aesthetic. For rivival comes but once and only upon death can the world understand the will of the living.
#death#life#poet#strife#give#kind#words#to#mine
TimelessWave
Written by
TimelessWave
M/San Francisco, CA
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 4:55 PM UTC
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