conquered

Who could but gaze
in trance perplexed
but all amazed
at their own conquest
For authority derived
of the stature of nature
could all blessings deprive
and the weathered conjecture
of worthiness in the once blessed life.
Stripped of all nobility,
the joy and claim of merit,
crumpled is the weak by cruel authority
to triumph, its royalty blaring.

Moonrays In The Forest

Many beaming moonrays,
coiled through the trees,
glided against the dark haze,
to rinse like would the seas.
The forest, furious in luster,
grew to love the cloud
of radiation bouncing faster
than any a thing by laws unbound.
The thickets stretched their arms
in a breeze to reach the source
of the glow by shadow unharmed
traversing every course.
Branches reflected the beam,
the cold, polished stream,
and were purified by its steam.

I need

My heart is dry and tethered,
enthusiasm weathered,
for all my words were severed
by the knife of fault
and wherein inside my vault
is that tumultuous fault
but within my own guilty soul?
My doubt has taken more than its toll,
it's pried from me my only gold
that was the sun to melt the mold
of desire to rid my last hope.
But hope's all plummeted down the hole
the gaping hole my knife of doubt cold had sold
to my helpless soul.

night's kings

There is a tune
aflame with dread
that stalks as moon
gazing overhead.
It chokes the air
with fearful lightning
that caught in stare
more gorged its frightening.
It is the caw
of the night's old kings
who sweep till dawn
their mighty wings
All in excitement
to kill the things
of any contritement
could from in them bring.
The kings wear crowns
of a thorny sort
and on them frowns
for a treasure's abort.
But grim as are
the ghastly grins
reversed to char
audience with sins,
they are not at the hands
of joy's depart;
they rest in lands
rather of joy's sort.
And all they crave
and pine aloud
is not to good save
but it's essence drown.
The kings of night
are cruel in might
to kill the sight
of day's benign light.

worry

The pulse is a slow bubble
beating against ribs from within like prison bars
as they encage the melody in the rubble,
the polluting steam of troubled cars.
For the scent of flesh inside is tainted,
stricken with a rash of illness,
as bones can with lone worry tremble sated
for no hope is encased as any trifles.
And how it baffles the heart to think
no anxiousness could be relinquished,
but the skin is immune to the heart's wink
as its hope silently diminishes.
And the beat never manages a pause
in all its traumatic little taunts,
never a sliver of hate away it tosses,
its buried too well 'neath its noise so gaunt.

Was It You Who Crushed Me?

A swooning hawk did pluck my fate,
The only thing to dissipate
behind the moon, a diamond great.
My clock was tossed across the stars
shooting galaxies abound afar
to shrivel back from its long soar
to a crinkled pundle, spin nevermore
to catch the crimson flame of adore
as it once soared.
For what has trampled its fluid flight,
what tempted evil to the night
but the feet of agony for withering sight
of all that ever blazed any bright.
What cruel hands had from the fingers sprouted
to push the plush from twinkles now pouted
and put such pity in the fire shouted
But the villian was all to it amounted.
And what a sinister did clutch the moon,
what did crush the lovely womb
of that delightful fume to insert its gloom
and now what's brimming but deathly doom.