"breech" poems
Above the caldera at Yellowstone,
a brittle soil-rock crust
caps a lake of liquid fire
with only fumaroles and roiling geysers
to slake its upward ******
A single heedless step is enough
to breech that mantle's fragile seal -
spelling death by fire
to any hapless soul
who fails to guard his steps.
Fragile calderas also roil
buried in dark crevices of our psyches -
brewed of failures, slights and fears
dissolved in fiery pools
of self-consuming misery.
To dress and salve our wounded souls
we plant fertile gardens of reconciliation
with beauty, trust and charity
and kneel to gods of grace and solace.
But a despot’s practiced eye
knows how to tap our fragile crusts,
releasing acrid lava flows
from pools where fear and rage reign hot,
and reason has no district.
Friends and siblings - my flesh and kin,
this world is ours to lose or save
so let us seal well our Sacred Calderas
from bitter foes that stalk us from within.
July, 2006, revised December, 2014, 2015 and 2018
Robert Charles Howard
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 12:40 AM UTC
What if love became so overwhelming, such an inextinguishable force that its true purpose betrayed itself completely?
To the point that even the utterance of those three powerful words, that at a different junction had held such promise, now left a distinct taste of uncertainty on the lips and a ringing of insanity in the ear drum. What else does one say when the most pure form of expression and commitment echo with distain and regret?
Even as I slide into introspection, diving deep to the point of no return, there seems to be no logical path, no penance for the monster I have created. Through my own autonomous actions and neglect I have reached this dark place. Perhaps I indulged beyond a point where thoughts and actions have boundaries. A broken compass , spinning without meaning. All indicators in tact, every cog and point in place, magnetism lost to exaggerated memories, fears and regrets.
Self delusion is a drink that is best served with company. With companionship the mind tends to believe its own meddling. Delusions are mistaken for truth and biased opinions blur with reality.
All roads lead to pain. Every so often a spark jumps to the surface of my consciousness. A pin ***** exclaiming hope. It’s a glitch of my own creation. The belief in happy endings and love prevailing. That love is more powerful than any disappointment, mistake or breech in trust. My reality had been resurfaced and augmented by the media. Love stories are just that. Stories. A wave of manufactured hope, washing over the beach of the human psyche. Every grain of sand is washed back to the sea just as it has arrived.
Happiness, a flame burning on a tiny wick. Enjoy the heat while it lasts for it is going to be a cold winter. And the power is out.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 3:19 PM UTC
Green is the sky and all the lights of heaven
Are peeking eyes, up to us in given blossoms
Of the flowering clover and bright are new daisies,
Wee sparks of fire who squad, roams of butterflies
And bees on bouncing airstruck mission waysides,
The shot stems of wildlings breech, lancing into sky.
I am the gardener with suns aborning in my eyes,
To pull the weeds wildly and declare all is garland,
I hear trumpet of bindweed, see hearts in the leafs
Of coltsfoot, crowns in the thistle, tapestries, vines
For dress of hair and eye and walls on cottage dry,
Are lovemakes true and keepsakes of joyous times.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
Vail tied to a weathering mask
with a child in tow
who grows swollen
And swells like his mother
from which he reluctantly
reared his head
In what was called The Cadaver Twist
A ******* accident, no less
No virtue in a conscience yet to breech
A lesson likely learned early
If only ...
Paternal instinct as the peripheral
responds autonomously to the bottle
with intervals of grease pouring
down the gullet
The rain decimates in torrential strife
Laying in bog known as
What Once Was
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
He was only one, that day,
Standing alone to fill and gap the breech.
No one else, but he, stood to face the onslaught,
The terror that charged forward,
Toward where he stood and held his post,
Where someone before had drawn a long line on the ground.
No one there to help, all had fled,
Intimidated by the imposing, closing threat
That was coming near.
All, but he, had run, and the time and the foe drew closer;
Making a last stand was not even on his mind,
Resisting was not a choice,
He would do what he could,
What must be done, until he could do no more.
Death took the defender that day,
But not easily.
He fought until he had no more blood to shed,
With a final gasp, onto a bloodied ground he, at last,
Fell dead.
His enemies, his foes, stood in awe,
At the red-stained, battered corpse,
With sword still in hand.
After much deliberation,
The horde decided to turn and leave.
