He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.

About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees,
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim, -
In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim
Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands;
All of them touch him like some queer disease.

There was an artist silly for his face,
For it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now, he is old; his back will never brace;
He's lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race
And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.

One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg,
After the matches, carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
He thought he'd better join. - He wonders why.
Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts,
That's why; and may be, too, to please his Meg;
Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts
He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
Smiling they wrote his lie; aged nineteen years.
Germans he scarcely thought of; all their guilt,
And Austria's, did not move him. And no fears
Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts
For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.

Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul.

Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes,
And do what things the rules consider wise,
And take whatever pity they may dole.
To-night he noticed how the women's eyes
Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
And put him into bed? Why don't they come?

Quiet. Silenced. Violent little knives of emotion too potent to speak. Build a wall of knives and stories around the strangled hopes. Feel the hilts against your back and know the blades face out, out, out to your enemies, out to those who would do you wrong. And out to those who wouldn't. Both ways. Keep one in, keep another out, let none through either side. A wall built high and close to keep you safe from pain and suffering and joy, for you are too fragile for joy. Joy might shake the mortar from the wall around you and leave you bare and leave you alone and leave you afraid. Fear makes you build walls.

But walls fall.
And walls forget what it is you built them for.

Knives are forged for fighting but these knives are far too small. Their blades are sharp and their points sting quick, but you’d never search for blood. You’re young, too young, when the first blade shows, in your wall of safety, shows its point turn in, not out, out, out, but at you and the lies you tell yourself. Pluck it from the wall, bury it deep in the soil beneath you. If anyone saw this blade, this rebellious blade turned against you, they might know the truth. Bury it where you never have to see it again and no one will ever find it.

But you only gave yourself so much room.
And knives are hard to sit on.

Pocks and dents and creases form against your soft, protected flesh. Rounded hilts and sharper hilts, hilts inlaid with gems. They press against your back, your hands, your quiet, folded features and stain your skin with shame and fear as the cold creeps nearer and closer and more violating. The ground beneath you shimmers of metal and regret and the walls grow thicker every day, closer to your soul. You hurt.

But you’re too proud of the walls you've built.
Even if they **** you.

Rue thy feeble fate.
Fear the day when thine own eyes
Fail to see beyond thy hand.
Requiem for the rest-easies such as Thyself shall not come as welcome
Praise, but as fire and brimstone,
Blood from the grimy grindstones of
The weary working, ready to rise
And crush all unworthy opposition
With their hilts of red-hot rage,
Raising swords of liberty to the heavens and cutting down the opression that has stilted their air.

Weep for this is thy fate:
Thy death means justice for those who Have been defeated countless times,
Under a blooming, burning sky defeats Pile up like stars, simmering, waiting to Become supernovas and take every puny Universe down in their own glorious Descent, like
Icarus to the sun, a sweeter fall could not Exist on this lonely planet,
Into the unforgiving waters of victory.

Justice for those angry folk who by merit Have earned their own place, not by Some system that hands it to them, but By grit and toil alone,
By the fierce madness that is
Existing and not completely
Giving in to the ruin of being human, Following the words that
A wiser man than I spoke, that life is Struggle, that the only constant in this Life is the pain that all of us try to ignore In the futile attempt to block out the Tragedies that haunt us daily.

Face thy fears, coward.
Thou miserable wretch can't look thyself In the mirror, but can claim that we as a Species have hope for peace on Earth and Goodwill for all.
What dost thou know of goodwill? When didst thou give a single moment of thought to the happiness of anyone but thyself and thine selfish  avaricious interests?
Thou shan't claim to know what is holy and just, yet scourge the very pious people that thou imitates; thou shan't slaughter the devout on a temple whose bricks are molded from hypocrisy and deceit.

Rue thy feeble fate,
Because thou deserveth every blow, every cry of mockery, every disgusted eye and every hideous pitiful moan that thy gravestone will inspire, and even Dante himself could not have imagined the flaming of the hellish unredeeming pyre that will be thy afterlife;
rue thy fate for no morals, no intercessions, no pleas or entreaties to be spared from the filth and maggotry that thou hast built thy very house upon canst save thee now.

