I’m done

Ere no word of mention: I’m done,
All the words I said are all but gone,
And he said that I was all in awe,
I’m done. It was all for much this sore,
For heaven blind me this creased man,
So sing me tears from molten glass, an
Insight of this love once I foretold,
The months and years have my heart in fold,
So do what you must, and so leave me,
So give me nought, and now I am to be,
Is this it? Am I half the man I swore?
To disembark myself from skin I wore,
Now kill me here and all I am to sing,
So hearken my call; this love a fling,
‘Tis all but marred in mute task alight,
And won’t give life wanted without fight,
A shadow of angels now curses my own god,
And this god is the man of the inner dog.
Now I am whole again, I shall be better,
But when I see you again, I’ll think better,
Enough. All dreams I had with you. Enough.
It’s over now, and I have said how tough;
So muse me with silence, and all shall fade,
Close mine eyes; I’m done, and adieu I bade.

Demons

Every wing becomes a scar betrothed,
Everything congeals with blood so weak,
An echo calls the moon by fools aloof,
Their sounds so silent only mad can tell,
And with every cold touch is ill begot,
And all but none can none say they heard
A creep lurks in the dark in trees behind,
There it breathes the fear you ought deny,
Soon it bleeds your angst with thoughts proclaim:
Never mind the love you seek in heart’s recess,
Never mind the mean you hold in great excess,
I will not pass into shadow as I am such as is,
Nor back down ere your shadow crawls to this;
The tale of great delight in those parts there,
Forget all who knew you to be so fair,
This night is deigned in new pleasures gain,
And what resistance you hold is ill but vain,
So coming with me, no pun intended, is right,
And slide all but skin ere sleeping muse is tight.
For hypocrisy is as virtue a vice as sung by fame,
It be never; perversion speaks not my name,
And if I am got, so shall I fold my heart in two,
But if I am fought, then may my heart rise at once.

Of Follies in a Single Moment

All the world’s a meagre chase, nor bred are the hundreds gooned for base. And the art of folly so vivid and few can never in arms twice be fed. Nor like the saddles of knowledge whose lives attached are bequeathed upon me this solemn night, the artist wept in cool blood pray. Alas! My honed wretched state of no becoming thwart but sulked to stay. Nor was I the wiser none in keeping state that larks in space and bitter stone this fire come path. These people I ought to know can never give ought what I am; it is in my knowing that they are past. Oh, my life for their knowledge! Who am I to kiss the rock whose life forefeit in great disdain? Am I the curtain to kiss and scorn? Am I the jest to bleed and scorn? They are the virgins of ill got so torn. I am the nightingale of ill suborn; whose loneliness in song is gall so thorn. Are we then the sinners or liars of jokers born? Why don’t mine eyes roll to their nerves to tear? Am I this much a boy for man so ill? Can I not listen to gut in shape to throw? Nor am I this sight in keep’st shred. Nor all echoes are tales be known. No beer nor wine, no coke nor weed can shape me here. This abstract fellow too soft to be fluid; this concrete I lay are beds of chains I cast to stay. Nor better are the stars whose black spots can me shine a light to bring closer at the yolk of night when all lights perish into mine eyes in kindred sleep.

He

In the midst of chaos, he found his purpose; in the midst of woe, he found himself. In the midst of defeat, he found his vict’ry; in the midst of death, he found his life.
In the midst of thought, he found his reason; in the midst of fight, he found his right;
In the midst of knowing, he found his base; in the midst of God, he found his faith,
In the mist of loss, it was he who became lost; in the midst of now, it was he whom he shall know,
In the midst of past, it was he who became now; in the midst of song, he knew he was not alone.

My dearest, of all sights. Now comes a time when a man’s life suddenly ends, and then is never returned. But his ego will always return. It lives in the mantelpiece of that brain and casts aside all reason and thought; everything becomes in peril. Imagine being took by an unknown force and in order to live you ought your life to give. It was simple. It was the ego he had to give. The art he gave became the chance he diced. In muse besought, he wanted to be something better. For all men desire to be someone better, but none dare walk the steps that lead him to danger peril. But when he does, so shall he in desire fraught, so that any who knew him shall remember him for any he gave.

But I mention no further the calm, and the serene, and the moon that is but akin to star shine bright across the Earth. It is he who walks the day. His peace is the war of others. Your words ill-thought are but comedy to a man’s venture. And it comes to this when she becomes the man and you become the lady to sing in vital prose to understand the way of knowing and the ink that throws the fray.

No tattoos nor metal can break a man, nor make a man, nor fake a man, nor forsake a man, nor partake a man in restful hope of who he is and what he ought to be.
No meagre lie can make truth a man, nor loss whether in court or foe make better the art he ought to give.
Nor insults nor compliments can move a man without a value in the meaning he ought possess.
Nor fright and fear that his life be gambled and ought be shambled in the essence he once ought to live.
Nor exist in the lurks of others as demons true; he himself becomes the demon.

So cast aside all the worlds he himself sought, and so last in the now that all moulds himself he brought;
Nor kite the lingering feel, the emblem wheel, the chasing eel, the darting meal, the exiled zeal;
The harp is broken. The lark is dead. The art is led. Homer is said. A soma is fed.

