"encroaches" poems
the bane of my existence
here
now
is
all of the incessant
noise.
the city encroaches
ever outward,
gobbling up
the suburbs
like the great big
Blob
contributing
layer
after
layer
of noise.
a new metro line
opened last year
disheartened
the morning
realized
it was the trains
i heard
as my puppy
and i
walked so early.
trash trucks,
back up beeping noises,
leaf blowers,
mowers
and trimmers ...
all
conspiring
to drive me
mad.
the birds and owls,
snakes and deer,
hawks and rabbits
toads
and trees
and flowers,
puppies
all other creatures
divine,
tempering
this man-made chaos
this man-made
hell
keeping me hopeful
that
i
will
have some
respite
some respite
from this
hideous cacophony,
this man-made hell,
in the future,
not
too distant.
of course
there are
some benefits
from all
the city life
but i prefer
the silence
the solitude
of nature.
the Taoist recluses
who speak to me,
whose poems
paintings
writings
and silence
are balm
to my soul.
some day soon,
i too
shall join
the recluses
far away
far far away
in the mountains.
but for now,
i am
only a modern day
taoist
recluse
stuck in suburbia,
doing my best,
living in this
noisy hell.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 2:37 AM UTC
Breeze bellows,
leaves echo in
quivering psithurism,
dithering like
unbroken smoke,
this approaching omen goads.
Dozing crows
slumbering in rows,
droves of locusts'
silenced drone,
almost comatose in repose;
nighttime overtones
choir of toads'
raspy croaks
answered by alto
of crickets' orchestral strokes.
Gust encroaches;
robed boughs
cloven open,
bring into
scope and focus
me juxtaposed,
suspended apropos.
Although motionless
and petrified in stone,
provoked by zephyr
coaxing to and fro;
swaying pendulous
and no longer frozen,
locus gently thrown.
Death rattle moan
evoked from throat,
reflex can't say no
to rigor rigidly posed,
final sigh in silence,
awoken vocal,
expelled and disposed.
Smote by
morose emotion,
gun loaded then exploded
by neurosis,
now bloated
necrosis decomposes
into gross ochre.
This trophy
and this ode
both an opus to
my inability to cope;
romanced i proposed,
eloped and betrothed to
my own
inappropriate composure.
Pocket full of posies
plucked when luck bestowed
and tears in a cup, a toast;
crying copiously,
tempest runneth overflowed,
eyes swollen and soaked.
Dipped my toes
in the coast
of this ocean's
amorphous folds,
gripped by undertow
holding control of my soul;
swiftly shipwrecked in
shallow shoal,
an old atoll.
On sandy floor,
water burrows roads;
digging, carving, roams
through unmarrowed
silica and sandstone
eroding into a cove.
A host for
opal geode trove,
enclosing a
technicolor rose,
from the depths
a glowing mosaic shone
Unopened lotus floats
on foam
of lapping waves,
a boat;
prone to no
grandiose notion
or motive,
adrift as wind stokes.
I suppose
this only shows
the total corrosion
into which I dove,
the only foes to oppose
are those of burdens, so
only weightless can I atone-
I must let go.
Mar 11, 2024
Mar 11, 2024 at 11:02 AM UTC
Midnight encroaches like a Lion.
As Darkness swallows the Light.
Temperatures soar to new Heights,
on a Cold and Wintry Night.
She treated Me to Her Velvet Kisses,
and traced Her Lipstick on My Chest.
Her lofty Passions kept pouring.
On My Body, that was full of Zest.
I speared Her, with My Desires,
as She impaled Me, with Her Lust.
She Moaned away My Whispers,
at the end of every Golden ******
We woke up at Dawn, next Morning.
As the Sun showed up it's Head.
The Sun, was a bit jealous of Me.
Coz at Night, I had the Moon in Bed.
