Thank You

I feel like a ravaged savage beast
As I rattle my own hand made cage,
Fueled by some primal blinding rage.
When, my being, I care about the least,
I yearn to become some sacrificial feast.
Lacking all comfort, no burning sage,
Furiously scribbling purpose onto a page.
My reasons to be have seemingly ceased.

Then I reach out to you, in greed.
Without judgement you offer a word,
Miraculously reassuring in its tranquil way.
Selflessly encouraging the sown seed,
Just as you’d patiently nurture a fallen bird;
You do this by always knowing what to say.

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Blurred

The fevered landscape
Of a bleeding dream,
That lives outside the confines
Of the mindly prison.

What secrets it could tell.
Within, anxious panic
Flows off the precipice
Of the illustrious crevice.

Then, feeling the presence
Of some great prophet
Piercing through clueless instinct,
Lucid to the trembling fool.

Looking for guidance
In the melting pools
Of bubbling mercury,
Desperate for the path.

Oh, to escape,
To bring meaning to the mundane,
Hope to the hopeless,
Pain to the numb.

The Red Wizard

The red wizard slowly climbed the tower,
Nodding earnestly at his guides rambled history,
Punctuated by worn soles tapping on ancient stone.

The echoes ran down poignant archways,
Down walls cut to a seeming razors edge,
Adorned by gilded frescoes of ancient gods.

The wizard knew more than could be told, though,
Like hearing a pin being dropped in the midst
Of a great army clashing with flesh.

The whisper of an emaciated demon,
He who only respects power and mastery,
The ultimate embodiment of an age gone past.

Blasphemous.

“In the name of the void!”
Called the wizard, in a voice
That shook the foundations of time
“To me brethren, lay these blasphemers low.”

Outside the castle,
Through stained glass effigies,
Flashing lights burst through glinting steel
As the order assaulted the castle.

Instantaneous would suffice,
But would not truly convey
Ancient soldiers who had seemingly
Always existed in this place and time.

Through silent gnashing teeth
They slew all in the castle,
Every last unarmed monk who begged, pleaded
With outstretched palms offering nothing but gratitude.

The wizard cautiously approached
The ancient demon —

Who now, laying in filth,
Reached out to the great visage
Of rolling folds of crimson,
Before the wizard thrust ruby jeweled staff —

Through the beings rotten heart;
The last of its kind.

The Obsidian Pool

A bubbling viscous pool
Of swirling obsidian
Reaches out toward
Linen clad legs.

As it grasps and heaves
My trembling calves,
I call out
To the lingering void —

Only to be met by silence.
Panic takes me,
While my instincts
Compel me to fight.

So, the conflict ensues,
Dragged inch by inch
To my intrepid fate,
The looming specter of seething hate.

Before hope gives out,
I manage to tear
A gaping pulsing hole
Into my bare chest.

Holding my still beating heart
In oil stained hands,
I launch it into the heavens,
Like a luminous sparking flare.

Wishing to guide
The good will of —
Conniving benevolence
To my certain doom.

But, none ever hear
My desperate pleas.
Thus, I’m dragged under
To vacant crimson darkness.

Yet, someone may come.
They could still come.

Curse

I curse you.
Curse you to find yourself.
All the personified beauty
Of human likeness
Slowly coalescing in your
Vibrant loving soul.

Curse you to come as close
To perpetual happiness
As this life allows.
To find someone who feeds your strengths
And bolster your weaknesses shut,
Asking for nothing in return.

Curse you to find
The illusive grove of security,
Beckoning you to a life
Of flippant comfort,
Lifting the burdens
Of the ever rotting boarding.

Curse you to see your worth
Through the divine light
Of uncertain chance.
To see all you deserve,
And to reach out and grab,
With success as your thrall.

Curse you to live
A youthful long life
Of crystal cut thought,
Never to be lost
To the creeping fog
Of withered years.

To always feel
Like you belong,
To stand in proud
Stalwart shoulders,
Piercing the sky
With arrow straight spine.

I curse you!
You are cursed!

Dust

It starts as a golden spectacle.
Glittering dust swirling past
Sleeping nebulae of distant fears.
Distant warnings of shifting fates,
Whispering inconsequential wisdom
To the sparking river.
Weaving through rational recourse,
Always seeming to flow within,
Towards some inevitable conclusion
At the center of consciousness.
Slowly warming the bitter resentment,
Of intellectual stubbornness.
It flows through us all.
Brings the love and devotion
Of uncertainty given purpose,
Just as it should be.
Just as it always has been.
We’ve but to open our hearts,
And feel its playful caress
Tying us all together,
In perfect fleeting harmony.

