Three A.M.

A frail birch sways in the wind,
brushing from nowhere to nowhere;
empty words are as words empty,
words are but words.

In dreams where the heart desires,
to the gardens or to the lairs?
In rusted chains a heart is tied,
to heaven and earth.

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Published in: on 15/08/2018 at 2:06 AM  Leave a Comment  

Earthly Rejoice

Perhaps apathy is darker than darkness still,
’tis when two voids at one another stare.
Yet is life not for one to simply live?
What loves could linger post a fermented air?

Who is to mock at our comical lives,
when two worlds clash over prosaic affairs?
Are glories and crimes but the dandelion’s quest,
or the virtues and vices of a weary flare?

Published in: on 31/07/2018 at 5:16 PM  Leave a Comment  

Hyperreality

‘Yet how can she hear my truest voice,
If all the beauty are mine alone?’
In a wasted world of fluttering fears,
the flares of a gaze shall hollow your bones.

Against nature and reason our hubris guide,
behind a veil of pretences our frailties hide;
your virtues shall by your comrades abide,
true light shall eternally in darkness reside.

Published in: on 21/07/2018 at 10:51 PM  Leave a Comment  

Pas de Deux

No, not two.
Not when the snow is melting,
before she took leave of the blushing clouds,
pierced by the harsh wind.

No, not two.
Not when the flowers are fading,
before they rose above the emerald sprouts,
poisoned by the lawful flairs.

No, not two.
Not when the leaves are falling,
before they golden in the garnet droughts,
fissured by the blind fiend.

No, not two.
Not when your senses are dying,
before they caught sight of the artful hours,
wasted by the heartless fairs.

Published in: on 09/07/2018 at 10:51 PM  Leave a Comment  

For Life

No birth can come of this season,
as the heavens bleed at dawn,
her wounds marked by perfection,
though for imperfection I long.

For what of life I desire,
if not the beauty of a song?
To the voice of angels aspire,
to none but beauty I belong.

Published in: on 09/07/2018 at 10:00 PM  Leave a Comment  

The Limits of Being Human

With the pen you may as God pretend,
shades and flesh of all forms create;
but heroes are not made of fanciful ends,
but of their wonted mortal fate.

For what do the people’s paths diverge —
when all rivers yield to the ocean’s call?
Upon death lovers shall never part,
the truth is — death is the union of all.

What mighty sword from the legends you hold,
or mystical forces you may freely wield;
shaping life in your masterful mould,
shall not from the banes of existence shield.

So tell me, my friend, what fortunes await
— when mortality has no roads unbound?
Must I play a fool for the fools’ parade,
or to weep at the summit for the fated plague? 

If the mind could the mindless torrents sway, 
if freedom were to be no longer a curse;
no exit still from our mortal crate,
lest beauty is to be the greatest dearth.

My skin is breathing this evening air,
sensing the workings of dice or dole;
in darkness I see the inky flares
of dreams that summon from a rabbit hole.

Published in: on 07/07/2018 at 12:57 AM  Leave a Comment  

Barcarolle

My heart is a white canvas,
pleading
for autumn’s visit,
so I may to her
 whisper:
‘now of joy, now of grief.’
What hazy thoughts the haze may hold.

Apollo’s genius is the sword of Chronos
— bloodstained — for the
scarlet petals fall to their crimson demise,
over the white lilies disciples of Eros price;
the virtuous reprise is ‘soaked in gore’.

Is there a June at Saint Peter’s gate —
for where all your friends had made haste?
this lake slumbering under an indigo sky,
alone, in a boat who has lost her oar.

‘In those near final days I had visited you’
— those fleeting passages at times eternal,
a long fermata has him since imprisoned,
a ghostly longing carved all loves infernal. 

Keen — the wild roses, how vivacious you are,
adorning this wasteland with graceful scars;
yet all entwining threads must one day part,
art no more artful than two colliding stars.

Dreams, floating along a river,
are lost, to the melodies of Pyotr;
Recurring memories your memories elude,
as a quavering flame in the night quivers.

Published in: on 30/06/2018 at 10:54 PM  Leave a Comment  

Claude et Vivian

My very childhood has dictated,
to explore is my only fate;
on whatever quest I may embark,
never I fail to be off the mark.

Let us in the streets rejoice,
with music in the evening breeze;
the croaking artefact lies in poise,
like Romeo and Juliet’s final choice.

So in my embrace she had sang,
as you sat in silence, and listened;
for Joaquin or the old jazzy tunes,
your retiring eyes again glistened.

We drank chocolat at le saint-amour,
like old friends — needing no words
for our love of simply a shared rainbow
for our artful souls only we may know.

Though your legs struggled to obey,
though the smile is our only tongue;
your spirit I see in the golden frames,
in the Sicilian summits and the fabled chansons.

As rain poured down in romantic gestures,
at the window we beheld Fryderyk’s grave;
a timeless story from the Parisian leisures,
is lost in humanity’s inauthentic cave.

Published in: on 08/06/2018 at 1:09 AM  Leave a Comment  

The Will to Believe

Almost a revelation, almost…
The wise words of the wanderer
drift about as a clinging ghost,
when the thrill of life is whatever.

But not for me, not for me —
the neon lights are lying,
not even the kiss of a corpse
from the memories of the dying.

We all live for but one reason —
for want of the to be encountered.
Yet what lies in this infection?
Are not the heavens so festered? 

This is almost a crusade —
a duty of the corrupted artist,
in a tornado is this parade,
playing the mortal catalyst.

Published in: on 08/06/2018 at 12:13 AM  Leave a Comment  

To Spring

Once upon a time, there was an earth;
and on the earth, there was a land;
and in the land, there was a river;
and by the river, there stood a house.

A pair of lovebirds nested in the willow
that watched over a garden of tulips,
where often two lovers would promenade,
in his black silk vest and her embroidered blouse.

They strolled along that little road,
through the sweet scent of morning mud,
where children roamed among the flowers
that were not painted by lead and blood.

By the fireplace he played his guitar,
who rose out of the fabled rosewood,
when forests had not built hills of tar,
when the peaceful skies we did not intrude.

One day that willow too perished in flames,
where the river passed lay shattered frames;
one day our little summit may also flood,
summer and winter war over autumn’s dust. 

My child, if you have seen the colours of spring,
you would forsake all for you may to her cling;
alas only amidst these corpses are we to brood
over none but legends of our silent prelude.

Published in: on 02/06/2018 at 10:34 PM  Leave a Comment