Jan 14, 2023
Jan 14, 2023 at 10:36 AM UTC
Midnight approaches
Tick tick tock
Won't someone stop
The Doomsday Clock
From striking oil
Drilling rock
Thirsting soil
Aftershock
Deserted hourglass of sand
Shifts to resource hungry hand
Tyrants of time assume command
Greed consumes
This wasted land
First come the roaches
Tick tick tock
The bugs can't stop
The Doomsday Clock
With beehive brains
No voice to talk
And droning minds
Comprise the flock
As lone wolves feast
On sheep they stalk
Then fear encroaches
Tick tick tock
Too scared to stop
The Doomsday Clock
As violence claims
Each city block
Blood drawn on streets
Like sidewalk chalk
When Hatred's loaded
Gun is cocked
Beyond reproaches
Tick tick tock
How could they stop
The Doomsday Clock
When despots trade
In human stock
Waging war
Upon this rock
As profits slaughter
More livestock
The end approaches
Tick tick tock
No hope to stop
The Doomsday Clock
As poisoned skies
Corrode this rock
With toxic lies
Controlling hourglass of sand
Clenched by Atlas choking hand
Titans of industry command
Still Chronos rules
This dying land
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 2:09 PM UTC
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This poem is self translated version of my Hindi language poem titled "किनारों का निश्छल प्रेम " published in anhadkriti (Dec. 2017) Can be read through the link ==>> https://bit.ly/2Ex69ip
vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv
Only water streams of the river
meets in the Ocean
The banks of the river
never meets with each other
they always stand face to face
but do not come near
If one comes near sometimes
The other moves far and away
To maintain the Distance
It's not so, that they
do not want to meet
But if they will meet
The river will not stay
That too will become a pond
Its water will also rot
Its continuous flow will stop
To maintain the existence
Of the free flowing river
For welfare of living beings
For quenching their thirst
Its very very important
the banks should never meet
The truth is that they are one
even if they are not able to meet
What is life? Life is love
What is love, it's Sacrifice
Without sacrifice, love is lifeless
The banks have completely understood
the essence and decided their destiny
that they shall never ever meet
For the welfare of the world
Its essential, important and mandatory
Banks are disciplined
By their own self-discipline
If the river also follows discipline
Inspired by the discipline of banks
Its beauty gradually increases
Peoples bow and pray to the river
With great respect and devotion
But whenever water streams of river
Encroaches the boundary of the banks
they are criticized and reprimanded
As it betrays the love
betrays the sacrifice
betrays the benevolence of the banks
by completely forgetting and
tarnishing the efforts of banks
And Take away with them
Hundreds of homes
And finally earn disrespect
Well, the existence of the edges
is also because of the water stream
If the edges meet with each other
They will lose their own identity
So, this subtle concept needs to be
Understood clearly and deeply
'Devotion persists only uptill the
desires remain un-fulfilled'
If one is able to see the God
and gets his desire fulfilled, then
the devotee ceases to be a devotee
his devotion disappears immediately
and he often gets angry with God
So the Banks of river
always pray to god
'Our love should remain forever
But like parallel lines
We should never meet each other
Because of us the river must exist
Water streams must stay forever
And remain as a medium
for communicating our love
towards each other'
Such guileless love of the banks
Where else on earth can be seen?
God also salutes their true love
I wish their love should remain alive
It's not always like -
that the shores never meet
Yes, two banks of same river
Do not meet with each other
But a bank of a river
Sometimes manages to meet
with the bank of another river
Because in such case there is
absolutely no fear of
the water streams getting stagnant
The water stream of two rivers
joins with each other
and is called 'confluence'
Its importance increases
Its respect also increases
If one bank of first river meets
another bank of second river
then the second bank of the first river
never minds at all
and never ever gets sad
Its love remains constant as it was
unconditional and unbiased
Moment moment every moment
Second second every second
Let's bow before such
True and unconditional love
Hundred and Thousand Times
May 25, 2019
May 25, 2019 at 1:50 AM UTC
I lay here, paralyzed,
under the vibrant evening sky.
