Slight

slight of mind
from others blind
slipping grip, and left behind

bear nine tail
no pleading wail
shifting whip, of self assail

slight the land
oft then brand
slitting drip, will not withstand

noose the pall
with echo’s call
splitting lip, his id befall

scars and stains
of shattered brains
stripping thrip, of what remains

The forest path

He once walked the
forest’s path beneath
its saber arch, listening
to the march of crisp,

falling leaves in the
distance, electrified
by the banshee wails
of crickets keening

through the trees, lulled
into serenity by the
songbird’s reverie
Then from a voluptuous

horizon, came she;
variegating his dwelling
in silvery pendalogues,
poetical prisms, and

sombrous piquancy; wetting
his canopy into myriad
resplendent waterfalls,
accompanying his lullabies

with subdued percussive salt
Until her tempest fell; wild
violence unburdened by
loyalty, deafening howls

disencumbered by honour,
rending a lightning seared
wasteland of stochastic
devastation, clouded by jejune

jealousy and capricious char
His is a forest of memories,
smothered by oppressive
towering rampikes; skeletal

dreams piercing once
vibrant flora, longing
to caress the azure skies
beyond their handless

grasp, seen only when he
ventures paths within
Alone he waits in quietus,
a velleitous tree dying

in the barren wildwood; no
melodies to share his
company, no honour guard
to inhume his bones; his

roots trapped by the soil’s
filth, his marrow decayed
by the forest’s corruption

Pendalogues

Pendalogues of lamplight

Falling down the stony stares

Tripped when realization dawns

That no one really cares

Swaying absentmindedly

Inured to dulcet voices

Hollow in the lamplit room

Immured by darkened choices

– ◈ –

Pendalogues of madness

That feed the freshet down below

Turn crystal pools of sadness

To sanguine shores that overflow

Neither vestige of a memory

Nor stain of blood-soaked tear

All that’s left is emptiness

Like there was while living here

Company

The inkwell tumbles over welkin and wit;
her seething susurrations invite slumberous disregard.
The puissant voluptuary,
the sadist,
the con,
swallows me with magmatic lips,
melting resolve and self-control.

Fervid angst transudes through saucers
into lacustrine stains
and chilling horripilation;
restrained by fists of silk and ichor ropes.

She chases me through my tenebrous id,
past the inescapable eyes of lecherous flies,
the cunning guise of treacherous lies,
and emotional moors of sanguinolent dyes.

Her torment reigns until sunlight laves the room,
and she discards the ossified remains
of this tremorous calyx.

I watch in awe, rent and raw, through smaragdine diaphaneity,
as others wake from restful repose. And I wonder how…

Yet,
ever alone,
I anticipate nightfall, lachrymal, and her unwelcome company.

Weep

He weeps for the boy hiding deep within his eyes

A boy born a teardrop, wept from mother sorrow

As a child, out of mind, out of sight; so now he is never seen

Taught to speak only when spoken to; so now he is never heard

Taught to watch where he was going; so now he is ever looking downward

Forced to live on the outside without living, then it became his way of life

A distraction, an afterthought, a life of transient impression and impact

A longing handprint on polished mahogany

He weeps for the boy hiding deep within his eyes

But not for what lay before the boy

He weeps in empathy, while the boy weeps for the man he is destined become