His is the sum of all he knows; he is the product of all he endures; he is the difference between himself and foe;
He is the life he never had; he is the reality that brought him dread; he is the shout that calls him forth;
He is the new that brought him old; he is the love that brought him cold; he is the dove that brought him sold.

Train to Mars

Nor is it a random station,
Nor is it just any train,
This is now the train from hence,
This shall take you from hence,
The train, with no stop here to there,
Is but near to greater sort so fair
In price and of creed to depart,
From this place you are now in Mars,
Imagine all the orange and all the rocks,
Now look all around and see our train,
This departs and off to Earth it departs,
Now no human, now no alien, now no life,
You look all around and see no one,
Just no one, nothing, just nothing;
There’s no station, no government, no food,
No wine, no sight, no new light to calm you here.
Imagine, nothing. Just nothing. Just rocks and sand.
How beautiful that is? That no one is around?
I wish I lived there. No more drama. No more rife.
I don’t need hope nor fate to guide me now,
All I need is the rocks and sand.
Spare me the oxygen, my breathing is but poison to life;
Spare me the heat, for I am but heated mind beheld.
So, the answer is clear: a train to Mars.
And never come back.

Meaning

In pursuing a career he wanted to be that whom inspired him, she wrote. “So he decided to be, and then thus he became.” But in the words of his father, of late has taken illness, he could not understand why his own kind would not be that of his own kindred blood which by forsaken creed had suddenly consumed him. This sickly blood, she added, suddenly became an illness; the fatigue was too great. All was lost.

There he walked, in a mountain fought, and slowly climbed. Then he shrugged. Then he sobbed. It all seemed too much, all at once. He is no mountaineer, but he simply wants to climb a mountain. He was no man, but he hopes one day to become a man. This much, his mother wrote to her sister, who since recently was under a great melancholy for ill choices she made that could never be reversed. “Oh! I am sorry for all I’ve done! The men, the wine, and all the tricks I’ve endured. It was not to be.” Though, her brother might add that he would not want to be deserted by a woman just like his sister; but perhaps to be imbued with new wisdom as to how to live with one.

Near the mountain peek, gossip for months soon called at bay. For months, our dear fellow climbed a metre closer to the tip; as much as each day his mind felled closer to the dip. It was like he wanted to break himself so that each piece can be collected overtime then brought together with each piece part of a new image that formed the basis of his own. Though the pieces have not changed, though the image has changed, the very essence upon which these images carry is now part of something greater. That greater essence became his meaning. It became his life. In essence, his life is the sum of why. Life no longer ceased meaning; it augmented the story.

His mother closes the letter with a solemn wish that once her son reaches the tip of a mountain he may at least come down and never return to the tip. “For what it is the base without its peaking stone?” He would ask. So casually it was, but she could not even answer, for she has never travelled the heights he would. Sooner or later, he would know the answer and once he does, he would have part of the meaning he needed to live.

False Insanity

But I am not insane, if not so,
The art I am, if it be not so low,
The angels speak as much I am,
The gift they offer in as much a gram,
All my cares and worries slowly gone,
In a single instant my demon whom I don
Shall bequeath me honour this respite
Which despite my urge to put up fight
For greater honour than my parallel;
It is indeed a folly that I am not at level
To force my mind in the common masses,
Lest I too become as common as asses.
Most of the time I pretend to be sober;
It is thrilling; beautiful; if not a coma,
I am sought, and I am caught to see,
Lest if I talk I am but nought to be,
Then grief me here, my solemn grave,
It is I who can only be so proud deprave;
Mine eyes cast a seductive look beheld,
And I will inject insanity through assailed
Creases of fine skin and blood interwoven,
Then I myself am saint for Satan, his coven
In wrought despair might I’ve thunk more
The hours I pass soon cherish seconds sore
Whom nourish sunken tears in bloodied wipe,
When all humanity swept becomes my ripe.

Here he was

And of fate’s chance to swim past,
Eluding him in the coldest storm to task,
Nor better wasted his only plank to rot
In final hours his laying to rest came close,
And all his dreams once he knew soon darkened
Ere the sun pause for hour more to mourn
The curse that whims overhead in darker shades in blue.
All the mornings and evenings were equal,
All the nights became his eyes to feel,
Hence resigned was he from birth and then to pass,
Though he’d continue to listen and hear advice, Read More

Out There

Yond. The heart that meets the bay,
Long had they walked in spite of fear,
In bliss they sang and hopes ere rang,
The ears rung through sounds and hope,
Their lives relished the taste of Earth
For which no sea could never wash away,
And there stood this sight of great joy
Who knew which pill they ought to take.
Bitter nor sweet, nor salt and gruel
Could fuel the motion on mountain cliff,
For within this group one had heart to go
Beyond their group’s measure before the Sun. Read More

Rights of Mad

Noon dispel the grueling fear,
Moon despair an hour this night,
Gone are the trees I chopped away,
Bound are the hands taken from me,
Long are the feet held to hang,
And all the world is upside down,
Yes, upside down, yes, yes, down,
So give me blood for I am palish,
Now impale on the cross I live,
How much I hate the rays of sun
Before the cross can send me here.
So this bird is thinking away, Read More