Clouds float on by,
this, I've never seen.
Such beauty before me,
I've only heard of in stories.
It's mesmerizing to see,
almost unbelievable.
What's inconceivable to me,
is that we're the only ones here.
There must be more out there,
in each tear in the space time continuum.
Birds fly overhead,
singing songs to the dead.
Some words are better unsaid,
her bed will be empty tonight.
Night slowly approaches,
as darkness encroaches the light,
the sunsets on another day.
Paralyzed, I close my eyes,
as I lay outside my shattered car,
only a few feet away.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 11:24 PM UTC
Marched in step
Toting a little red wagon
Stride carried pep
Dragging that little red wagon
Weathered in rust
Creaking in the sun
Covered in dust
It weighs a ton
Overburdened by basic trinkets
Remnants of Christmas 05
Macaroni made cumulonimbus
From school days off winchester drive
Photo of family for evidence
Not that it means a thing
Victim of malevolence
Thrown out in early spring
Winter brought about the cough
Toting a little red wagon
His whole system seems off
Dragging that little red wagon
He's feeling old
Went and turned lethargic
Held onto the cold
Wallowing in hardship
Deterioration apparent
There's something horribly wrong
Behavior aberrant
His strength is gone
Innocence in tow
Holding onto reactionary bliss
Writing name in snow
...Blood marked abyss
Death encroaches.
He falls before his little red wagon
A young boy approaches
And steals that little red wagon
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 1:02 AM UTC
"That's it! I'll take it to the scissors myself!"
Mangled, wrangled, tangled mess,
meandering tendrils coil and cross, clump.
Split ends,
knots so impossibly tied the eagle scout is left bewildered,
sun damage: fried, frizzled, frazzled, frayed.
Broken teeth in a gasping comb,
choking brushes enveloped in the furling mess,
hairspray, fruitless, face it:
(Another) Bad Hair Day.
"That's it! Today's the day!"
The call is made, the appointment scheduled,
you sit and wait.
X's mark the calendar, the day is nigh,
your do's judgement day is at hand.
It's time to settle this.
The day before, you wake up,
absentmindedly getting dressed, drudging through routine,
mirror's the last thing you see.
Crusty eyes suddenly open wide,
as split ends seal and knots unfurl,
sun damage heals and combs sing ceaselessly.
The day is met with a new life,
and the dark days of yore seem like a past life,
as this sunny day seems like all there is.
You laugh at what now appears to be such trivialities,
"Twas a bad hair day! And merely so!"
You allow yourself such a shallow deception.
Your hand grabs the phone, your fingers make the call,
your voice makes the cancellation--
"How could I have been so foolish to resort to such measures?!"
You hang up and scoff at yourself,
a hearty laugh in jest at such hastiness,
tossing and swishing your luscious mane to and fro.
You allow it to slip through your fingers,
on the cusp of the cure,
as the bad hair days truly outnumber the good (you know it to be so).
For the next day will come--
You'll greet the mirror with that heart-wrenching sigh,
in visible anguish at the chaotic mess that encroaches upon your head.
Don't let a good hair day fool you;
make the call.
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 12:13 AM UTC
The cat lies on the table. She is keeping her own council, a philosophical feline. It is mid afternoon, an hour before the possibility of tea and cake. Already the room is retreating from the lamp's light into a dusky gloom. Outside the winter garden lies still, damp and cold and still.
Rain comes. A winter rain, almost snow, spreads itself across the window. Ice-full it is a drum with tiny particles rolling across a taut skin of glass. The cat stirs, turns on his side exposing a tummy of white fur. An old cat this, a silent presence now, hardly a purr on a waiting lap.
Books. Piles of books. A book open to reveal pencilled annotations. Several arrangements of papers paper-clipped together, colourfully highlighted. There's a scholarly journal 'borrowed' with a concert programme marking a ‘required’ read. Telemann and Bach infiltrate an investigation of Jewishness in George Eliot's Daniel Deronda.