If this one, lone sentry had courage such as this,
How much more an entire army that probably laid in wait.
Tactical retreat was the best option, and,
With that they turned about,
They left to conquer other lands.
His comrades came; took his body;
Pinned medals across his chest;
Said a few words reserved for heroes, and
Laid him to rest.
They glanced into the distant, disappearing dust and thought,
What cowards they must have been
To have let one lone soldier frighten them such
That they turned away.
There was only one, that day,
Standing alone to fill and gap the breech;
One soldier who stood the watch,
Who did not retreat.
Armies are made of
One soldier at a time.
Mar 17, 2010
Mar 17, 2010 at 1:03 PM UTC
an ancient lyric, come to haunt,
no longer a shield, now thinner,
of gossamer consistency,
a tissue-thin papyrus,
“my poetry to protect me”
the poem words always were
a clarinet reed, capable of singing,
a highest pitch voice for turning
blades of clean steel clean away,
now blunting paper bunting, penetrated.
re-formed my shield, re-purposed,
into a stabbing instrument offensive,
my poetry pricking tearings in my worn
thin fabric tapestry, woven from linen
excuses of why I can’t, why couldn’t I.
this is life. moats becoming drowning
pools, castle walls reversed to entrapments,
wrecking machines, boulders hurling,
medieval defenseless against modern rhymes
giving away to free verse horde onslaught.
too late to apologize to myself, alas, my words,
my protectorate, island redoubt, now ruined
by doubts treachery breech birthed from within,
these verses hollow point bullets engineered,
Caesar’s words clarified, you, et tu, are Brutus
too, two, for the price of one, betrayer and betrayed.
Jun 21, 2020
Jun 21, 2020 at 5:44 PM UTC
Everything stands frozen for an enternity, encapsuled in just a moment of time
Your notice your heart stops beating, the rhythm that has sustained you long before you were aware
Your throat constricts, suddenly unable to draw in the oxygen that feeds your body
Your next breath stagnates inside your lungs, decomposing with each missing heartbeat
Your stomach plummets towards the floor, falling further than the earths crust
Your intestines squirm inside your cavity as they disintegrate into nothingness
As your eyes begin to sting and water, overfilling until they breech the dam
Your heart finally remembers to beat, faster than ever before
And your jaw finally falls, along with the rest of your face to form a silent
"oh"
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 10:26 AM UTC
Laid waste the beauty of ancient sites
Where wisdom laments its ancient demise.
The human spirit had once taken flight
Out of dark mists and out of disguise.
Paradise found just beyond their reach.
Friendship feigned as in unwitting Troy.
Pygmalion's ideal crumbled within the breech.
Pure knowledge strangled by treacherous ploy.
Yet wisdom still beckons beneath this frost.
Rumblings felt faintly in purer souls.
Vowed in blood to regain paradise lost.
Worlds sacrificed for one small foothold.
Beauty from ashes of ancient sites.
In spirit in heart once again taking flight.
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 11:38 AM UTC
strangely, I think that this
ought be, must be, responsibly,
be the best poem I’ve ever writ,
(though unlikely, as the best will always be the next)
that mine own eyes commissioned,
better be,
just got to be,
this holy-moly notion jeepers weepers,
conceptual rocks me deepest,
an awesome responsibility
to find away of saying
that this beyond conceptual,
coring, especially special sample
If there was to be a but one,
a singularity, a distinguishing feature
of what the human definition
innate contains,
how choice that we animals,
elevate ourselves to being human beings,
the only ones capable of wonderfully weeping
the implications are an astounding!
what a glorious burden,
what a wonderful decision,
the designer slipped in this microscopic checkmark,
somewhere in our cellular DNA perma-dynasty,
runs a common thread, these saltwater fears,
a residual global amniotic fluid hint,
from where we humans out-of-crawled
that empathy,
the signal of an elongated journey of eons,
the marker that says
show the caring,
a trait-ed statement,
us, unique
so often do I weep,
sometimes visible - in my poems listed, oft indicated -
so you could know its sharing was an absolution
that I granted myself,
that that particular poem was a costly one,
womb bloomed, tongue taken, eye written
sometimes invisible - even more, do they,
(nobody knows, nobody sees)
just well up, eye cornered kept, secreted,
only skin-staining the underneath-my-eyes
one more shade darker,
a reminder to all, to mirrored me,
that to forgive myself doesn’t
forgive forgetting
is this then my best?
