Madman

Calmly,
Selecting paths,
Creating waves,
Inciting ink to flow across the page.

Could passion prompt dissention,
Will force destruction,
Confound,
Obstruction.

From orderly possessions come stupidity,
Expectations of normalcy,
Employed action,
Disdain.

Reflections,
Obscure the view,
Deflect,
Correct my step.

Tomorrow needs for nothing,
Yet somehow,
Demands,
What sweet folly is this?

We are but sparkling dust,
Dissolved from error,
Escaping,
Disarming chuckling spirits.

Another night,
Perhaps another evening will confirm,
Reality,
Is but judgement.

What greater reason could we need?
Immortality springs forth from word,
From thought,
From misunderstandings.

Capture this script,
Hold it to the flame,
Burn,
And be satisfied.

For I have chosen to walk the path,
Not stroll, but march,
Not whole,
But longer still.

Bleeding,
I finally see the man,
Composed of infinite metaphors,
Wrought of silver.

Purchased from the tortured shadows,
Justified,
Escaping mere innocence,
Seeing nothing in my past.

Rebellion is a sin,
Which frees the soul,
Shackles,
Only the wrists.

Madman,
I hear voices,
Directing prosperity,
Feeding on tension alone.

This day is over,
Dying,
Repercussions exacting,
A measured tone.

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Performance Anxiety

I’m sorry it has been so long since my last post! I have recently moved into a new apartment and it threw off my routine completely. Between cleaning, planting veggies in my garden, visiting family and work, I have had little time to write or respond to comments…

But enough excuses! Here is a long awaited piece of poetry.

Performance Anxiety

Looking forward,
Pressing on,
Sating thirsty souls.

Undue tempers,
Pieced together,
Framing my aplomb.

I have but little else to say,
I have possessed the whole.
Despite the nature of the game,
I’ve learnt to strike the chord.

Playing with the devil’s flame,
Writing from the heart.
Breathing naught but effigies,
Seeing naught but forms.

Today is spent with baited breath,
Tomorrow knows suspense.
Even as the hour grows cold,
All new ideas lent.

Could the worry,
Justify,
The nerves exposed to you.

Or does the apple,
Withering,
Upon the branch confuse.

The Postcard

Simply snapped,
Brusquely captured.

As seasons pass sweetly,
Performed for others,
Displayed for warmth,
Betraying that which lies within.

Enchantment.
A rosy wash beneath
Expectant hues.

Discarded thoughts,
Remembered heights.

Convenience draped in sentiment,
Images left to cross
The blue divide.
Wrote to spare us depth.

My duty fulfilled,
Three sentences,
Speak the truth.

Your Love,
Is worth a postcard.

The Symphony

The jagged symphony,
Waits with baited breath,
Ignores paltry applause,
Forgets to sound our death.

Imagination seeds the thought,
But can it persevere,
Violists pluck in measured time,
Whilst timpanists count years.

Desertion seems to be the norm,
Distraction seems the goal,
Yet nothing beats the frolicking,
Found within music’s whole.

Alas, all said the harpist cries,
Disdain, laid with the tune,
Discern the field, perchance to form,
The perfect chord is hewn.

December kneads the melody,
September strikes the gong,
Yet we can verily confirm,
April provides the song.

Within the promised orchestra,
Without the fervent theme,
Alone abides the commenter,
Disturbed throughout the scene.

Forest Fire

The cosmic spark
Descends upon the parched earth,
Illuminates the sky,
Splits the winds in half,
Takes purchase in the land,
In the branches of the tarnished oak.

The darkness flares,
The clap of thunder sends the mighty
Beasts to shudder,
Fleeing the scorched soil,
Fleeing the sundered oak,
Fleeing the ignited grasses.

At first the flame seems but an afterthought,
With eyes still burning,
The mighty flash still echoes,
Through the thunderous night.
Ears still ringing, the dread begins to creep onwards,
The humbled grasses wilt and turn to ash before its stare.

The flame spreads with an uncanny vigor,
Spreads with an unnatural hunger,
Unmatched.
It cannot be charmed,
Instead consuming all within its path.
The trees begin to howl, to spit, to squeal.

Soon the forest will be devoured,
The mighty beasts soon trapped,
The call for mercy soon extinguished,
The birdlings in their nests
Left alone to fend, to dissipate,
To cower in their unforgiving sanctuary.

There cannot be a sweet ending,
With all reduced to dust,
The crackling of the forest floor,
The cackling of the needles thus,
The flame engorged like fatted pig,
The life force drained from fire’s lust.

Barren Wastes

The sun baked clay,
Begging for moisture,
Cracking from exhaustion,
Desolate for miles.

But to taste the sweet nectar,
To relieve the desiccation,
To alleviate the pounding,
Splitting skin.

The azure sky defies her,
Reduces her to dust,
Exposes her weakness,
Composes her crevices.

No amount of tears can sate her thirst,
No mere drizzle will suffice,
The burning sands,
Need satisfaction.

If only for the rains,
The wilted bramble cries aloud,
“Temptation, drench my soul!
For my body is without!”

When morning finds the earth,
The barrens drier still,
The scorched grasses depleted yet,
The clay defeated once again.

Breathless

Diving, splashing, kicking with fury,
handfuls of water
diverting myself towards the deep,
towards the blackness,
Breathless.

I could surface, I suppose.
What good would come of it?
The deep chills me,
fills me,
Breathless.

The rays of sun betray the surf above,
but I prefer
the tickle of vacated shells
pouring between my fingers,
Breathless.

The darkness calls to me,
demands I should respond,
instead I gasp
mouth overflowing,
Breathless, I am drowned.