A framed photograph stands companionably amongst today's letters and the coloured cards of Christmas to come. There's a red-haired girl, a portrait against old roses., a child in a school-blue dress, freckled with green eyes she is smiling carefully, as though not convinced taking this photo is a good thing.
As darkness encroaches, the stories in this space circle the lamp like moths. They rise from the table, detach themselves from the walls (like bats) and float in their own form. Catching leaves, wish-making in a September wood; the fierce tide pouring across the Lindisfarne causeway; small children picnicking by a cricket field. The recent thrill of Jerusalem. Taverner's Mass –
*Oh Western Wind,
when will thou blow,
the small rain down can rain?
Christ! If my love were in my arms,
and I in my bed again!*
Here in this small suburban room there comes together a past; a life reverberates in a temporary peace, a truce in the long campaign of family, ageing, ****** discomfort, obligation, regret (always regret), passion unspent, books unread, poems still to write. And this waiting for a clear answer yet to come, a promise yet to be fulfilled? All is contained here as the alarm clock's digits move towards 16.30 and it is time for tea and cake. Time to rise from the table and feed the cat.
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 1:45 AM UTC
Responsibilty
I dance away from thee
Why can't you just let me be
Escape with some poetry
and voy age for free
A void created
my feet elated
As the A-Voy Dance
is celebrated
We all know this game
As we tango with shame
Find something to blame
Time went and now came
Tax day approaches
Conscience coaches
mind scatters like roaches
A Voy Dance encroaches
Merengue away my tasks
Sip from all of life's flasks
Eye's wide shut with masks
Sick again? your boss asks
Avoid dance, and die in a box
No Samba dancing underground
Alive I feel richer than fort Knox
Lost but now A Voy dance is found...
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 3:02 PM UTC
Therein lies the fur, filled with running wind,
Milkweed in the scruff, the scent of wild-wood,
Some mystery-hearted forest where pulse begins.
Therein lies the Centaur, satyr, and god-disguised swan,
Ageless wonders prowled upon by an age-old Parthenon.
You broke your wolf’s tooth through those haunches of lore.
Therein lies the fur, filled with barking dust and dandelion war,
With a spine that stretched back to the she-wolf and city-birth,
The peeled nerve of a howl once tremored your Aurelian lips.
Therein lies the serf, hunter, fairer hand, and lord,
From wattles and daub, the wandering-sands of Saracen, or Crusader’s moor.
You kept the path beside to remind that instinct shines as the holiest earth.
Therein lies the fur, the warm, ungovernable peasant of sleep,
Ever prophetic in your skies by eyeshut-trace of the hunting moon,
Twitching at the day’s thousand faces, all asleep in themselves.
Therein lies the soldier, nurse, chaplain, and fell-prayer,
Mange-like war is the whimpering season with its flea-bitten welts of stars.
You struck blind but true at the throat of gas-hissing war.
Therein lies the fur, outracing the rain and the spout,
Nested with more birds and Autumn song than rain,
Your sleeping ear pooled like cool eaves of the barn.
I sing once more like a boy into your unfolded ear.
Listen always for my ancient, choral voice and your chores of play,
And race earback to the sun in the belly-grass of your free-eyed fields.
Leave your last paw mark, torn on the red clay of my hand.
You are forever wrapped in human touch, ageless and aged,
And if ever the dark in madder darkness encroaches,
Leave black eternity to my faithful eyes.
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 1:23 PM UTC
Silence weighs heavy
As it dances across my soul
Doing graceful pirouettes
As the darkness encroaches
Muted sounds of yesterday
Echo softly in the distance
Until naught but reverberations
Linger in faded memory
Like laughter that never was
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 4:26 AM UTC
Cold: my toes wiggle.
Rainfall: happy redwoods weep.
Fog encroaches yet.