Eyes hang low
Retreating from the light,
Seeking shelter ‘neath heavy lids.
Machines whir in the back of my mind,
As their users push themselves
Thoughtlessly through their tired routines
Like hamsters on a wheel.
I hear the water dripping,
Almost as slowly as my thoughts,
Into the endless myriad
Of blue and red buckets.

My consciousness drifts away,
And suddenly it is my vehicle,
As I awake walking aimlessly
Through the crowded streets
Of some hot Arab marketplace.
Bearded men in headdresses
Bicker in strange languages
Over bizarre fruit, almost as vibrant
As the decorated sword hilts
Gently resting at their hips.
Past me walk crowds of lavishly clothed,
Brightly jeweled women,
Dressed more strangely and exotically
Then any person I’ve yet to see,
And I avert my own attention
So as not to draw that of others.

A co-worker walks past me,
Looking at me strangely,
And I emerge from the lake of my mind,
Flopping about as if I were a fish out of water.

Arab scarabs
wielding scabbards
staggered with hilts
laid waste to
idle Cherubs in
garments
embroidered
like quilts.

They're off kilter,
with no filter, and
wear stilts where
leaves wilt, sir
please lilt yr
tactless

anachronisms
through fractured
refractive prisms
to help the mind
unbind from
shop, office, and
factory prisons

Listen:

there's a
penitent androgyne,
speaking
sentence in pantomime
as though rhyme
were no longer
a kind of
berated
creative crime: But

who
the
hell
CARES?!?!?!?!

An empty Chair
Clean plates collect dust
Food warming on the stove begins to burn
Candles pooling in forgotten molten wells
Clock ticking

Listening
For car tires in the drive way
For keys clacking
For a knock
For anything

The soufflé has fallen
The condensation on two glasses weeps
The rings that will be left on the table are not thought of
The asparagus wrinkles and is past well done
Hands turn
The wine bottle lightens
Thoughts of throwing dishes
“I’ll be home at seven”

Comes home at seven
In the morning
To a smoke filled kitchen
To a set table
To wicks burned down to hilts
To a melted ice cubes
To dried blackened memories of a once perfectly cooked meal
To carefully folded napkins
To wilted flowers

To an empty house and a still open back door

Stung by needles with golden hilts...and cut by shiny smiles. Memories, made from skin in the colour of scars, and then come the monster butterflies in my belly. Such is the feeling when the past comes back to haunt.Noah_arkenswagg

Accented voices
interrupted the starry pitch
& Reilly whispered,
"*******,
don't light 'em up,
use your blade instead."

And we did quickly,
buried them to the hilts,
sticky warmth ran swiftly
through my fingers
& we heard thud thud.

Three daggers in my back and a sword through the heart...
I apologize if I don't get up as quick as others, or run as fast.
I'm trying to figure out where the hilts are.

I wish I hadn't had it.
But I held it
It was magic.

I have and held magic
And now I hate,
and hate myself.

Felted in my own fabric
Of moldy fuzz and filth

Is a tapestry of life so tragic
built on edges of forged hilts.

The mountain loomed on the right,
as we reached our destination.
I was reminded of the sight
from the night of invocation
when my mind had taken flight,
and soared to this location.
It looked identical to the vision,
I write without hesitation.

So, in darkness,
and in foreign land,
we plotted our invasion.
Cleaning sand from our effects,
we readied for the occasion.
The air seemed to cool,
and build anticipation,
but of life, or of death?
The wind's exhortations
were a giant's dying breath:
Fitful in expectation
of whatever comes next,
forgiveness or damnation,
or an endless, empty depth,
lacking sense or explanation,
like this chasm filled with darkness,
awaiting our exploration.

Sword in hand, and men at ready,
we made our way inside.
Stomachs tightened, like our grips,
upon the hilts of leather tied.
We moved slowly, stabbing blindly,
at shadows where men could hide,
and found them empty, but for dust.
Uneasiness multiplied.
We advanced through the labyrinth
where the heat would not subside,
gliding silent, in the darkness
toward the smell of sulphide.
The glow of light, in a cavern,
stopped me in my stride.
I whispered for the men
to observe and to abide,
and discovered, to my horror,
there were none to hear my cry.
They were lost in the intestine
of this starving mountainside
with only fumbling hands and feet
to serve as sense's guide.
I sent a thought out to my men,
as best I could provide,
and pushed ahead into the mountain,
fearing this was suicide.

