Left to wander,
Sit and ponder,
Sift through thoughts,
Grow weak and somber,
Walk the road,
That all men plunder,
Tell the tale,
That shakes with thunder,
A mind at ease,
Is a mind at rest,
And a mind who pleas,
Is a mind I detest,
For all of the world,
Is not all of its glory,
It's simply the start,
Of the age old story,
Men live and laugh,
And lay to die,
They love, they learn,
They say goodbye.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Entwined in my Branches
Entwined in my branches--
Are gilded tomes of ages lost,
The price to be paid: a sickening cost.
They glide unannounced, into your stare,
That those who will read, are left unaware.
Entwined in my branches--
Lay crystalline jewels of green, gold, and blue,
That if they're disturbed, they fall back on you.
Their stories encased, in gem colored frames,
The lessons they teach, are always the same.
Entwined in my branches--
Twist several bends of bones of friends,
Who've taken their pasts to a well sought for end.
Who hope to get back, all that they gave,
Who spend their whole life, digging their grave.
Are gilded tomes of ages lost,
The price to be paid: a sickening cost.
They glide unannounced, into your stare,
That those who will read, are left unaware.
Entwined in my branches--
Lay crystalline jewels of green, gold, and blue,
That if they're disturbed, they fall back on you.
Their stories encased, in gem colored frames,
The lessons they teach, are always the same.
Entwined in my branches--
Twist several bends of bones of friends,
Who've taken their pasts to a well sought for end.
Who hope to get back, all that they gave,
Who spend their whole life, digging their grave.
Noise
I am dead in society,
Its twists and turns,
And banks and curbs,
Have all but ruined me,
An unworldly addiction,
To a sorrowful trance,
And all of hell's angels,
Sing above me.
Its twists and turns,
And banks and curbs,
Have all but ruined me,
An unworldly addiction,
To a sorrowful trance,
And all of hell's angels,
Sing above me.
The Black Violin
Halls of echoing agony,
And walls that have worn away with time...
A man who played the violin,
Played only on his saddest days.
His music may have caused others to grow weary with chagrin,
But this man played in solitude.
And through his lonely screeches of sorrow,
He gave pardon to the life that had forsaken him.
From deep in the eye of a storm,
This man played his penultimate score,
And the final symphony he would play,
Would be his last breath...
The house still stands, as it always had.
But a new coat of eeriness has been painted over its allure.
For always upon the fall of night could be heard,
The melancholy aria of the black violin...
And walls that have worn away with time...
A man who played the violin,
Played only on his saddest days.
His music may have caused others to grow weary with chagrin,
But this man played in solitude.
And through his lonely screeches of sorrow,
He gave pardon to the life that had forsaken him.
From deep in the eye of a storm,
This man played his penultimate score,
And the final symphony he would play,
Would be his last breath...
The house still stands, as it always had.
But a new coat of eeriness has been painted over its allure.
For always upon the fall of night could be heard,
The melancholy aria of the black violin...
Spider Poem
Spider, Spider,
Creep and crawl,
Spider trecking,
Up my wall,
See it wonder,
While you sleep,
See the spider,
Crawl and creep,
Why does the hourglass always stay full?
Enters the spider in blistering skulls...
See the spider,
Dangle down,
See it touch,
Onto your crown,
Spider, Spider,
Nix and bite,
Spider draining,
You of life...
Creep and crawl,
Spider trecking,
Up my wall,
See it wonder,
While you sleep,
See the spider,
Crawl and creep,
Why does the hourglass always stay full?
Enters the spider in blistering skulls...
See the spider,
Dangle down,
See it touch,
Onto your crown,
Spider, Spider,
Nix and bite,
Spider draining,
You of life...
An Ode to Ill Will
Oh Ill Will,
How it satisfies your feeble mind,
Oh Ill Will,
The tragic life you left behind,
Love was not found,
Truth had been lost,
You left your world as a child,
And still, Ill Will,
You never cease to shine those eyes,
And never left a man to die,
So see, Ill Will,
That all the hate despite your tries,
Can never match the care inside.
How it satisfies your feeble mind,
Oh Ill Will,
The tragic life you left behind,
Love was not found,
Truth had been lost,
You left your world as a child,
And still, Ill Will,
You never cease to shine those eyes,
And never left a man to die,
So see, Ill Will,
That all the hate despite your tries,
Can never match the care inside.
Creation
Blank, white, paper... drifting...
A never ending tale at a loss for words.
A story never read, and never told.
It has no purpose.
None defined anyway...
This inkspot of vague blindness,
Its true form waiting to be revealed.
Master, Creator, destroyer of worlds,
And holder of the future...
All fancy titles for a man with a pen.
But little more do his creations know than what he puts into them?
And when he writes, they act unknowingly in accordance.
They shift through their lives, nothing predetermined.
A writer is always continuing his story,
On sheet or in mind.
Perhaps leaving this blank, white, paper to keep drifting,
On the wind...
A never ending tale at a loss for words.
A story never read, and never told.
It has no purpose.
None defined anyway...
This inkspot of vague blindness,
Its true form waiting to be revealed.
Master, Creator, destroyer of worlds,
And holder of the future...
All fancy titles for a man with a pen.
But little more do his creations know than what he puts into them?
And when he writes, they act unknowingly in accordance.
They shift through their lives, nothing predetermined.
A writer is always continuing his story,
On sheet or in mind.
Perhaps leaving this blank, white, paper to keep drifting,
On the wind...
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