There: now you are here,
but you are warmer inside –
kindled by haiku. :)
©14Dec2010 @DracoTalpus
for Judith Giganti, who has
never been to California, who
has a huge heart, and who is
otherwise a tiny woman with
a contrary name. ;)
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 5:15 PM UTC
Prelude,
Skin was scorching,
Prickling our naked ankles.
Whispers of passion—amounting to the indefinite.
Excitement overriding fear.
Your smirk—it was scorning my wit, but all the while I was spinning—
Trying to outdo you.
Challenging the norm of lovers before me, despite those many warnings.
And yet, here I am, brushing against your infamous lips,
Having more intentions than I care to share with you,
Because I will be the exception.
I, a determined revolutionist bent on transforming your philosophy.
The inevitable vulnerability, the alleged helplessness found by your touch—
You were all talk, and nothing I couldn’t handle.
_____________
Interlude,
Something encroaches now.
A force unplanned.
It violates me. It breaches the wall of my veins.
Slithering, swimming —
A parasitic force of which I was convinced I was immune.
Biology’s symbiotic model; forever tainted by our act.
For many a love was given in primal flesh, yet goes unrequited in spirit.
I believed I could break this cycle.
I, the revolutionist
Believed I could topple your deeply set pride.
I believed I could crack your shell and pull out the viscera,
Bleeding, pulsating in between my fingers, and let the mass slide from my hands
To fall upon your chest, floundering in plain view.
I imagined that your eyebrow would raise, your lips would part to form a
Contorted grin, you would sigh, and then admit,
“Nicely Done.”
I believed you would be impressed.
I believed you would be impressed…
______________
Epilogue,
Wit is waning.
Skin is cold, rotting… and wasting.
My beautiful body is rotting.
And I cannot admit that you were right,
Lest I would rot more quickly.
Still unyielding to your claims,
Only so you not think of me as fragile,
Not because I think I may win.
Clinging to the hope that you may someday learn to love
This broken, yearning body.
This fallen revolutionist—
All along a convenient satiation of flesh.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 5:07 PM UTC
The shadows of the trees speak to me with a fearless futility
A chant to step into the transfixing traffic with a tripping twist
Fall beyond the black burnet of their being and see the beguiling burden unfold:
The sky encroaches tightening its grip, making the mind slip
Painted with a varnishing brush dipped in tenebrous charcoal
It drips a tear that plummets a ripple on the skin
A betrayal of the collapsing concealment
A desolate obsidian smeared beneath the eye, across the hand
It heeds the damage of a veil of soot and the pallid bruise of the soul.
A tangled cloud unravels from the pipe like the hum of a spinning fan,
A nocturnal whisper. Its sheen of banishment masked by the drown
Of sirens as two carnations drift down the charcoal water of a river.
Jun 18, 2011
Jun 18, 2011 at 2:50 AM UTC
The quiet servants to a neon god
walk beneath blind stars.
The sightless man sits, as two lovers pass
him by, under his feet the ground the changes colour,
Off time with the chatter that surrounds me.
He takes the hand of an elderly celestial
and they exit the scene
the way of waves.
Laughter explodes like a bombshell
the only casualty is silence.
Through the steel arch I watch
ivory wave burn the black
rippled
sea.
A child chases a seagull
through the slits of sea-fog
caught in the light.
The barmaid leaves and my eye follows her,
resting on the corpses of our modern age;
bullet ridden with boredom and the chill,
swathed in the sear cloth of modernity
and eyes glazed by ***
They wait.
The "Sons of the Silent age"
who's thoughts are as stolen
as this line,
stolen from greater men.
The Lindbergh baby has grown up.
I bear witness to the silence and pressure
of the girl to my left, it encroaches this space as
her gaze encroaches the distance.
These streets were once filled with the
flotsam
of wasted youth,
the steady stream of touristry.
Now, in the winter
they lay empty, cold and pecked
by the multitudinous hordes of bird and man alike.
Where once they writhed with life
now they sit dormant and sleep atomic
on a chill stream,
at once both mirror and glass to our
wonderous world.