Let me tell you
about the holly
out the left window,
how it flashes
with silver hilts of sun,
mint buckles
in the afternoon -
I want to share
this with you.
Most of my thoughts
don't reach you anymore -  
annihilated quite gently
by various kinds
of distance.
But in the strange chance
you cross the glass wall
& find these words:
you are adored
more than any holly,
any silver, any sun.

Hey, teddy
Bear can we friends or eternal flowers in a garden
Blossoming together with passion, talk about the passion
Words endow us, as the lack of them help us understand
Hey skull in the eye of the saint's shadow
Shiny stares, be my companion or femme fatale
I wanna shine without craning my neck in pallid scales
We walked into hamlets, cafe looking for love that was callous
It hides sometimes like a callow canto for you
A bit lost too, I suppose these are the inchoate creepers of fincas
What's the verbal cue when you're so scintillating and coruscating
Scaling forests with your vivid, vivacious looks caressing my hilts
No lie, you look better than a tiagus
A fruit from Cezanne's pears and the road is life
Baring suitcases, and battered too
With your dancing days and cold gaze, warming and thawing my heart out instilling blue

Got me on a leash, my by-lines heralded by the perfunctory hooks
Take me out to the freezing forest in neon lights of colorful minds
Tiagus and meritorious places in your eyes, climb on the grass
Mirror them with your coldness in the heat of your mind, the rogue looking glass
The mirror is beyond false compare if I'm looking through you
Mirror them and I can find myself holding you close, sunglasses with flowery spokes
She bent to tie my laces and dealt the cards too
To my child as we find love, I can tell this how we should write
Or well that's how I learned from ya'
Truth, my contemplations never end if they start with ya'
I tell everyone she is the one, she isn't unctuous or sanctimonious

By shedding our souls and peace requires understanding
Ain't nobody us understands like you, yeah
In the cusp of my childhood and keeping the nightmares at bay tonight
I can finally look at the waning moon come out after the sun dates the light after each stanza
Light of my life and the darkness of frolicking thing dancing on the iridescent shore of the frescoes of lithe la fille plus anime  
Having fun innamorata, or thallasophilia of the hills that have eyes
We can share the peak of the fire, and the icy handshakes are gone
The glaciers are meticulously melting in love
I'm still staring at the puddles

The memory of water, fuliginous orchards set ablaze
What are you waiting for, get in first with a blazing letter
Style can be introduced, and that's how I understand vermillion art
Hold you tight in my daydreams and the fire of my likeness
I love the heat of chartreuse and a campfire near a distant river of reflected dreams

Much better, if I limply came with roses
Hugging you tight in my wounded life
And bare our souls or becoming deeper
We can spend togetherness on this night of scattered starlight

In sudden heaven or sudden bliss, that's immeasurable
Either way life or living, you expand my mind amiss
The fire of my likeness, a visceral starry dynamo of minds
What's my verbal cue, when you're the Goddess of my ****** things

We speak in silence and hear the heartbeat
Silent because we don't deserve each other, probably
Assimilating these feelings is an immaculate conception and form-expression in one
You make me and complete me, halcyon I tell ya'

That's a truth stated in scientific truth with calculated looks
That lie like the fires in my coal eyes, although Illmatic eyes are brown stuck in moral kiosks of the midnight soul
The body that walks under cloudless climes
The midnight chimes with the starry skies perturbed
Le écrié drama pensée suiva
Winking at us, or we look at them once in while in emollient Earth

A shank, however hard it tries,
Will always be bent.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the dirt covered earth,
Gently it goes - the resolute, the crooked, the unerect.

A hilt, however hard it tries,
Will always be ornamental.
Never forget the decorative and nonfunctional hilts.

Weapons are sharp edges.
Sharp edges are weapons.
Now old is just the thing,
Old blunts the edges

I saw the faint symbol of a generation destroyed,
How I mourned for a dagger.
Does a dagger make you shiver?
Does it?

The weight of the world lies not
On the swords laying astrew on battlefields of death
With hilts bloodied and gazes foul
But the silver tongues on the fields of life
And the gentle hand that touches upon
The minds eternal
And the hearts tender in remembrance

The mundane shake of the head
And the frail finger that
Wipes off the sweat
Crowning the brow

Oft forgotten.
Oft enclosed.