On Variations on a Theme from Hatred, in B Flat Minor

At the summit one sees a land of peace,

through the overture of an utopian telos.

One baffles at the lawless feast,

a variation recurs as a graced beast.

Have you forgotten of all those years,

when no innocence could save you from tears?

How could these rash youth the sentiments unravel,

when the world they’ve known is a cosy cradle?

The harsh air in which we drape one another,

are but abandoned errs of our forefathers.

Yet none could banish the serpent’s return,

for our existence exists upon its ancient urn.

But brood not, my dear friend,

nightfall leads us to the candlelit penned,

what meaning is only death shall hold,

love loves only a loving soul.

Published in: on 13/11/2016 at 11:28 AM  Leave a Comment  

On a Night Train

The mazurs of Fryderyk remind me of my past,

the death of October, when all beauty is but dust.

This scene for me my dear friends recall,

a forelife of two centuries from this fall.

Again I vindicate the errs of my foretell,

two glasses of red and my vampiric bell,

into the morning with my fellow folks,

harmonising the most bewitching spell.

The second err of my mirroring gesture,

was the incarnation of a heartless sword.

My free heart rested on no measure,

yet how mellow is our interlacing chord.

Here I am deserted in a furnished saloon,

resting at my desk within a dancing mort.

The sorites is weaved into our floating tune,

bemused, into a black glass I fall.

Published in: on 11/11/2016 at 9:45 PM  Leave a Comment