sufficient to breech your
reserves of pseudo-cool,
that correct boundary pretense that keeps us as
mismatched separates?
you be the judge, you be the jury,
you be the prosecutor and the defender,
for it is all of us
standing in the dock,
on trial,
for in our lifetime
guilty of the inhuman crime,
of not crying enough
Jun 27, 2019
Jun 27, 2019 at 7:15 PM UTC
a half moon rises
as the sun sets over
a golden Charles
the Fens
luminescence
guide scullers
chasing the days
ebbing light
shimmering
upon near
stillness,
as dancing
black ripples
push silver
splashes of
floating sheens
toward the
gentle slopes of
grassy banks
fisherman cast
the day’s final
hopes upon
gracious waters
as shad fry
breech to
proclaim
a promise
of a dutiful
return to fulfill
a future bounty
this accessible
river, the pulsing
heart conjoining
two cities;
flows as a
democratic spirit
drawing all to its
hospitable shores
my eyes remain
transfixed on
the glowing ember
of a twilight Charles
drifting under darkened
portals of the
Harvard Bridge,
while the rise
of a sunset breeze
whispers a cool
end to the
summers day
I imagine
Luna blowing
a goodnight
kiss to a
yawning Sol,
as she winks to
young *****
lovers embracing
the long shadows
and sweet fragrance
of tall bulrushes
a slight puff of wind
anoints my minds eye
as lazy water rolls
toward me, lapping
my feet, lollygagging
along, slowly strolling
towards the bay
as I salute pilots
navigating this
most friendly
course
Music Selection:
Grant Green, Moon River
Cambridge MA
7/7/91
jbm
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 1:33 AM UTC
So many words between us—
The caustic breech of abatement, ruin
Runs atonal, in recitals of indifference,
How even the ****** birds now sound
Discordant and rain crushes as it falls,
Ballistic.
The pinprick stars are merely eyes
Undraped to the worn soul's veil
And gorgon time roils setting our feet
In the crust of wishes and delusions
Kept.
The bullet riddled skies in absence
Of colour are but particulates of lime
To the moonless night. Words have no
Eyes, they can only finger.
O the sorrows of the untouched—
The cruelty of the sightless and bent blind,
Drab vermillion stars felled like forced tears.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 10:57 AM UTC
Such a tedious thing,
I sense our existence appears.
For my chest to breech to the sky,
A tightened blossom of whipping purity.
Then to sink towards such a vicarious engulfment of hell.
With each palpitating symposium,
My lungs waver.
To crust over,
and bless the,
upon gilded guffaws.
Perturbed of my ascension.
Or shall they sink,
Sallow under chagrined blasphemy,
My horridness inked upon
parchment seasoned skin.
Not but,
a child of bitter consideration.
I shall butter myself in ashes,
just to perceive myself a shadow.
For at dusk's beckon,
perturbed; to kiss the constellations.
Blemishes I conjured,
beneath a quavering lip,
a gentle crease of my nose.
I silence their whimpering of wrongdoings,
which I have failed to rupture.
To exhale,
in such a bubbling manner.
It gurgles at my lips.
Dribbles before me,
Whilst the sun blinks back a yawn.
Yet, upon a lunar serenade,
the talons which protrude from my veins,
writhes gruesome.
To my supposed
talents,
I see no anchor.
From them, to what lay before me.
To where I shall drift.
And good sir,
label my simplistic existence,
if you must.
Yet I shall soon die,
and so, you will too.
And by that flicker of seconds,
we should matter no more.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 8:59 PM UTC
The Futility of Persecution
As you approach me
both guns drawn
Bullets full of hate and bile
I stand here naked
hands beside me
Armed with just
my inner smile
As you seek
to breech the sanctum
Leaving carnage
and calamity
I sit here safe behind
the glass that shields
my newfound equinamity
I never built these walls
you built them
with your twisted
bitter hand
It was you not I
that sought to cross
the line within the sand
As your projectiles
tear my body
Leaving gaping wounds behind
I stand here smiling
in the sunshine that's
the fortress of
my mind...
©HaroldRizla
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
Sea of azure waves descend
Golden streams flood through porthole
Black birds breech panorama
Tanners soak up residue
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 11:32 AM UTC
To toast the official opening
Of our village Millennium Green
Twelve of us went on a journey
To see sights we’d never seen.
