Does the moon not bow

Does the moon not bow,
does the sun not rise,
to ever wipe the lonely brow
above any the solemn eyes?

Has never the ocean churned,
nor has a star ever burned,
to kiss the cheek
of the hollowed fiend
that is of vacant lovers dreamed?

one and all

One and one and one divide
each with lone his mortal eyes
beholding only forlorn skies
that for mere company do sigh.

One and one and one they wail
each pursuing but a human pair
yet unwitting of each other's thirst
one and one and one disperse.

Greedy People

How do they flee with the sincerity
of a blinded fiend so sadistically
coveting but egregious gluttony
to pervade their stomachs with perjury?

They spring to sieze their avaricious fill,
as launch filthy consolation does it,
whilst mockery of modesty does will
but more desire to cull evermore bits.

Trinkets cajole their malicious eyes so,
beseeching their reaching to only grow,
as does a ghost bombast the luscious lust
for gems twinkling each in secret disgust.

Sycophants to themselves they constitute,
tyrants of shelves and shelves of guilded glee,
which by their views each self only would suit;
for none other could their joys upon lean.

act stupid

Frivolity proved fleeting trickery
to dismiss judgment unfairly austere,
for what was bitter earnest bick'ring
with but a view of it construed unclear.

The superfluous whimsicality
ruptured true gravity as intended,
tore asunder pundits' vitality,
but rendered their reputation mended.

the kingdom fallen

There did once burn
a wonderous want
that never spurned,
nor churned to haunt.

The desire made
a loved palace,
rose not guilded,
sturdy steadfast.

o'er the kingdom
celestial might
ceased no reason,
and paused no light.

Pining pillars
upheld the joy,
formed the shelter,
sinister destroyed.

The gleaming gold
of its two thrones,
ne'er somber held,
nor cold condoned.

Yet some decree,
of higher might,
did so cruelly
defile the light.

The heaven sung
a final hymn,
burly it hung
as it last chimed.

Though did it last,
the melody?
Or was it cast
to wicked sea?

atrophy calamity

Never palpable the atrophy sank
silently striking the atmosphere dank,
As derived of a splendid angel's faulter
did the disaffection prospect blunder.

Tempestuous calamity made cloistered
and restless once reigning happy hoisted,
now barren as aimless, amorphous sky
whose temerity wayward throws cold cries.

And though now by no elated reason
the abyss that yields to no true season
still sighs for its devoid, hollow garden
that once had every atom regarded.

Misfortune Atones Fantasy

Over churning hapless waters turgid
does furiously tread my servile heart,
lamentable its arduous bargain
does fetter not misfortune to depart.

For what is by the disposition culled
yet the mitigation of tranquil light,
its meager fastidiousness too dulled
to incur its quixotic dreams' full flight.

Had the fantasy less erratic beamed
perchance the earth would have it so esteemed,
Yet does the effusive vagary gush
o'er its own hearth too swiftly does it rush.

Paucity

Grievously impotent now is the soul,
as despairingly ambitious its task
implored upon him to reap such a toll,
that altogether would him outlast.

His endeavers waned so decrepitly,
that never did consummation approach;
fell upon him callous defiancy,
to further upon paucity encroach.

curse

The curse did relentlessly disparage
the once consistently prevalent mirage
which had greatly luminously governed
every mirthful life of happy mothered.

Now see the air's been tainted capricious,
its nature chaos painted pernicious;
all sacred blessings evaporated
when by crass doom was fate saturated.

The curse befell too mercurially
for concern to flow immediately,
though had the trepidation sooner shot,
would not have mightier our fancies' fought?

woman

The woman is of airy nature,
what has she to offer?
Her stance is one of little stature,
is not her mind much softer?

Her cheek is much too apt to linger,
while what remains of her integrity?
Her lusty docile does but want trigger,
but what is projected of her mind's vitality?

Yet she vitiates the vanity
of such trivial complacency
when does her deluge of words
encompass more than her vision affords.

consecration versus fear

my vision clamors to capture
the light of harmony, ever clear,
stirring in the midst of calamity,
which threatens to plunder the splendor near.
But what does singe the vivid streaks
of mighty, celestial consecration,
but fear of the trammeling the splendor's heat
as always looming is potential of defeat.

fooey

Perception bred of rigid consciousness,
conivictions bore of consoling sterness,
conceptions of required sturdiness,
condition the burly to readiness.

