Cries of sickness
-disease-despair
blow like seven winds and flow through open doors
like the dust of weary days
At times we seek such whispers as promise,
and collapse into the arms of many tongued terrors
If we rise, it is for this:
to hear the wretched cries of earth
and the reproves of the wise.
They bid us stay.
We have too often made such escapades.
The world cries blood.
To capture Bird of Paradise we would
trade our very souls,
only to find out that she is free,
and hears the empty sound of Ceaser's chains
and knows the heavy hand of God
upon us still.
Spectre
He came from below.
I heard his shuffling tread
upon the stairs
and then there was a silence
as he paused before each door
In that nursery room air;
a place where I was not...
there.
That light, that iridescent light
was of candles blown by
no wind of man or God
but was a spray of stars
turned backward
in their burning;
A glowering of Mars.
And shivering in stillness
and knowing that the
door that he had tread
upon was mine,
I fought against the
chillness and the tight
corcastation of his charm.
And stepping in without
an open door, the room
was flooded with a
scream of light; the
glow of a thousand souls
tide-up in mid-stream
flight; illuminating half-
lives of mediocrity
And I
took breath and
was smothered in the
ghostly pale of candle,
taper, lamp and torch
and none of these
-But only this scorching
beam of hell.
Alone
but for the empty
Smell of light.
The Onlookers
(For Sherie)
Tall, with grace of many stranded cornsilk
A gaze that strode skies of midwest plains as though
A stranger to the city's flattened curves and deep
vallies.
Great full hands that stirred
one's spirit in their constant task of reap and sow; and,
in their nearness they were statuesque,
immovable.
But few saw the narrow path; the harrowing
risk of harvesting free the handiwork of slaves;
and how steady the tread that threaded your steps.
Was not these hands, those eyes, full Heart;
took life from life, but the cold voice of a dread
Beast, thrashing, and the blank stares of
onlookers.
The Hangman Of The Heart
There is so much I dare not say
Pretentious
obcentric
IMPOSSIBLE words.
Whispers of the Hangman of the Heart.
Let our hearts be forever free of his
UNGRASPABLE noose
That dangles the soul's death's grip
and strangles them
In the twisted cords of
what was once love.
There is a love beyond our own
poor, knotted
attempts at binding
fate to whim;
Grasp the taughtness of rope UNTIED!
Trust my hand some lengths beyond,
thus pulling together friend with friend,
we'll see the weary way along.
I'll light yours should lights grow dim,
and you'll pull back chance I should fall;
heavy loads will ease with cheerful word.
Stealing back lives from the hangman's pull.
Peace |
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