Muddy Boots

The thought of resting, without your blessing,
Sent shivers up my spine.
The kiss on my brow, as it’s all quiet now,
Left a request in my eyes.
Though, what is a request, without a strong grip,
But a prayer for more time?
No, it is but with capture, and villainous rapture,
That you shall be mine.
Roll over tombstones, and howl to the moon’s home,
That dusky, darkened night.
Pick the star for your quiver, the spirits for your liver,
Pluck your eyes from my sight.
For with each reflection, a flash of detection,
Behind firelight,
If my teeth would glow, the more you could know,
The speed of my flight.
Shake the birds from their roosts, as ever more proof,
To the depth of my sin.
Catch each fleeing feather, as my promise to never,
Stray from this bend.
Chase the flow of the river, fill the bowl of the beggar,
As much greater men,
Have fallen far from confession, led yet to reflection,
Of their untimely end.
The clock is ticking, the well bucket dripping,
Fly far from these lands.
Send prayers to your light, for by the break of the night,
You shall be, in the heat, of my hands.

Lonely Patron

Forgive me if I struggle to forget
A happy memory, not distant yet.
Who’s traced so far the footsteps of your heart,
And wandered past where I might dream to start.
Send me to your lily speckled river,
Where your past lovers sip your apathy,
So I may be among sleepless beggars;
Cursed souls who know the lips that taste so sweet.
Send me to your frozen, starlit desert,
Where the carrion escapes the weather
And clings to the bones of its frigid home,
While frozen hearts drink deep its dying moans.
Though, please, spare me your petty victory,
Your bitter hunger for my jealousy,
Your shallow thirst for yet another’s words,
Who too shall fall, too soon, where mine fell first.
I know your malice is no less than pain,
Or the stings in my chest land less than rain,
I know your course, no less than loneliness,
Finds true, its mark, this heart that I detest.
Oh, you siren, your ballads of violence,
Sing it again, and again, til’ death gifts me silence
Sing it again, until blood finds its vibrance.
Sing, you pretty fool, sing to the islands.

In Here

How the lands in here do trap me,
With the hills that role like thunder,
The soft clouds, like kittens napping,
And the talons of mountains that tear them asunder.
Where every trail in the shady forest leads,
To a babbling brook, and small Elven sprites,
With a gentle, cool waterfall hidden in the trees,
And a secret garden, sleeping in the sunlight.
Where the singing shores of the mountain lakes,
All have soft sands and scenic views.
Where every fish you catch brings a grin to your face,
And the sky is our church, park benches our pews.
Where we all live in cottages, with fields of wildflowers,
And our neighbors stop by, time to time for a chat.
Where deeply in love is how we spend passing hours,
And every goodbye implies “I’ll be right back.”
Where the sun always shines when we’re happy,
And the clouds softly cry when we’re alone.
Where the wind gently blows when we’re napping,
And the air lies still as we roam.
Where the cricket’s choir always sounds as a symphony,
And the moonlight still tastes sweet on our tongues.
Where it’s hard to recall a single memory of misery,
And nobody knows what it’s like to no longer be young.
Where the owl sings us lovely lullabies at midnight,
And the rooster sings us bright, bold ballads in the morning.
Where every lonely soul in her bower finds a knight,
And all those who wander are not lost, but exploring.
Where the seasons always match our souls,
And the weather always follows our hearts,
Where we finally find the comfort to let go of control,
And see that all that light touches is a divine work of art.

The Art of Sin

Divinity and art seem to contend with one another, and I find this strange. The kindling of creative fires always appears to be an unseen spirit, or energy, which bursts forth from the soul. It’s never clear where this inspiration originates, and so I concluded the source to be transcendent, and I the conduit. For, as far and wide as I may search, I never seem to find where the tingling desire comes from; That desire which begs me to run a pen over a blank page, and decorate it with silent words, singing of their birth and humming with beauty. Yet, the strangest thing is the closer we get to divinity, the smaller we become; The deeper our spirituality, the tamer our desires. What good does this serenity do for the chaos of creation? Does inner peace not stifle the desperate movements of inspiration? Such a balance of heart chains the brutality of art to the cold floor, in the cell of a contented mind. To be divine is to be unmoving. God cannot be written, painted, spoken, or sung. What is all cannot be more, or less, than one. Though, what is beauty if not imperfection? What is man but an incomplete image? Our mortal eyes will never gaze upon the golden, gated grandeur of the heavens, we may only brush stroke our dreams of heaven upon this earthly canvas. After my death, surely, may I float freely among those clouds, and drift forever within the firmament. Yet, while I live, let me feel the weight of my body and mind. Let me feel pain and desire in this fragile heart. Let me be ignorant of my immortal soul, not intimate with its promise, lest I bid adieu, due to futility, to the furious ballads we throw, echoing into the abyss. By all means, climb towards heaven, reach as far as you can but, when you crash to the earth with your fragments of grace, form them into stained glass for us all. Find your forgiveness and redemption in the beauty and torment of creation. Whether freewill be our curse, or fate our master; Whether we have but one life, or need never die, may this mortal soul still move through time to find its own Truth. May we be the immediate cause, but never the ultimate end.

Spring

The Sun would struggle with
Gasping chokes against thee,
Flowering plumes who squeeze
The breath of light, in spring.

Let your fury, in vein,
Clutch its petty vengeance.
Let the laughter you face
Breaks your sorrow’s promise.

Be silent, woeful lament.
Be still, shifting pilgrim.
Yet, the light will prevail.
Yet, my eyes will be filled.

Our skin to soon rejoice.
Our friends will soon convene.
Beneath tender kisses.
Laying, softly serene

Horizons Won

Here, one of each, and each of one;
Strings of crystals and water drops.
The space between the sky and stars;
A sinking Moon and swimming Sun.
To build without the touch of hand,
To see without vision’s burden,
Not to direct, but to create,
Not to construct, but yet to paint.
Every color in, every line gone.
Every sense blind, every sight true.
To leave body behind in faith,
To melt into ether and grace.
Here, one of each, and each of one;
Strands of timeless, silent thoughts.
To see how near we stand,
Violent shifting sands,
Illusions gone.
Visions drawn.
We are
One.

Diurnal

Not all light shines the same,
Some lay soft, warm suggestions,
And some cast cold, hard judgments.
But they all purge the darkness.
And what do we find there?
Nothing,
Save the invasion of perception.

Saving our deepest dreams,
And most ruthless nightmares,
For the blackest of nights;
It justifies the intrusion.
But what do we miss?
All those things, scattered.
Scattered by our gaze,
Forced into small pools
Of a once infinite ocean
Of shadows.

And what right have we?
We the diurnal tribe, the conquerors,
Who disturb this elegant peace,
And tear at the clothing of the night
To reveal its naked, white truth.
We have no right, none at all.
Nor do we find
What we’re looking for.
For to discern what treasure
That darkness holds,
Darkness one must become.