The Night..

The howling, thundering, brutal, bold night,
trecherously falling to sleigh sunbeams,
molests, with each arctic breeze, sound and sight,
morphing them into crude,sinister fiends.

The morose, melancholy, morbid moon,
slithering through hazy, gusty, dark fog,
does swim and drown and resurface again,
in a ballet that weaves through the cold smog.

Lusted famed

Lustfully, the eyes do swivel closer,
for compellingly some marvel has beemed,
cajoling so to, its triumph, bolster,
securing the eyes so its flaws are cleaned.

For when does the famed bear blemishes,
but never when does it live for lone lust,
and fame never shall permit skirmishes
lest its utter essence but melt or burst.

song of the lonesome

My baffled heart, singing its sordid wail,
has folded now, clinging lone to itself,
for when its curiousity does gleam,
so shall its vulnerability teem.

Anxious,desperate, my isolated soul
bellows in agony to be beheld
by any a heart who might its pain quell,
any soul to shatter the barrier shell.

Starlight-edited into sonnet + some more

Could, for my sun, not a thing compensate,
for what ever is else is lone irate;
There's not a ray of jubilance righteous
aside from mine but a hindrance, heinous.

A sky void of the vital star of mine
is a sky plagued by bleak, desolate time,
for what is there if not my esteemed saint,
but absence lest looms there a tumor, a taint.

A dawn to dusk barren of my luster
can nothing be but a somber shutter.
For what is lord and does all splendor make
but mine and if not, by time shall it break.

To cradle what has not from my heart flown
Equates to embracing some brittle bone
As ghostly as the bitter potential
That threatens to pillage my dearly essential.

My breaths, my seconds I only exhaust
For the sunlight for which my rev'rence bursts,
To which every pulsing morsel of my life
I beg be given without any cruel strife.

My gleaming gem glows so gloriously,
my eyes yearn its vision imperiously,
as my sight does crave ever strenuously
my light's each detail shining sumptuously.

So revered does my darling starlight thrive,
what does plunder its hours outside my hive,
but sheer fear eating my nervous flesh live,
impris'ning my heart to for lone me strive.

Should the weather ever tether my love,
should perish the divinity I clutch,
should flee from my grapple my dazzling dove,
the termination of elation would be such.

You

Wedge into that evil mask,
obfuscate your monstrosity;
hide your ugliness and ask
how ever could you decieve?

Parade around in false vanity,
for though by ignorance are you reigned,
surely have you the sanity
to know your true potential proclaimed?

And measely chance that there is much,
considering your treasonous poison;
Your lechery infects too much,
your cruel tricks stem without reason.

Cherishment < / 3

Cherishment I generously granted for my gem;
twas charity that sent my heart unto its every whim.
And dashing, dancing, galloping, my attentive adoration,
did swerve not once in all its jumps to reach the consternation.
But curtains rose to show the glows of growing obligation;
for twas not my treasure that did call as it was but my coming fall.
Oh, the fiendish beauty giggled for my foolish naivety,
for I had not seen my cherishing in any its braverity.

Seconds, seconds, seconds...

The seconds each breed for themselves great anticipation for so long, with such intense anxiety, merely to be vanquished, evaporating instantaneously. Each clamor of the clock's hands, each miniscule tremor that does sieze one of them, is the very epitome of dismay, for where so quickly did that second in which that quiver manifested itself depart? The moment discintigrated without hesitation and without warning, and the moment is always, always gone. For when does a second last more than a second? No second radiates more fulfillment than any other; all seconds are perfectly equal in their hollow architecture, their imminence, their inevitable, rapid leave. And, oh, tell me that second was not birthed in vain nor did it seep into the abyss of nothingness that is its perishing in vain- surely it was not of any lesser significance than any other second, now was it? Oh, tell me the death was not waved off, neglected, brushed into the oblivion one does imagine, and thus establish, making alive this place of nonexistance, so that nothing is something.
How long must one second gravely bare its burden of waiting? How long must a second wait to be stemmed by another's death- for how long must a second endure the guilt of knowing so many other seconds must die for it to exist- for it to be born? How long must a second worry for its own death? For only a second? Or for every second that must die before it as well? This line of seconds is neverending; death is neverending. Rebirth is neverending. The cycle is of pain and joy so long as the seconds' existance is celebrated, so long as the seconds' deceasing is not halted.