If we are the dreamers and music makers,
then our instruments sleep in dust
and our dreams walk silent in this defeat
of waking.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 11:52 PM UTC
In an enchanted wood
Surrounded by plant life
Faeries play
Never knowing strife.
When humans come along
They're told to hide
Forming a throng
The law, they must abide.
What would become
Of one who would stay?
Would she succumb?
Would that human play?
They'd never risk it
For fear of their immortality
Could a lone human
Outwit a faerie?
The risk is immense
She really shouldn't try.
But in her defense,
Her wings wouldn't allow her to fly.
The human approaches
The one tiny faerie
His presence encroaches
On feelings that vary.
Anxiety and zeal
But most of all fear
Is what she feels
As he draws near.
She darts behind a bush
Hoping he didn't see
She knows she shouldn't push
And should let him be.
He looks to the left
And then to the right.
He wonders if something just left
His line of sight.
He almost passes
The bush that she's inside.
But something falls, crashes
And he jumps to the side.
A tree limb falls
And collides with his leg
He begins to call
For anyone, he begs.
He cries out in pain
As the blood begins to flow.
Knowing its in vain,
His tears begin to show.
The time is right
For her to leave.
She should take flight.
This, she believes.
As she readies her wings
To get away from this man,
The anguish this brings
Is more than she can stand.
She emerges from hiding
Her heart beating fast
She shouldn't be siding
With humans, they're so brash.
She flies to where he lays
His breathing grows slow
She knows she must stay
The healing energy from her begins to flow.
With a sudden jolt
The man sits upright.
Before she can bolt
He grabs her, mid flight.
This must be a dream
He believes in his mind
Her wings begin to gleam
As he holds her inside.
His hand grows hot
And he releases his touch.
He becomes distraught.
This is too much!
Faeries aren't real
He says to the air
He begins to feel
A longing to care.
She flies to his ear
And whispers lightly
Faeries ARE real
So believe, if only slightly.
With a wink she's gone
And then a bright flash
He lifts himself from the lawn
This realization will last.
Feb 3, 2010
Feb 3, 2010 at 2:23 AM UTC
A cold winter draws near
Darkness lives here
As snow whirls around
There comes a booming sound
War approaches
Like lightning, so quick
An enemy encroaches
A land, prosperous and thick
Archers and swordsman
Join the fray
A cavalry of horsemen
Clashes here this day
Death is a venerable vintage
A wine of blood and gore
A variable incentive
For the hoards to go to war
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 6:39 PM UTC
Valentines day is nearly upon me
All the ads tell me I should be happy, you see
In reality how can I be when you are not here with me
As the day approaches
sadness and pain once again encroaches
A stark reminder of my loneliness
whilst I miss your sweet loving gentleness
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 6:18 AM UTC
*who are we
in god we trust, the ruler of a nation bereft of purities
corrupt ink in the capsule of a human’s casing
wages printed on the stoic faces of our leaders, blood and gore imprinted on their eyelids
spilling our incoherent tangle of words into songs and pleads for relief
we are spitting images of our mother, and her mother
iodized wounds that stretch to our finger-prints that they deem must be caged and stamped at all costs
our wrists are battered and tied with the rope of our pride
and our pink flesh is swelled up with their brand freshly printed onto our skin that reads, ‘you are nothing’
nothing but chains of forgotten children abandoned in rusted swing-sets
children who’s screams are full of hot air like the balloons that loiter about our minds
the balloons that burst sharply in a staccato beat when bittered thoughts contaminate them
we are children who press our fingers into our eye sockets and scavenge around the recesses of our minds
young hands damp with drops of the dreams that cascade down the pores in our bodies
the drops that empty into the gutter that encroaches the territory of our bones
pushed back dreams like the rotten tomatoes that stink of moldy desperation in the grocery store
memories melted into perfect formations like a drill soldier with a stone-cold face empty of temerity
memories stacked up like all you can eat pancakes that drape over us like an everlasting blithe
they leave vague impressions of naivety and sit despairingly upon our caged ribs
they cower behind closed doors and occasionally peek out from the clouds of illusions to say,
‘are you happy?’
