I. a dream within a dream
If they were, they existed in name, those beyond stars
That rained dust faster than comets,
As if they chose to exalt the sublime
Instead of course in our veins like pulsing fluids
If they fell, they fell like falling doors,
Aneurysms in the mirrors of broken window panes
Pale reflections of ink in the minds of puppets
Hung like forgotten toys, worse for wear
With their painted skin and, egocentric pull-strings,
Crawling away into the depths of the Salvation Army centre.
If they were matched, it would be by zinc crystals
Dead whirlpools of cold lines, mistaken
For a fear so deep it is no longer remembered
And yet repeated in every sunset, a dying wail
Of a wandering circuit box.
If they were real, those tormented charcoal forms,
The skies would pour them out like locusts,
With the remains of coughed-up clouds,
To be gazed upon by Man [the stuff of this horizon]
Unremembered.
II. dirae
a serpent who could not be charmed made its nest in the roots of the tree,
The Anzu bird set his young in the branches of the tree,
And the dark maid Lilith built her home in the trunk.
Sanguine, those,
dripping jaws and slaving claws
gristly wings
gone with the twilight breeze
the frivolous insolences
of mortals swiftly
sliced
like haze upon jealous Parnassus,
watch as they
vanish
in adamantine bridles
with the blazing jets of black waters flowing still…
enduring the test of Fate.
Sanguine, these
slobbering jaws and unleashed claws,
fibrous membranes
piercing a silent air
the trivial beings of man
replenished
like hope upon the shoulders of Typhon,
withdrawn,
by his aura, the monster lives,
in hate and fire,
perhaps the lightning will never come.
Sanguine, these
hungry jaws and ripping claws
leathery wings
disappearing into gloom.
the petty squabbles of clay figures
fade to dust,
the sun rolls on in his empty quest,
and the snow falls.
III. woe to the sonnet
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Its temperate sun and lack of frost
With winds so gentle lava outflows them
But summer itself is too long
And near to fading an unmentionable course
In visions of Heaven, summer is
The darling of the earth, sometimes it just
Makes you sick to your stomach.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
When birds breathe easily and the light
Can see its immovable lamppost shadow
Unyielding upon sidewalks not coated with rain.
Yet her visage has too golden an eye,
Her lines too slanted a complexion
By chance or hookety crook
Also seems to have too hot a disposition
To give life.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Maybe later.
IV. the sound of silence
at clouded core of shadows close
whence winds doth screech so shrill
lie quiet hungry hidden ghosts.
spectres green in death, morose
around falling windmill
at clouded core of shadows close
are there such ungainly hosts
in whose hearts and minds, for ill
lie quiet hungry hidden ghosts?
and our poor thoughts engross
reside in those wasted hills
at clouded core of shadows close
the whispered deeds of well meant most
beneath ironclad chill
lie quiet hungry hidden ghosts
there’s darkness here, in hefty dose
where winds do screech for thrill
at clouded core of shadows close
lie quiet hungry hidden ghosts.
V. vox populi
Vi Veri Veniversum Vivus Vici.
VI. chorus
There is more to words than what can be said.
There is more to action than what can be done.
There is more to people than what can be computed.
There is more to the world than what can be Earth.
VII. march of the firefly
dawn,
but an inkling,
yellow streaks light the city
dewdrops lift from their sea of emerald
bastions of stone yield their snow-laden parapets.
dawn,
as ages rest on streets forever.
eternity is but thunder,
entombed in the smell of rain,
crisscrossed by the odd hurricane,
lost in the avenues of infinity,
dispersed in the mazy world
of concrete and stone,
eternity,
as moss breaks grey with green.
false foils
of colds and metred fares,
careless whispers live in
engraved myths.
dreaming away their long-lost glory,
with a sunless gaze.
dream as it may,
life in its thriving grasp,
the iron winds have erased its
arbitrary legends.
forgotten graves, illuminated,
in the dread chasms of the psyche
the makeshift name of “city”
pours its heart into the cracked drains,
pungent with failing cold,
hollow tubes
tipped in wistful foil
rusting in the algid rain.
dawn,
to ruins of broken monuments,
and plaques conquered by vines,
blurred instances of footprints,
havens of clear blue, overcast by the nimbus.
fallen steel in blissful solitude,
fragments of a dearth of concrete.
dawn,
in the call of the mind.
VIII. reprise
Look at the world with beautiful eyes, my dear
Her black winters and polluted depths
Her grieving techmen and uncanny valleys
Her pathos of sorrow, its chasms of hate
Her vengeful children frozen in sepia photographs
With frozen smiles.
There is more to words than what can be said.
There is more to action than what can be done.
There is more to people than what can be computed.
There is more to the world than what can be Earth.
Look at it with beautiful eyes my dear,
It is yours. |
Submission Name: Quantum
