Winter is Coming

They crash into a winter freeze,
The crack and whip of falling trees.
Their breath does quicken in such haste,
Summer dreams, winter taste.

The meadow flower song is sung,
And far and wide the white is flung.
So small and subtle, silent knives,
The white has come to claim the lives.

Gone are gods who ruled the light,
Demons tremble in the night.
The sunlight grave will soon be lost,
Beneath an effervescent frost.

Letting Slip

Mud splattered militant gents,
Racing to the slaughter,
Not even water could wash away
Such blunt transgression.
These boys in blue
Were once men in the making,
But making men is something
Only the righteous can do.
We’re making monsters.
Hopes and dreams be damned
If our ego cannot withstand itself.
Let this burden bury our boys,
And see to it that their joys
Be crushed with the authority of war.
The context of our credo withheld
From rapturous public regard,
So our boys are sent off to be marred
With savage atrocities upheld.
Screams and shouts shake
The bleeding Earth to her core,
And dogmatic politicians want more.

Eventide

The sun like a terrified child,
Too mild or meek for papa’s routine,
Abides to the trees, along the ravine,
Careful in tact to fend off the storm
And sift into a shadowless form.
The moon, too weak to spite the sun,
Reticulates his father’s scorn,
And by opposition, breaks the day
Offering none but the faith of morn.
Day into night into day by day breaks,
The father of two demure children awakes,
And silently, violently thrown about,
Shakes his head once and bows out.

Selection One

Selection one dictates.

This frail logic negates

My heart

And blows apart reason

That never rated or related

My hopeless ego.

A stain that drips

And spreads through skin

Is akin to my dearth.

My birth a mistake

I mistook for a miracle.

I can walk and talk

And feel the vehement sounds

Of the open sky

Rumbling...

Tumbling...

Forward and back.

I am sick with pity

For all the witty things

Never spoken.

Only broken limbs or broken hearts

To pull apart what motive

To move.

I am a dying breed,

I need the resurrection

Of a selection

I can limit to one.

Relation Association

Hard-pressed for redemption,

The savior responds with greed,

My need is crushed by waves

Of illness rising like a snake in the abdomen,

Spreading into the pockets of love

To poison and dispatch.

This despondence endures.

We can dialogue for hours

Ending with the sour lies

That keeps my brain awake

In a state of shock and allure.

Oh, how these fabrications

Have overcome my elation

And swindled me into seclusion

Of my own vocation.

For I do admit I am an idealist,

So these lies I attend to,

I bend to my own satisfaction,

Because happiness is only

But a fraction of what I feel.

And the rest is merely a test

That time will authenticate.

It’s never too late to change.

Ode to Obligations

Listen:

Can you hear that faraway clamor?

Perhaps, Poseidon’s ploy to destroy

Our own recited scheme...

Closer than remains, the sea, the holy scene,

And the acreage advancing like a rampart between.

That tumultuous din that reverberates across the tilted plains of this old world,

Connective tissues to something new.

Our own barren flesh made weak by impotence of voyage,

And theory, askew.

Arbitrary sway, this day is another’s, not our own.

So refrain be our only hope,

And through a hallowed scope,

We pray for home.

Punishing Passion

I’d like to hear a song that doesn’t preach of passion,

For I am weary of such banter.

There is proof that love is only fashion,

By the claim of the enchanter.

Let us live by the charm of reticence,

If only for a day,

And divide the sick and sorrowful,

Let loving words betray.

Though next to kin, the skin I’m in,

Seems less like royal rind,

The sequence of love’s frequency

Enamors both our kind.

So drawn together, torn apart,

This story does amend,

Our hearts like damaged turbines

Pumping crudely to contend.