Poetry-Thing Thursday: Beauty-Suicide

In the West,
with the rest,
should’ve guessed,
but was blessed,
on the edge,
of time’s ledge.

So indeed,
we concede,
that belief,
is a leaf,
on a wind,
in a bend.

What a task,
could the mask,
upon such a face,
of such a race,
contrive to hide,
beauty-suicide?

Perhaps when,
“we were then,”
is a thing,
to seldom sing,
and recompense
becomes suspense.

We must wonder if she’ll ever come back.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Implode

This country’s imploding,
from charges set by treason,
the madness that bred us,
was not without reason,
but this madness is new,
from unknown season.

Neither hot nor cold
but slightly luke-warm
ninety-eight point six degrees,
and from the body-Human, torn.

Fitting to say:
much like blood,
but the badness today,
makes me long for suds,
though I never drink–
maybe that’s a lie
“but that is the point”
I say with a sigh.

Reality is fading,
into a none soon to come,
unless we stand vigilant,
together as one.

Otherwise, we’ll never know what hits us.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Man’s Long Goodnight

There is naught but triumph,
in the hearts of man,
a species unkindled,
nor burdened by plan,
but so too can madness,
be a triumph of sorts.

It starts small,
but leads to a fall,
one that may never end–
one that cannot contend,
with the madness that life wrought,
or those it offends.

That triumph is darkness,
as well as a light,
and no matter whether one,
believes themselves in the right,
actions are never,
quite so cut and dry.

They do however, tell all,
and determine in hindsight,
the true wit and worth,
of man’s decaying soul,
his heart and plight,
but that cannot undo the damage,
nor end,
his long goodnight.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Raw Aether

I know of no magick,
like that which I’ve seen
through third-eyes,
or in-between dreams.

It is soft and supple.
Virgin and pure.
A reality beyond reality,
yet formed of raw aether.

It is there that it bore us,
unto this chaos of light,
and it is there we shall return,
whence comes the long goodnight.

Though we know not our purpose–
if indeed there be one–
we know we find service
in answering a call,
whether for light or darkness,
it matters not,
but we must remember,
the truth is in foresight.
It is but buried.
Yet given due time.
I too shall carry,
the aether’s death-sign.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Abyssal Stares

Verging on a precipice,
gazing into a chasm,
an abyss staring back,
vile and black.

There sits a madness,
inside each man,
woman,
child:
animals.
We are long gone in soul.
We are at war for our world.
Yet the only blood shed,
is that, which from tears,
we cannot help but weep.

Millennia have come,
and may again go,
but what are we,
if devoid of our soul?

We live yet not die,
breathe but not sigh,
hover but shan’t fly.

Whilst all around us,
there is hope of conceit,
we are undead,
our species defeat,
sealed in the abyss,
swirling ‘neath our feet.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Rise Up and Resist

Dollars and cents,
numbers and sense,
pick up the creature,
that crawls from the tents.
Madness abounds,
chaotic, disordered,
hold onto the rails,
the madman’s unbordered.
Fight for your rights,
or watch ‘em erode
from hatred and ignorance,
the seizuring toad.

We once knew normality
but like a cold poverty,
it turned to disease,
with terrible property.

Yet all the same,
still do we live,
and in night we sing,
solemn,
“Rise up and Resist!
Remember Humanity!”

Praise others compassion,
but raise up your fist,
to defend against fashion–
whether old or new,
they’re odes to few
and we must resist,
or mellow like dew.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Last Setting Sun

There is naught but madness,
where once there was peace.
Therein lies badness,
morality deceased.
Hold tight to your hope,
but don’t let it bind you.
The bad men are coming,
they’re right behind you.
You can’t hide anyway,
when they’re under your hood,
and inside your pocket,
your home and your heart.
Raping and razing.
Looting precious art.
Stealing the young ones.
Pillaging the lame.
Hating the lovers,
whom love without shame.

Even those that made them,
are not immune,
they’ll eat you or chew you,
either way you’re through.

If only each one,
could put down their hatred,
it might not be few,
then we’d know the future,
wasn’t black and blue.

Until then we stammer,
and stumble to run,
Terrified that this,
be our last setting sun.