Asking

Asking once more for an awkward assertion,
Begging for blindness, borrowing time,
Calmly you call me, craving coercion,
Dwelling on distance where damage is mine.

Everything evil, you expect subversion,
Forecast the future though falling apart,
Grateful for nothing, a gift to be certain,
Harrowing history colours your heart.

Injured and ignorant, empty inversion,
Justice for no-one, a jury will judge,
Killing me slowly, a kind of corruption,
Loving me never, a looseness of lust.

Maybe a miracle, magic uncertain,
Nothing for nothing, hoping for nought,
Offering peace with an obvious option,
Promising all but policing all thought.

Questions unanswered with quiet emotion,
Rough the response to reality roared,
Softly you sing to me, songs of seduction,
Tunes for the tuneless, talent so flawed.

Uselessly begging for utter immersion,
Vanquish the self via being unkind,
Wearing the badge of my wounded condition,
X-rated thoughts in an X-rated mind.

You are the cause and yes you are the reason,
Zealot I call you, the zeitgeist of mine,
You are the problem and you the solution,
Zero my hope of a calm zen-like mind.

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Snapshot 7

I want to find a door, a door that no one has opened.
It will be hidden behind leaves of the deepest, truest green, through which the sun cannot penetrate.
Old, weathered, warped by years of neglect.
Written on the door will be the words “for you”, and I will know that it doesn’t mean for me, but in fact for you.
So I will bring you to that door. Hand in hand, we’ll walk toward it and I will admonish you to be careful, to be mindful of the dark shadows and the unseen trips and traps.
We will pull apart those leaves, branch by branch, and scatter them to the wind so that it snows green.
And then, with the door before us, it will be you who opens it. I do not have the knack of it.
Behind the door… what will you see?
Clouds, ball bearings, rivers on Mars? Fantastic animals or a million tiny flowers?

I just know that for years, the door will have been unseen, and will now only open to your touch. Behind it’s aged wood, such dreams and nightmares and untold stories will be seen, and if I promise to look after you, maybe you’ll walk through that door into a brand new world.

For Nought

And so, for nought, did I gift my heart,
For nought did I leave my past;
Did no words writ, by poor man’s ink,
Make marks so stained to last?
Why so, did she, remove herself?
Did she no longer love?
With my all gifts, I could not bring
A light from heaven above.
And so, for now, I let her be,
For now I grant her time,
May one day soon, before too long,
She may return as mine.

Beauty 

Such beauty,
Ne’er seen before ‘neath glancing
Moon;
What blessing,
Given to such poor wretch as I,
When all about me be poor and
Unseen?
O, gracious saintly sight,
Be you ever grateful for that,
Granted so, that may cause the very
Moon to hide her face in shame.

Sleep

I love the language of Shakespeare. The forms, the words, the ebb and flow of his speeches and scenes. I wish I had the smallest modicum of his talent, to be able to craft words in the way he did. All I can do, in my own silly and unworthy way, is to try and write things in the flavor of his language.

In deepest night,
Whilst sleep did so evade me,
Such wicked vision with malice
And cruelty did come, to mine eyes.
O, could man such as me stand
A sight so evil? But in all darkness
Abound, one more dark picture
Could not any more disturb this
Countenance.
Sweet wine doth lose its potency,
Dark poppy, with its heavy smoke,
Doth fail in all its ability.
All thoughts of restoring sleep
Are driven, as the wind doth drive the
Clouds, away and far, by these scenes
So shown to mine eyes.
O torturous mind, why must thou
Bring to me such unwanted and
Unwarranted scenes? Be at peace, you,
And grant this man only sleep, in all
Its blessed majesty. Sleep, and only sleep.

Dust And Ash

And like trouble, when one comes along, another is soon behind it. I hope you can clearly see the inspiration to this.

’tis no secret more,
In depth of wicked evil,
That harms the soul as such
A tale told without a tongue.
For such an act of
Treacherous stain,
In all its hellish glory
Does nought but tell the story
Of thy truth.
And O, such a truth;
In all my days, a love as such
So heavenly gifted, and yet,
Reveals itself to be nought but
Dust and ash, dust. And ash.

Sleep

A quick piece for you, trying to draw on the sort of language I love, written while waiting to go and see a friend of mine. It’s amazing where the mind takes you while idle, no? I hope you like it.

Once more, ‘pon keeper
Of my darkest dreams do
I lay my head;
O! What screaming
Horror may fly to me
On darkly shaded wings?
’tis not for me the
Gentle arms of Morpheus,
To soothe and soft refresh
From days hard labour;
Nay, resigned am I to
The slow tick of curs-ed clock,
Which scythes away
Minute by minute, hour by
Creeping hour.