Blackbird, blackbird, whither 'way
Don't come down this way in
Sleek sails of five and six

Hither here, two and three
Come forth and fly in
Through the broken glass

Onyx separations carve
In six wings lost to starve
May the host slight the royalty

Blackbird, blackbird, whither 'way
Don't come down this way with
Sacrificial dust from seven circling

Hither here, two and three
Come forth and fly in
Through shattered self

Onyx separations carve
In six wings to starve
May the way be paved

Blackbird, blackbird, will I?
In the serene sloughs, call
Out from the dusk, ten sails high?

Blackbird, blackbird
Come around, see my gift
And sing your song

Hangs over head by a solitary hair
Pommel set with Lucifer's star
Crossguard of the crescent moon
The Blade a king's interminable doom

.
Rain fell in commotions—
The birds would have none of it,
The moon bellowed in ghostly white,
Faced in the sprite, ringing indifference
Of low fading stars, trees in posted dark
Scratched the grasslands of the fallen
Firmaments and the small creatures
That are holed up in days, scurried
With the creep of night and moan
Of oceans slide, mangled clouds
Clutched the murky burn of sky
And smallish eyes everywhen
Shuddered in the frosts
Of a shuttering rose.
.

It's looking like
history books
and web pages
tell what once was
as an instructional
or, how to
for the future,
as every trend
spins on the same
blueberry,
and what once was
shall be, again.

I used to think
I might not have
the best grip on ****
because of that Cindy, and
her gaslit basement.
But my eyes are valid.
I'm not slitting throats,
I'm just taking notes
on this tragic situation.
Joker and The Fool.

I'm part of some kind
of severely ****** up system,
whether I wish it or not.
I better learn to smile.
So watch me. Here:

^_^

Everything's bound
to a simple rule.
Everything dies,
and everything is alive
with some participation.

I can't shake it from my mind.
        Why should I?

All of my ancestors made the mistakes
I can't help
       but bear repeating.

Why shouldn't I?

.
I came to a courtyard of my own making,
To a cottage by the sea at the worlds edge.
I furnished it with my left over life, complete,
Barren and colourless and I wrote the newest
Book of psalms out of tinder and flame, a tome
Of grey and useless poems, unheard of songs
And reams of flesh.  There in the lightest dark,
By the Druid stone that was placed just for me,
I planted a creeping yew tree.  And the moon
Sang in celebration and silence like a fallen
Priest.  
                    Under the covering hazel trees,
That sprung to life after the longest winter,
Which taught me to forget my name, I now
Struggle with light and my body, warring, torn
Is fading slow, like the always arriving, down
Turning solstice, the climates of the mind,
Where it is digging the never ending shallow
Hole only the spreading eternal yew, that I
Planted, will ever know and only the Lazarus
Moon shall ever rise above.

I came to a courtyard of my own making,
Was it dream that led me there or my eyes?
.

Pain may dwell, grief may last tonight
Pangs recall moments of past tonight

Lovers go blind this night, it is Union
No religion preaches to fast tonight

Then tear this flower—Leave me alone
Dear Love—your anger is vast tonight

"Curse" yelled the Agha—says 'almanac'
This is what made me aghast tonight

Mirza—accept your defeat—Love is lost
Separation—havoc is  forecast tonight

Piercing Eyes of Goldenrod.
Both bold and brilliant.
The calming center in a hurrricane
Of blue and white feathers.
A gaze which levels any ego,
That should find itself too
Important, in either size or space.
(Do you believe in omens?)
Rebirth is on the horizon,
Or so the star seekers say.
Change, the end of old ways, days.
(But I'd not think it)
The Universe likes to share whispers,
Of things to come or happenings of maybe.
There is no intent ill or otherwise,
Just the honest grievances of time.
As this God of Death, sits high upon
Stilts which bathe in still waters,
I see horror. I see despair. I see death.
That vision, those eyes, golden and
Sinister, but humble all the same.
While the winds sing of new life,
I hear the sorrowful hymns of death.
(Balance.)
There are many ways of knowing.
Magic both black and white.
Magic old as time, as new as a moment.
And if I should see the dark days ahead,
Count that a blessing, to see anything at all.