Avowedly Private but Didactically Public

It’s a statement of grace,
it’s a show of good taste,
it’s a badge pinned to your shift;
of compartmentalised hurt.

Tell all about your energies as a result of your fine pedigree.
Turn away from what lies beneath with an inheritance of serenity.

It’s a fortune left untold,
it’s a story forged to be sold,
it’s a benchmark set too high;
a pack of institutional lies.

Mired in abject disassociation we create personas meant for emulation.
The aim is not for education but of idols for due supplication.

It’s physical and serene,
it’s digitally based doctrine,
it leans upon your thoughts
like you’re a train run off course.

Through the night into the day
there is a practice that must remain.
Into the dissonance of the chase
plunged into a public disgrace.

Anachoresis

I see a metropolis of swarming bees
with confiscated humanity
yet a hive of activity.
Within a necropolis of entropy
sundered from all ecstasy;
the heaviest of realities.

The horizon reveals another way;
the blue breaking of dawning day
shrouded in Summer’s haze.
The anchorite’s mantle begs me to stay
among desert sands ablaze
devoid from every passing gaze.

Blue Room

I just want to sit in the darkened room
dwell with the shade until I find my way
through the valley of the faces,
eyes boring down to the basin’s bleed.

I’m biting down hard on my arms now,
trying to find a way to export the pain
but the surfaces are missing,
the waterline has risen,
every contour a threshold in ribbons.

My mind is a carpet of dry grass
leaving me with a sense of unease.
I’m following the tracks of tumbleweed
because thoughts ride tails of upbraided leaves.

I’m reclining on the mattress of eggshells,
shards from the birth of a great disease,
the sickness gives me rest
I am stretched upon the crest
anointed with the tar of a virgin breath.

The Estrangement of Fortune and Justice

I’m sorry that this isn’t anything to do with the ‘Deadwoods’ series that I had planned. I had written some things out for it, and even created some maps, but my life is a little bit too compressed at the moment to really write anything but patchwork poems that are unrelated – and even they are few and far between. However, here is one I’ve been writing over the past two days.

Adversity presents all with a domain
irrespective of the tools in our hands.
Weathered by time, remnants shall remain
of the creeping overgrowth we sought to restrain.
A fable charred into all living lands.

Some wear circlets of evergreen laurels,
others, crowns of willow that weep in Winter.
The fate of the garden of denizens floral
gravely imperiled; when the breeze turns boreal
petals shall fall watching sentience splinter.

And the passage through needle barbed woods
is transfigured by a footstep’s press.
Whether the path is patently understood
or just the phantasm of leaden falsehood
lies beyond the flair the traveler possessed.

On the pauper’s trail gnarled roots converge
when aspen leaves shelter the gilded few.
Concealed is the ground to which one shall emerge;
a verdurous meadow, perhaps a sweeping verge,
perhaps a scorched grove to be ambled through.

Extolled are all by a birdsong choir.
Hear the goldfinch cry or the starling sing,
unless the clouds darken and songbirds retire
for the vultures to come with a ballad of fire;
a strain to scourge every element of Spring.

Now bridged must be the whispering waterside,
where a vessel is docked for the sake of some.
The ferryman demands a levy to ensure your ride;
lest secure passage be sorely denied
leaving Stygian depths to chill you numb.

The wave’s crest caresses citadel stairs;
ascend, for you’ve completed your crusade.
Evading constantly a glorious glare;
a city within eternal solitaire,
bathed in the august pantheon’s shade.

Justice holds the seed in her hand
bequeathing each to a single soul.
Fortune plants it within soil or sand
fertilising flowers with odds unplanned,
as we fix our dreams to celestial poles.

A Nightfall Shared By All

This poem is Part I in the Deadwoods series. You can read more about the series in general here.

Usher forth the inversion of the clouds,
the sky shall now sleep underground.
Without reason is this ceaseless night;
the missing beacon that is moonlight.

When the sun slept it refused to rise
and the same was said for the other side.
Some say it resides with the dead,
dormant upon its grey funeral bed.

Trees in the breeze now shiver sadly
where they once danced all too gladly.
Animation in nature has come to a close
as the petals begin to fall from the rose.

Seething superstition has come to a simmer;
a saint has been made of every sinner.
The heathen now withdraws their disbelief
in the fear of whatever shall lie beneath.

It seems that our Gods have been lulled to sleep;
silence shall resound as the angels weep.
The church halls face now the abyssal doubt
when the chill of stark forsakenness abounds.

For now we watch the candles burn
because all clocks have refused to turn.
Time is told by the perishing wick
rather than the second hand’s faint tick,
as our minds cannot help but think
‘when shall we wither and become sick?’

Spider Silk Stars

This poem is something of a reflection of myself but I also believe that it is a reflection of society and it’s expectations in general. We dress up ambition and encourage it as much as possible but then refuse to talk about the pit-falls that may come with it. There are some that achieve their dreams, but it’s undeniable that some don’t get to do what they want with their lives, and it’s not for want of trying.

The constellations are made of spider silk;
a phantasmal web of alluring illusion.
Held in place by ephemeral orbs of light,
before the glittering beast consumes your delusion.

Phosphorescent was the monster who did beguile
with predation beneath a shroud so shimmering.
With deals of deceit and an alchemy so false,
the beginnings of a downfall were simmering.

The contract tethers you to a pendulum chain,
oscillation within the pull of a black hole.
The dice are rolled on the board of exploitation,
the cosmic expanse is playing for your soul.

You hold a queen of hearts and a peasants’ revolt,
no match for the marionette masters’ royal flush.
The puppet-string stars all stop to laugh;
it was a magnetic deal at first blush.

Gilese and Europa held sway over Summer,
but the snow globe of Winter was the Earth.
For the collapse of ten thousand fading stars,
only one shall reach it’s bewitching birth.

Sky Space

This was written at a time when I was lonely, single and not very confident in myself or my outward presentations in the slightest. So, except for single, I am still many of those things. But I don’t really see the ‘sky space’ as much of an issue anymore, given that I have no reason to care if anyone else sees me as suitable for a relationship anymore.

With a face obscured by clouds,

swirling around, distorting your features;

how can I know of your beauty?

Because, you sit above me.

I can’t help but imagine,

you peering downwards to see me.

—-

Your eyes sit amongst the Gods,

on level with their mountain top.

Were you born of their craftsmen?

A design so unreachable divine,

by I, on my seat of mortality.

—-

A cygnet is not yet a swan,

but my feathers will remain greyed.

Your porcelain white helps you fly,

lifts you away from my sight,

where I couldn’t hope to reach you.

—-

I can’t help but worry about the roses,

who use their cunningly coaxing petals,

in a game of teasing for the daisies.

Tell me; are you thorned?

Where does this worry stem?

—-

Your pedestal rises higher than I couldgrasp,

for one who I will hope,

would lay on the low earth with me.