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.

The Angel

From the mournful depths of a sinister cave
teeming with ancient spiteful shards
arose the angel from its dusty grave
to unbury herself and all fragments discard.
Springing through a beam of gleaming
flourescence she did tenderly make her ascent
in flaming skin from which a glint was steaming
and neath eyes from which flickering hazel was sent.
Her wings coated rich in metallic gold,
she spoke eloquence my heart did behold.
She wrapped me in felicity,
tearing me from my crippled seat
to toss me in her joyous sea.

Loss

Once, I did foreshadow
what was to come about;
I knew the notions gathered
would be a grievous clout.
Palpaple was the past
but even more its aftermath,
for nothing else could have cast
from the precious marvel last
but my anguish so steadfast.
For inevitable was its retire,
and I could not extinguish,
could not deplete the fire
of somber when did it singe the attire
of my sweet serpent of a liar
that was my own soul on some level higher
of sad, a sadness for the absence most dire.
And a fallicious snake I had been to me
for ever clutching the cruel decree
to think somehow it would not leave.
But abandoned have I been,
and where fault lies is not wherein
nor who on but rather on my own sin
which pressed for loss, no battle's win.

Cigarette

A cigarette is all that rests
upon the lips above the breasts
of the swooning dove on her tainted chest
for her heart has bled a soup
thick to clog her throat
and all sweet now with which she has to bloat
is lone the sacchariferous smoke

Melancholy Sky

Tis a somber tune
that crept upon the stars.
with distortion does it croon
as melancholy it regards.
And melancholy's all it is,
the sky in its abbhored fit
as it relinquishes the bliss
once floating with a goldness lit.

Hipocracy

To negotiate the righteous
is to stir about the wrong,
For what seeker of any kindness
could withstand the bloodshed long
as the weaponry does tower up
just as does the sinister prevail
when permitted is it to seep
beneath the good's shielding veil.

evil time

For the endlessness I pour my cry,
for if no end, no definition arrives.
The insignificance is all too devoid;
I weep for what boundless time has soiled.
It's infiltrated all satisfaction;
it's ransacked the every distraction,
for all was pillaged by its detraction.

Dawn

The steam of night's brew,
the dawn's gentle dew,
is the fountain of day anewed.
Has it crept from the earth,
or was from sea unearthed,
no matter, it is the only hearth.
For when erupts the sun,
its freshness all too blunt,
the fountain is into lunged.

Starlight

Could for my sun not a thing compensate,
for what ever is else is a thing irate.
There's not a ray of jubilance righteous
aside from mine but a hindrance, heinous.
A sky void of the star of mine
is a sky ablaze in wasted time,
For what is there if not my saint
but a nothingness or else a taint.
A dawn to dusk barren of my luster
can nothing be but a despaired old shutter.
For what is lord and does all splendor muster
but mine and be it not, only all the duskier.

I wanna be like you

An incandescence is on your marble skin,
illumination seeps from your fingertips!
You have artistry on each wisp of hair thin
and your portraits hang too on your lips.
Tell me what bounty have you stocked,
what phoenix is it that you shed?
You've puzzles and secrets from me blocked,
and I beg to know what has made your grandeur bled!
Do tell me what has your muse articulated,
for all your divinity I wish to yield.
Confess how you've kindled what you've created,
So I may touch this exaltation unreal.

diary of a slave

I shall contort all my limbs if it will assail my master with any ease.
I shall slaughter all my whims if it will guard my master of my disease.

Strip me of my pride and maim me in your consummate honor;
For my veins I would let dry had my blood to such glory gone for.

Cleanse

Eyes are cursed to be blessed;
the fallious must come before fact.
For what joy can over any eye be dressed
if that eye beholds no trevail of the past.
And what can be seen of the truth,
if indistinguishable is a lie,
not a thing can be seen by the sleuth
if upon no untruth has he spied.

Ears bleed before sealed with melody;
the music sparks only after the silence.
For what instrument can play any degree
of sound if quiet has not first triumphed.

Heart, don't depart

My heart wanes back into the night sky,
an abysmal pit all too forlorn.
And roosting lone is my soul to cry
for it's me my treasured gem has scorned.
Some wire has cleaved it from me,
and the wire my esteemed has welded.
For unwittingly it spurned to not see
That within only I it is sheltered.

Love Over Lies

There rests a castle of rubies
amidst imprisonment;
Lies in it abundant seas
of sincerity, the merriment.
Upon a hill of feigned life,
is the supple satin of kings,
and a king is one ever rich with the strive
to brew the best song he can sing.
And all the songs of such sumptuous taste
were extracted of most inspiring a face;
This is the face of love divine,
the frank felicity arched over cries.

The Hours

Time is the shackle
binding my shaken bones,
the villainous chain
wound tightly round my moans.
The clock declares our slavery
with each ticking tremble,
and mercilessly I'm thrust down
to with it slowly crumble.

I shiver within these chinks
encrusted with caniving shards,
And weep for what talons have crippled me,
who dealt me these cold cards!
Yet I know too well each puncture
is from knives the hours sculpted,
for the hours are my master
and I'm their exhausted puppet.