Enchanting

A trembling word
Slowly inches its way
Passed perched lips,
Slipping past restraint
In the guise of paramount instinct.

Do the syllables shake
Out of fear?
Perhaps it is resentment
Of the bumbling fool
Shyly slinking away.

The imbecile,
Who hears contracted trachea,
And hopes for hopeless love,
Yet feels pity, fear
For the horrified scattered sentence.

It is endearing,
She is enchanting.

The Divine

The very heavens seem to goad
My lifeless body to rise,
To meet some new challenge.
While my rotten ship,
That has led me through
Such tumultuous seas as you’ll ever see,
Finally begins to disintegrate.
But, I’ll answer the call nonetheless.

So, I hoist the sails
To catch the winds of my discontent,
Setting a coarse strait and true,
As my moral compass guides me through dying eyes,
Steadfast, vigilant, sacrificing waning energy
To my fleeting will to succeed.
I’ve been in these waters before though,
Sanity will not serve any here.

With the beating cloth
Of angered ravaged sails
Submitting to my thoughtless will,
I catch the illusive gust
Moving this loyal beast through my holy quest,
Weaving through debris filled mounds
Of swirling greens and blues
Foaming as it launches cruel miasmic vapors.

The divine voice always goading,
But it never feels solidarity
With its own impetuous hands.
Thus, it slams into vacant hull
Launching me to hungered ravaged waves,
Greedily devouring my very essence.
Still the voice calls in elegant wrath
At my apparent lack of effort.

So I flail without need of grace
Ragged, gasping, drowning
Toward my forlorn vessel.
Pulling myself through the ropes
Weaved like a spiders reverberating web,
And as I collapse onto the deck,
Dead to the flowing tide,
All I can hear is laughter.

Laughter.

Cephalopod Madness

“Welcome back!”
Cried the emphatic host
Of this outlandish spectacle,
A carnival of shameless entertainment,
It was just that.

Dressed in dark blue silhouetted stars
Sparkling in the limelight,
The host beckoned giddy contestants
Forward from long creeping shadows,
With a grin as vast as the spreading desert sands.

“Today we’ve a very special game,
All the way from vacant hills
Underneath a rising sun.
You’ve merely to sift through expired cephalopods
Till the mother of all is revealed.”

The contestants needed no second word,
No erratic flailing gesture,
Though, they did receive just that,
And they were off to a damp ring
Filled with a mound of deprived squid.

Greedily tossing them to and fro,
While frothing through rolled back eyes,
In a fever fueled frenzy.
Corpse after corpse pilled on top of the other,
Masters of the sea thrown about with nary a regard.

Then one contestant peculiarly observant,
Consumed by some great spreading guilt,
That starts as a burning pitiful coal
In grieving work consumed guts,
Caught the tired eye —

Of a poor tentacled beast,
Transporting him to a turbulent sea
Hiding gliding hunters in hazy waters,
A spreading sense of panic surfacing
In a massive shoal of life.

Slowly the squid are picked away,
By echoed laughter bouncing.
But the thrill of it all,
The will to survive,
The glancing orb of hope before a net descends —

“We have a winner!”
A particularly flesh endowed contestant
Now stood parading the lifeless statue
Of gold plated likeness,
Dead since the beginning, pointless, empty.

Its purveyor was jumping
With gelatinous joy, at the wonderful prize
That so many had been told
Was the epitome of living accomplishment,
That would bring the praise of countless others.

Yet, in the loser,
Still looking solemnly
At half closed eyes,
Dead now but once living,
A sense of pride in seeing the beauty
Of one who had no choice but to survive, and failed.

Great shame was felt
From the fresh laid mountain
Of proud ocean prowlers
Chucked about like discarded albums
Of distant longing memories.

As the curtain plummets,
Before thoughts become processed,
The last tear falls
To the unburdened din
Giving way to the darkness of the last call.

Bryanna

“You’re Funny.”
I had never heard a sentence
So effortlessly pure and innocent,
Seemingly coming from some other plane
Where I could let myself feel
Love and warmth.
After all this time
It still graces me,
With its clear glowing timbre
Cutting through the idle chatter
Of all those looming strangers.
It melted my heart
My soul, sanity, philosophy
And every last preconceived notion
That fueled my indefatigable cynicism.
I could have broken down in tears in that moment,
Feeling my feeble wall
Erode before my desperate attempts
To replace the falling bricks.
I wish I had known what to say.
I wish I could know what to say.
“Thank You.”
Uttered in spontaneous surprise,
It seems so disrespectful,
But no compliment I can see
Could convey what you mean to me.
I fear to say it, but all rational thought is gone,
I love you and I don’t deserve you, Bryanna.