These wounds unhealingbleed my spiritspilling it uponthe sacred groundwhere lies burieda thousand deadeach an emptyshell of me.And now anotherlife is fading,forgotten in a sea of faces.And from these woundsa heart is pouring,its purpose for beingstolen away.
Pointless Purpose
Poet’s peril, plain performance –potentate’s pleasure postures pridefulpeople prostrate; purpose proffersprofits plentiful, pleasing prowesspasses prosecution. Just an exercise in word play.
Lovecraft
Master of dreams, maker of nightmares,holder of haunting horrors eternal,keeper of chaos, creature of twilight,lord of illusion, Lovecraft my friend. A verse for H.P. Lovecraft, in honor of his birthday.
Echoes
This, I think, is thunderous silence: this watching, this waiting for words not falling wearies and weakens the warrior's resolve; tortured by time's turning unbroken by the night bird's nurturing song, thankful the thunder thickens the air. Washing away the wounds of war, the storm's embrace a stolen moment echoing an age of empty silence... Continue Reading →
The Sanctuary of the Storm 