With a degree of apprehension
We were all of one accord
With an enormous basket that was attached
To a hot-air balloon we all got on board.
Whooshhh was the noise from the burner
As the pilot lifted up off the ground
But then as we rose up much higher
It was done with nary a sound.
Slowly we drifted Westwards
Then moving slightly to the South
A dozen brave souls in a basket
Gazed at landscapes with open mouth.
Stafford Castle was down below us
Then the motorway passed by too
We soon headed away from Stafford
Then Cannock Chase came into view.
We spotted some fallow deer grazing
Some of them sitting as if to retire
Then the pilot again fired the burner
And lifted the basket much higher.
Finally we reached the maximum height
That we were allowed to reach
Four thousand four hundred and eighty feet
A specific height that our balloon couldn't breech.
It was then that I saw with amazement
While the evening sun shone at our side
A passenger liner flew up through the clouds
It was a beautiful sight which no-one denied.
And did I get such a fabulous picture
Well of course not, I was too much in awe
By the time I had swung round my camera
A tailplane and the sight was no more.
We were coming to the end of our journey
I thought seeing the plane was the peak
But then we saw Lichfield Cathedral
With its three spires that make it unique.
The experience will always stay with me
Of an evening with a view from above
As we floated about in the heavens
Over countryside in the county I love.
©Joe Wilson – A View from Above 2014
‘August 2000 on a Friday evening in glorious sunshine, the balloon
lying in a heap on Derrington Millennium Green in Staffordshire, UK,
gradually began to fill with air as the pilot and his assistant slowly
pulled at it to allow air into all the creases. Suddenly it stood up
and drifted up into the air, though it was still tethered in four places
to the ground. I had no idea they were so big or so tall.’ ©Joe Wilson 2014
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
My memories; constantly haunting me,
except the good ones, those thoughts always run.
Need a canvas that's blank, to paint new lessons to teach,
that ship already sank, think I just need some bleach.
It's always out of reach.
My soul is soiled, my heart is broke,
my taste buds were boiled, my lungs only choke.
From temple to ruin, whole body to breech,
death will come soon, think I just need some bleach.
I'm through being a leech.
Losing sight, losing hope,
losing the fight against the rope.
Losing sleep, this is my niche,
I'm in deep, and craving bleach.
I carry a cross; one on each shoulder,
it's strengthened by loss, weighs down like a boulder.
Each carries a name, but I'm not like to preach,
I'm dreading the blame, think I just need some bleach.
I volunteer for impeach.
Losing sight, losing hope,
choosing plight, and fail to cope.
Losing sleep, silence to screech,
the stains will keep, still wanting bleach.
My memories; constantly haunting me,
except the good ones, they all are done,
need a new start, a day on the beach,
thread's been ripped apart, think I just need some bleach.
It's always out of reach.
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 6:21 AM UTC
seethe ~ bubble up as a result of being boiled,
<>
sunrise was 714 am in nyc
this perfect fall day,
chilled to perfection,
a white wine of a day,
so imbibe,
only later does it
heat up up and onwards
to the temp where the
walkers/joggers/runner recite
hallelujahs and hosannas while
moving at their own chosen pace,
in a state of warm southern comfort,
never a racing
lest
the poems
now seething, boiling-burning
bubbling up inside
into the atmosphere explode!
all of these
early warming~warning inspirations,
now~expressed,
realized flickers of
original ex-impressions,
cannot be contained in
an open field unsupported,
these
breech babies each,
in a pediatric ICU,
demanding an
instantaneous airy concoction
to Earth’s atmospheric
literary intoxication
they use:
up hard, a dice roll,
who lives
who wilts,
that docs cannot but
obey
the fetus’s insistence,
many instructions,
push pull breathe,
must the. be given forthwith
through to our
servile waiting
uterine fingertips,
for we human are just be
~ings,
nurturers of
verbal artifacts
that never die
in
an~always~at~the~ready,
in service to
the great conceptual,
poetic in/justice
Oct 23, 2024
Oct 23, 2024 at 3:33 AM UTC
I watch the harbor through the falling snow
the sky and sea form one vast, gray tableau
the sun is nothing but a weak, background glow
the scene draws me, as if hypnotically.
