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.
Poet’s peril, plain performance –potentate’s pleasure postures pridefulpeople prostrate; purpose proffersprofits plentiful, pleasing prowesspasses prosecution. Just an exercise in word play.
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.
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 →