So saith

Give me hope,
There is no rope,
I need a rope,
There’s this rope,
Who could hang me here?
There’s nowhere to hang.
If all I knew could fall,
Who talks to brick wall!
So speak my name,
‘Tis only lame,
But what of my name?
Nor speaks its fame!
And my life?
‘Tis only strife.
Where’s the road?
Who’s only road,
Can speak in roars and fire,
The art of one so dire,
Who likes me anyway?
No one likes you anyway,
But, I have a love who does!
There’s no light to toss,
No darkness but here inbred,
No breath to scar our souls,
We’re alone.
We’re alone.
We’re about to fall,
So shall we fall,
Or Moon so light is nigh,
‘Tis light that is lie,
Or thus we walk to fence,
In bitter grime defence,
Whose feet in dark imprints,
Just birth and death it prints,
All between birth and death,-
Is meaningless so saith:
All the world. All the time,
There was no world. No time.

Brother Mandrake

As still as light he slept so sound, within his skin lay creases rough. His hair finely cropped soon shoot leaves forth. His demon was human. His beginning was nigh. In a cage he slept, in noiseless feud in utter silence kept, may never once again breathe his last; it was never begun as all his dreams turn to ash. Whilst I walked through room and room, in mazes gone and darkness brought, mine eyes beheld my brother in utter sleep diminishing from what I once knew into a figure within the cage wherein he slept. So soon I recall he began to shrink and with time erased so soon, so fervent can last his eyes to never open again lest cries adorn shall forsake our dearest mandrake beheld.

*

Oh, oh, our Earth is in little known space,
The lesser of two evils within blue and land,
ALAS, the night so grown is but bitter,
Glory of Earth is our darling of the Sun,
This muse who says there’s no number on Earth,
A little song I can with battle in haste by word,
Delight in sombre, in coldness, in darkness, he came,
The avofaunal triumphs shall together away but fade.
The humans; he and she, shall banish all hate and love,
All hate and love indeed giv’n, giv’n in more the air,
You, whom we shall name as sum of pains and pleasures known.
Withstood are honours and passions through this we ere
Say are but music for challenges known are better grown,
Till all things known are slowly piled into utmost calm.
To vanish from eye of foreign vessel or mutual fair,
Given my faith to thee, shall serve and better part.

Finding Myself again

At some point I decided to enter a spherical room covered in a single mirror. At the epicentre of the sphere at the bottom was a single light in circular shape. It illumined through a translucent glass which neither blinded nor shaped the way I feel at the very sight of my own reflection. I was imprisoned here. It was now my home. So it was, and so my ugly face was to blame; for my soul was trapped inside this feeble figure which I call a body which served no purpose whatsoever. Nor could I wed. Nor could I love. Nor could I hate. Nor could I live. I wanted to die. I wanted to suddenly disappear. An hour would pass and I almost forgot how I entered this room or why I entered it in the first place. It was almost like an escape pod onboard a ship, in a distant star system; in this space, in this hour, half my life was kept, half my life shall rise again – so rise above the stars. The more I distance myself away from society, the more human I am; the more time I spend in the stars, the more I see myself for what I truly am.

Thirty Days and Nights

I am for one so spent in time,
Drew sunken cheeps in bitter rhyme,
Had I not been in past so fitter,
Nor never my lone state come bitter,
Then sat was I in lonely rock unmade,
Sang laments of lone stars to fade,
Then in light’s demise for words bade
Mine hourly depart from sun to hence,
Small my word casts from there whence
Grief conjures me a man to do worse
For simple tale upon my dreary hearse,
For I am distant past in little waste,

On Approach

They approached me and wanted to know,
But whether ignoring or not, it was no,
Nights will pass and all hope would fade,
To ask myself why I could not have bade,
In still and silence mourn passing time,
This soothing night of mine was time,
How then I turned from sweetest to bitter,
My words rampaged before them like litter,
And they would move away; the brave fellow
Who could not forgive dampened hearts so mellow,
Had suddenly washed away this turning light,
My faults as now for paralysis sought tonight,

Leave the Past

Ah, the sweet, smooth and sound past,
Like wine uncorked and drunk so fast,
With sweeter chimes of happier notes,
With bitter blots for known undertones,
Can only suffice the effect one sitting,
This drink of my past is mere bloodletting,
Leave it. Leave it. Go away. The past. Go.
The wine. The bottle. The glass. Throw.
Every drop of wine becomes blood vanquished,
I sit here and dream of past relinquished,
The beast within is the angel above,
The demon is the answer to my resolve,
Give me more, the past I need it more,
However I drink it, let me be so sore,

A Guy named James

In a sea of words is there no greater storm than deception. The art of making is for fertile cause; to imbue words so more words grow aloud. The pacemaker of a sentence is the sum of all words plus the thought and feel made to cause it. James thought this once, he thought “how could I, a human lost, so lost I could not hear myself but dare find the words to tell myself how I feel?” This much he thought, and he drank and smoked weed to all the kings glory. This glory raised. This glory lost. A caterpillar could do better. I saw him last week. He was a bit frail, but oh well; it seemed he wanted to be alone. I thought he was just intimate with his shadow. A kind shadow, who wanted to become more than just a shadow. Indeed, the butterfly always existed with that caterpillar; it just hasn’t morphed into one yet. Conversely, a man is just two parts of one soul. One soul believes in God; the other is the God himself.

For Greatness

As a man was raised but less than he,
For bitter soaked is ill litter thorn,
So bitter his life now comes to be,
And the seconds pass since then was born,

Whatever ere is sought beyond his reach
In thinner air every breath becomes a chore;
Himself the very bore he ought to teach,
Himself lone bare yond he ought be sore,

At the same time, he reads more to aspire,
And pages from which then he shall become
Throw no more than what his worth to respire.
As he laid down through the wreathes some