but they disappear with cruel inspection like a fading smoke because we don’t dare to discover the truth
but even still we harbor desolation-spiked weapons that secrete through the same pores that piece us together
we are the ripest of onions, a scintillating mixture of strong scents and spirits
and the moment we realize this we try to scrape the walls of our binding
try to peel ourselves of the revolving emotions that we have been programmed with
and as our wrinkled layers flake off, we learn a bit more about how different we seem to appear
until we are nothing but a sun-dried core, who has found the truth only to move never-more*
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 8:17 PM UTC
In the field
where roses sing
a lonely man approaches.
His face is haggard,
stained and scarred
yet strong as he encroaches.
He won't stop
to think of rest
though long his quest has taken.
His ka-tet broken
friends all dead
yet his resolve's not shaken.
He goes up
the ancient steps
and sees his precious moments.
Why does he smell
sweet alkali?
Is this a form of torment?
Thirty-eight
he sees his love,
sweet Susan dead from fire.
Oh Char-you tree!
He feels such guilt
but keeps climbing the spire.
Up he goes.
He ponders this:
Mayhap it goes forever?
But, no. It can't!
His life is long,
but not that long, however.
To the top
where one last door
with ROLAND on the surface
does call to him
and begs him come,
for was this not his purpose?
There engraved
upon the ****
the guns his father gave him
wrapped in a rose.
But they are gone.
No, even they won't save him.
Past the door
the hot Mohaine
and alkali await him.
He begs mercy
but ka has none.
The Tower it did bait him.
Roland, he
begins anew
and remembers not a thing.
He marches on,
the Tower waits
among where roses sing.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
Wind in my hair
I stretch my legs
Smell food in the air
count the lamppost pegs
a breezy, misty morning
boys playing ball
seagulls give storm warnings
we've got fourteen hours in all
play fights in the lot
before the night's coaches
the buffet's only got
moments before the crowd encroaches
only minutes before the breakfast buffet
and a tour of the city later today
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 4:13 PM UTC
"Faith" is suffice for comfort
If the abyss encroaches on thee
But only the Surgeon prevails
Making blind eyes see
"Faith" deceives and says the pivot
Of the universe is the human race
When the crux of our existence
Is lost somewhere in outer space
"Faith" is impotent next to fact
When Reason is apace
But ignorance defends itself
For fear of losing face
"Faith" just means a belief
Held uncritical, unthinkingly
But I have become a sceptic
Oh Science, inform me
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 8:40 PM UTC
We will walk
this crumbling precipice
with the kinks in our backs.
We will pay
no mind and no heed,
the darkness that encroaches
from unassuming cracks.
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 12:53 AM UTC
I like to think (sometimes)
That I am a voice of Reason,
Especially when Reason
Eludes the masses.
I am the back-up plan
When everything goes
Pear-shaped, and You find
Yourself in a Living
Nightmare, struggling to
Survive in a hostile
Hostel far, far from home.
I'll be Your kernel of hope,
When all Reason evades
The light of day and
Night encroaches doomily.
I'm for the under-classes;
The voiceless throngs -
The Real backbones
Unrepresented by the Elite.
I'm for the Prostitutes and the criminally conjoined groupies;
I'm for the Legal Aiders - The reps on the ground, helping as best they can;
I'm for the lost-in-the-system; the poofs and lesso's; the avant-garders -
I'll be the rear-guard actioner, protecting Our arses from undue surprises.
I'll be the validator for the vilified,
And I'll not allow undue cruelty to trouble myn own loved ones -
My hard-lifers and my ugly-fuggly beauties --> Hands off!
And, I'm for the silent souls patiently waiting...so long, so long...
But ever hopeful that someone will rescue and love them too.
[Sorry I took so long to get up to speed. I know You knew way back when.]
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 12:35 AM UTC