Five mile’s lighthouse warnings go unvoiced
its strobes not lashing out, so what’s its point
it stands majestically but disappoints
replaced electronically
A tiny lobster boat makes its landward way
towards the inlet from the wider channel bay
a powdery blizzard is underway
which melts into the mirror sea.
Ospreys still hunt round the lobsterman's pride
snowflakes stain them as they soar and glide
other seabirds huddle side by side
shivering and crowing lividly.
Through the narrows the lonely boat steams
past icy Luddington Rock and East Breakwater's breech
its berths and moorings, within minutes reach
and sadly, it’s time for me to leave.
.
.
Songs for this:
Far Far Away (Charles Tone Mix) [feat. Brenda Boykin] by Tape Five
Nobody by Mitski
Feb 15, 2025
Feb 15, 2025 at 1:42 PM UTC
The ideosyncrasies of the cities are not
found in the small towns,
the dirt poor brown towns,
the twitching of curtains and dressing gown towns,
but the **** pulls us out of the towns and into the city where the
sewers are home to the rats and the mountains built up on
the streets are a home for the cats,the fat cats,the purring cats, the sharing caring who am I kidding cats,
they are the leeches
weekdays in suits and the weekends in knickerbockers,breech loaders,the feeding free loaders,the gum boot brigade,tea,toast and marmalade,raid the pension accounts and they get an accolade brigade.
The small town mentality will be the death of me,I can see this is wrong but go along with it,up to my neck in it,with paddles I row in it,
the city is full of ****
The cranes,
new age pterodactyls, chomping their way through the last of the daffodils,sending them downstream to a landfill in East Cheam,sometimes if I dream,I dream in black and white and the city then looks alright but in my heart I know it's crumbling,falling apart at the seams,held together by nightmares and more dreams from the townies,cub scouts and brownies,I don't dream a lot anymore.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 3:34 AM UTC
Well, let me begin my announcing to the HP community that I just pulled my ex-best friend's child's mother's hair out of my mouth without realizing how it got there since I haven't seen her since Saturday. Yeah, good luck pondering that breech of physics. Also, I realized that I've been breaking the magic rules of drinking at work as laid down by Cracked.com with impunity since before that majestic article was written, which kind of makes me feel like a badass and also like a terrible alcoholic whom the gods will eventually strike down. Or perhaps, everybody at work with me is also drunk and/or high all the time, a suspicion I've had for about a year now, but have not been able to prove, despite careful observation. Sure, the typically WOW playing awkward dude gets a box of not one, not two, but three bottles of beautifully crafted wine delivered DIRECTLY TO THE OFFICE every month notwithstanding. And does our supervisor say anything even remarkably reprehensible....no, not while she's on the clock. But she did steal my Don Corleone hat, and by thunder she still owes me for that thing, since I'll bet all the money I made this year that she got some fantastic head because of that hat. There are minor arguments in the breakroom over how ****** the coffee actually is, whether it's police station or AA meeting detestable, and on slow days people are chucking gigantic medicine ***** across the room while laughing at the destruction they cause. Then, Monday through Friday, woe unto you if you call the 24/7 line between 10 and 12 at night, since you will be picked up by me, the 3-midnight guy. If you're an idiot, or loud, or from New Jersey, or can't seem to be able to wipe that bleached ******* of yours without assistance, DO NOT CALL. I will be drunk, and while drunk I will take whatever ****** excuse you have for being a worthless and pointless human being and very tenderly, very politely, shove it up your *** on the end of a very thick nine iron. This is real life, and this....this is where I work.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 1:24 AM UTC
A false accusation
Leads to a truth,
And a breakdown;
A realization
A growing issue;
A breakthrough.
I see you as a virtue;
Limitless we argue
You hold belief in divine right
Even as I rule your day, like light
Calm you down, like night
Oversee your thoughts; I am your sight
You are the exception
The flaw to my opinion
A breech of my dominion
You are the devil’s minion
You’re the catchy hook in every song
The heat that makes a summer night so long
The passion that makes love feel wrong
You’re the motive that makes a liar strong
A fear in all my dreams
A decibel in all my screams
Turn my tears to streams
Collapse my walls to broken beams
Oct 28, 2011
Oct 28, 2011 at 11:28 PM UTC
If you feel lonely,
I was lonely too.
