The Plague

My head is heavy; my spine is stiff;
my nauseating vessel quavers atop this cliff,
as if death is the exit of this sleepless dream;
I am ill in this season of blossoms and grief.

We are moths diving into the hell of others,
for the affirmation of life they seem to bring;
to the shapes and moods of order we cling,
for none save our angst of life’s unruly slings.

Yet do you know that in this inviting gathering,
our glasses are of the same poisoned springs?
When the earth has naught save plagued soil,
our ideals shall be buried under our mortal coil.

Under a candle’s lead at this whimpering desk,
a lone soul stares into the unfathomable abyss;
even for Mahler is this too long a rest,
but the self must be forged in an illuminated bliss.

The right is untrue for beauty must be beheld,
yet beauty cannot be in the eyes of the beholder,
for true artistry has through the seasons dwelled,
our hearts for life with our hands grow fonder.

The golden leaves shall my long fermata grace,
just as Euterpe has visited Fryderyk’s court;
yet whose tears would for our shadows trace
— are we not but dreaming in a persistent fall?

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Published in: on 21/05/2018 at 9:32 PM  Leave a Comment  

Recurring Reflections

I have a fault —
and the fault is no other than my overarching eyes,
a mortal disposed to reach for the skies,
as eagles looking down upon her own inky sighs.

For immortality I wish not,
for life is otherwise devoid of time and thus beauty,
of music that whispers of what words shy away from,
and the loves that grow for only fading cries.

Yet of death I fear —
no, not if I were a true solipsist or a loveless chest,
but that the thought of death tearing us apart,
more violently than all tragedies of history it crushes my heart.

My limbs are trapped,
in the swamp of the myriads of futures from infinite reflections,
given birth to by simply two embracing mirrors,
with a little light shone from the ghostly remarks.

Yet even this very note —
is a reflection too much, too pompous, a rest too long,
but as all notes do, who am I to judge its right or wrong —
when I am but a helpless pen instinctively swaying along?

Look at all those deeds —
so grand, so timeless, so artful…
Is not a day too short for all your quests and your might?
But look at yourself — to none but the Earth you belong.

Published in: on 21/05/2018 at 12:22 PM  Leave a Comment