Tears like raindrops roll down my face
as I start awake from another dream.
The stark isolation set in another place
reflecting the here by subconscious means.
The wind whistles a gale of fury
whilst I squat on the mountains summit.
Bracing my heart from an angry jury,
whose purpose is to find me unfit.
Not worthy, by proxy, a foregone verdict
delivered eloquently from myself to me.
Scything confidence away, I've heard it.
Raindrops taste like tears to the lonely.
Shutters and barricades drop, my armour,
holding back the bad, and the good.
Protected, the gale blows much calmer,
the stark isolation accepted and understood.
But the dream persists, always the same,
a looping litany whilst I lay asleep.
The withdrawal is but temporary in name
until I locate that which I humbly seek.
© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)
The cracked screen is staring at me
Each line a show of mistakes
The black mirror has ruptured
And my armour inside breaks
From a centre, each hairline starts
As the fractures spill further out
They can't be brought back in
As my core fills with doubt
I've turned it into a metaphor
It's my own head to blame
But it still serves a reminder
Of my struggles, of my shame
The marks match my arms
The dent is in my head
I know I'll move past this
But I still feel like shit
I stare at the cracked screen
I will find the solution
I have dealt with worse before
I can be better than my delusion
These days, I feel I've lost my spark
That flicker of creativity.
Well yes, I lit the candle;
I knew it was time for it to burn,
That eventually it'd burn out:
The dulling light emanating faint warmth.
But I think there's something poetic, too
About blunt truths
And being so honest it feels bland—
Bland enough to make you feel.
Three meet upon the moor.
Clouds boil, the thunder roars.
Magick crackles about the tor,
voices raise to chant the call.
Fires at midnight burn with power.
Time stands still in the witching hour.
The moot works in the night to devour,
to catch the moon and starry showers.
Mystical nets float way up high.
Glowing globes with which to scrye.
The howling wind screams its cry,
as ancient powers steal the sky.
© Pagan Paul (2017)
the "water is the excel
to draconian candela"
that parlance condemned
is licentious promenade
which prior's similes
reiterate, there is a fountain
of my cinnamon
arid sovereign suave
- ice cones truffle devour -
- Lucifer/Master but
I can't resist the touch -
as I read Aristotle's
poetics and metaphysics
because I am not holy as
I once was even though I am
never giving back quarters
I do not want to be your metaphor, said rain to my tears
Then cry me with the sky, so you can no longer
Separating: between gloomy weather and unstoppable sadness
I do not want to be your metaphor, said the flower to my love
Then I put on the worst clothes and I became your gardener,
So you do not realize: what you picked every morning
contoured my jaw line
choked out fragmented underchewed bites
of asinine rhymes
forcing my way back up mucked in stomach enzymes
didn't anyone ever tell you to take your time?
Take smaller bites?
Or like women with strong personalities, you bit off more than you could chew? Drank far less tea than you once thought to brew?
Did your mother ever blame herself when you couldn't clear your plate?
Or were you forced to sit there until it's contents were scraped
like the walls of my brain?
digging my nails so deep into my hair I syphoned a drain
and that's when she really sealed my fate letting you up from your dinner place before you cleaned your nightly plate
and so forth you learned what you wanted to take
was alright with the woman who's body had slaved hours of her day away
for the perfect texture temperature taste testing testamur
that you'd evidently waste, just like my time with a smile crocheted across your face,
and fingers behind your back laced, countering my steps toward you, then away,
and so busting my ass while you simply don't
or can't figure out a damn phone,
setting the dinner table to which I was prone,
pouring tea for two until I realized I was drinking alone
Where have you gone?
Won't you chirp your melancholy song?
Where did I go wrong?
That'd keep you from visiting me at dawn?
It has been terribly lonesome without you.
You have left me without a single clue.
I shall wait for you,
Until you return with your familiar rue.
I'm always being called to a passage
where I know not of where I'm going;
only that I shall end up clutching my knees to my chest,
with tears drops sprinkled in the pattern of despair.
Perhaps my sadness should conjure a map
of which roads lead me here each night,
so I know which to avoid when traveling alone.
I wish I had a partner to accompany me
but the journey I take is one that I must have
solemnly and lonesome.