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New Year Retribution

The closed curtain,

Veil of the new age;

Falls upon the tolling

Bells –

And we stand in

Vain hope –

The blurred shadow

Of yesteryear

In our eyes still –

Still we stand,

The whole world

In static motion

Towards a pale hand

Which corrupts

In steady stance

All who enter

Into ill fated contract

With a firm grip

And empty words

With the night-reaper in the stands…

 

Ne’er Moving Man

No audience

Gathers round the

Catatonic

Ne’er moving

Man;

Like a mime

Without

The empty airs

Of pretentious

Performance –

He stands eternal

In marble monument

Watching over shadows

In silent duty.

 

 

 

She is not a Rose

Neither rose

Petal or bud

Can be

As she –

The woman

Of the water

Who levels

Out the unbearable

Sound

With a

Tranquil moment

 

Devil-shine

Reality

Asphyxiates

All

As lightning

Fixates the eyes

Burning, blinding –

Bleaching

In a moment

The day in

Devil-shine

 

The Lover’s Leap Lies in Pieces

sonnets of souls

separated by space –

sound out

in that place

between

where the

breath of angels

cool in divine

circumstance

and timekeepers

stand reticent

by gates

holding back fate

reluctantly

to

people parted

by

blunt

location

In Bones We Trust

In this ancient

Ruin we trust

In this relic

Of an age not

Ours –

Where shining men

Hid behind doors

And ruled

Against

Martyrs

Who could not

Argue

Or take flight

Against

Hamlet’s plight

—-

The age is past,

But the seeping

Sinister spirit

Continues

To fester

To the bone.

The Sea Murmurs Murder

The red ragged rocks

Of grievous assault

Are in our steps

And our footprints

Carry the weight

Of deadly thoughts

As they imprint

Upon the shore –

Sand made concrete

By harsh fate’s hand…

Paint Her Black

Precious pain

Paints her

Portraits

In black –

All her landscapes

Are flooded…

Men are alone

With her

And walk with her

In solidarity

Of solitude.

The Heart-breaker

Cryptic crafted

Beating heart

Of mortal man –

What fragile

Construct,

Felled by a

Breath –

A live death

Stitched to an

Ego

In perpetual

Caricature.

 

Pedlars Of Perfection

Superficial souls

Vain sellers of

Artificial perfection

And critics of nature

Have planted toxic roots

Which have grown under

Skin not theirs

Which like bamboo

Under nails

Have bled

Out dying hope

And hollowed the heart

Made it cry

Tears that will not cease

Until all that is left

Is the mirror

That shows

Brittle bones

Standing in flesh

Where mind

Has deformed

And forced

Starvation

As the norm

Upon beauty;

Calling it ugly

In the ubiquitous lie

Protected and promoted

By society’s hell.

The Skeleton