I long to know, you, pale cryptic thing, beyond my reach.
If only, I could breech-
space and time for some sliver of a moment-
to tell you-
I'm sorry.
You'll never know
that the sound your boiled blood makes reaches me-
I'm sorry.
Believe me, when I say,
I meant to build something to keep us safe,
together.
But the tempest was too strong.
And my will to weak.
And I can't help but linger of your graceful physique.
I mourn
for my shards that came smashing through your pastel stained windows,
tumbling onto your nicely kept white sheets.
A home made of skin,
so delicately adorned.
I think you're tasteful.
I think you're tastey.
I think you're.
I think you.
I think.
I.
What it all boils down to.
You are the East, and Juliet is the sunrise.
My hedonism tangles the 3 of us in demise-
I despise-
Myself for it.
I long to be punched by your
"soft little fists"
as he once said.
I long to know.
I long too.
I long.
I.
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 8:04 PM UTC
Structure
Chaos
Society way.
Bars
Shackles
Time taken away.
Heart beat
Don't breathe.
Steady hands
Shaking feet.
Conform, conform, conform, repeat.
Comfort
Ignorance
Keep us enslaved.
Unaware
Unquestioning
We weren't born this way.
Face made of stone
Eyes made of glass
Hearts made of plastic
Mind made of brass.
Opinions
Creativity
Individuality
Wash it all away.
Conform, conform, conform, repeat.
Will I be a robot one day?
Watch
Don't talk.
Read
Don't speak.
Walls built tall
Privacy in breech.
Complacency
Security
Uniformity
Preach.
Don't chip the marble
Originality is inside.
Don't break the bottle
Thats where everyones feelings hide.
Inside, Inside, Inside, Internalize.
Destroying humanity
One insecurity at a time.
May 20, 2017
May 20, 2017 at 2:20 AM UTC
I have sought You in bits and pieces,
because You are scattered across souls;
I have possessed the places Your heart leases,
for I have not found You as my home.
Do I seek You in those whispering trails
that silhouette my velvet skin –
as prayers and penance, when all else fails
to disrobe me of my mortal sin.
Do You kiss my fingers as strands of beads,
that I touch upon in times of need;
in hopes that You will grant me grace,
or embrace me with Your graceless greed.
Do I find refuge in Your vaulted heart,
with idols that idle in your wake;
in sermons, in summons, Your will You impart,
only Yours to give, only Yours to forsake.
And what of in temples that You have built,
in Your name, of Your fame that You have distilled —
those towering minarets that I cannot breech,
resigned only to altars at which You preach.
A covenant, I covet
with the revenants above it —
Your Altar
Alters You —
my haunting Beloved.
I have sought You in the most essential of ways;
in touch, in taste, in the most sensual displays.
Between covers,
Did I discover
You in a supine repose?
A restive being,
at rest in being –
fated only to my
depthless prose.
Find me, You say, I am yours to find.
A part, never apart, we are seamlessly entwined.
Long for me, for us, and for our Eternal Affair —
For, my Beloved, ours is not a caravan of despair.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 7:26 PM UTC
Rain, hitting my shield,
pounding the drums of the domain,
calling-- waiting,
wanting and wished,
an emotion -- is this tears or fears?
Of happiness, guilt, and unsound mind?
Is this the unraveling of time?
Question... calling,
rain, hitting my shield,
will life by this yield?
The humming, yammering of keys,
documentation,
calling, crying,
giving away into dominion,
what will this be?
Millions of miles across the water and air--
with my lungs weak and tired breaths,
heaving inside my chest,
calling, the humming, yammering of keys?
Will this pain or glory fulfill me?
Silence, deafening glory of serenity,
calling, the airen but barren breech,
of this i stand... holding my own wreath,
of green and red, roses dying within,
what will it bring?
Who may bring this to me?
Calling miles across the way into day and falling...
all gone array,
silence,
dark and deep domain,
back from which i came-
holding still my wreath,
this i still seek,
drawing inside i cannot hide...
every breath i hath giveth
taken from me-- unaware,
slowly, crying...
in hopes of...
death, but not dying.
What will it be?
This search still to find...
the seek?
Calling my heart, to the pounding rain of my shield.
Yield, i say.
Yield.
May 12, 2012
May 12, 2012 at 3:42 AM UTC