Tag: poem

Informed of their collapse

The tome of the past;
Is sometimes written as a symphony, though in a key;
Long forgotten and buried under the gathered silt;
Of progress, of war, of the sheer brutality of time;

Year Zero often comes subtly;
When the sun emerges from below dew-drenched hills;
And things are not quite what they were before;
A new age is not always proclaimed by a revolutionary;
To thunderous applause;
Nations are not always told of their golden age;
Or informed of their collapse;

When the academics unearth my time;
What great men will be moulded?;
What villains will be cast?
And what role will I play in this;
Production of three acts?

The Wild weaves its throne

The towering cliffs flinch;
When the waves crash upon them, grasping;
For they know that none;
Can resist the sea;

Elegant furrows, living in a paradise;
Of perfect order;
A hundred thousand seasons pass;
The plows crumble;
Into feeble rust;
And the Wild weaves its throne from;
Vines and moss once-shunned as chaotic;
And imperfect;

This Earth is not a sphere of glass;
Where every shape is kept in stasis;
The world is built;
To be destroyed- it is alive;
And nature is its blood.

As the sand falls

If I came upon an hourglass;
Where time flowed from what could;
To what is, then to what was once;
And held in my open palm the sand;
Of joy, sadness, loss, and redemption;
Would I want to know what story the grains;
Yet to fall would tell?;
Or would I wait for time to etch;
The story of my life, where each chapter;
Held but mere foreshadowing of the next;
And was the author, the emperor of recluses, preparing for an;
Eleventh-hour twist?

A glorious victory

When the mountain fissures empty;
And all the iron of the world;
Glows hot on the anvil;
Before the hammer shapes it;
Into the sword of all mankind;

Wood, etched with a thousand stories;
Of a primal time when;
We looked to the stars and found;
Our past selves;
The trees lament;
As they fall to the loam;
From whence they came in centuries past;

The farmers till the undulating hills;
Where ripe wheat and trees brimming;
With succulent fruit are stripped bare;

After some time the bodies of;
Humble men litter the fields;
Where the wheat once wavered in the wind;
And the Earth’s bounty lays beside them;
Weapons for a grand crusade;

A plump man decked with feathers;
Immaculate in every manner;
Will survey the forest of corpses and declare;

“A glorious victory”;

Blossoms

Rusted, monuments now;
Stoic reminders of the collapse;
There to see the start;
And end of a dream;
 
Streetlamps masquerade;
Stand ceremonial guard as darkness forms;
An elegant lattice that traps the;
Citizens within their fire-lit homes;
 
Not all, though;
Two ford the dark rivers to isles;
Claimed by a benign moon;
And sit upon the grass to reveal;
Inner selves;
That hide under the judging sun;
 
Luna holds no prejudice;
It gently smiles upon the two;
Whose hands drift towards each other;
 
All is not well in the world;
Where time and neglect have;
Made dust of triumph;
The dark becomes;
A rigid cage;
 
But also, for some the key;
The two hands clasp;
Love blossoms;
Love blossoms in the dark;

Its contours ever darkness-scarred

The sun does droop with epic effort;
Land alight for another day;
Slowly sways beyond hills to slumber;
Amidst encroaching gray;

Each shade of the day retires;
First bright citrus fades away;
Then complex tones of earth and blood;
On dancing meadows lay;

The disc, alight, does bid adieu;
Followed by its color guard;
Until the land grows cold and quiet;
Its contours ever darkness-scarred

A night so dark that even flame is frightened;
Into a dull monotone;
Where the Earth exhales, and slowly whispers;
The sacred mantra om;

owls among me

In the darkness of the room; I am surrounded by owls

sighing with their blue-white eyes as they sit on tables, shelves, and ceilings

they gaze;

but yet they do not see.

No fault of mine for I know not where

in what factory, in what nation they took their sight; yet

I wonder, in the obsidian winter beyond these walls,

who are you, owl of mine?

Can you think, or are these numbers upon you a tattoo

left by an elder long since past away;

can you smile, or is this happy expression merely a mind contemplating

for a few minutes too long;

And can you feel, or do your memories hold no tulips, no zinnias, no tours around

a field, coyly gazing at an owl sweetly returning your gaze

Bedside owl, I do not know what sorrow you hold, what joy.

But I love you, if it means anything.