Life in the Land of the Dead
On a night that I failed to drift to sleep,
the full blue moon hung high above my keep.
It reflected an eve when Poe did weep,
over many lines of ravens that speak.
‘Dark and dreary’ he wrote, weak and weary,
his eyes so bleary he saw not clearly,
the spectacle which stained my lunar land.
The still hum of night filled my dulled senses,
weaving and deceiving my defenses.
Rhythm of rain kept my eyes unblinking,
in the witching hour that kept hearts beating.
Every tick of every chimed clock,
every sway of every tree’s stalk,
brought forth fear so real that I could not talk.
The shadows moved swiftly before my eyes,
only to prove that nothing ever dies.
Passing words and imagined whispers spoke
of all these brothers and sisters in life
and love still in death and forgotten strife.
The room was flooded with the souls long lost,
leaving my breath laden in lifeless frost.
Visage of Venus shimmered in blue eyes,
silence was muffled, disembodied cries.
Life in lands of the dead spilled from my head,
Melancholy conquered all of the dread,
that came with the spirits of the once dead.
Under guidance of Gelos, salt left wounds
that festered too long in crumbling cocoons.
Memories fell back to a soul left cold
from all the loss that was never foretold
by a merciless deity, so bold.
Elder ones retraced the wisdom I knew
To be true from the demons that I slew
when their smiles shone in me so real and true.
Parts of my puzzled life began to fade
back to the nether from where they had strayed
when the veil let them slip into the shade
of my darkened room where I always stayed.
The angel I spoke of long ago is still on my shoulder,
So far from the boy that once wrote of hearts and hid them in folders,
Now these words flow from the heavy heart...
“On the Subject of Life”
Dante spoke of being lost in a dark wood,
Words that can speak to every heart and soul,
That is now weighed down more than they ever should,
with all the...
Fight the good fight year by weakened year,
Never fell to the dirt with eyes blurred,
Never dropped arms with life so severe,
Never left kindred soldiers unheard,
Fight the good fight...
Once a beacon of life in the gloom,
Top to bottom etched in dusty room,
Held steadfast with inevitable doom,
Host to nature with none left to groom.
Weathered and aged as the years...
The poet sacrificed his life to make art,
In return it promised to never part.
From the first breath of the poet's heart,
The muse lives forever in art.
In their temple of ink...
Sold his Soul for a muse that never came,
Never begged for the evanescent fame,
Heart in ink with none of the hollow shame,
Closed in his hovel with no one to blame.
Word to word...
Cautiously I stumble into this house of cards.
I was finally safe from all the discarded shards.
One step and I’m like Alice.
I was falling down the rabbit hole into this card palace.
A warm wind blows through empty small town streets,
Far below the fractured glass time defeats,
The ghostly structure of brick and concrete,
Whispered secrets of distant times...
The ruins of a lost battlefield,
Shell of an earth so scorched,
This last stand for the souls we wield,
The last cries of hope torched.
Angels and demons with man on the line,
Time goes by as I try,
I search nine circles for the soul,
Our death is in your eye,
We drift and fade black as coal.
Travel to hell for your love,
Bring Cerberus to his knees,
The harsh new light of dawn,
Burns the iris long blind,
Now no longer withdrawn,
Crisp air leaves past behind.
This breath of new life,