Posts Tagged ‘souls’

The music here has created a movement,

and beauty is bleeding from within.

Everything is esoteric,

seeds budding and stemming from a glance, from the simplicity of a soft, gentle touch,

from my heart and to and through you.

All of this, of course,

has always been,

and always will be.

Harmony has passion,


fear flies with just as much grace as that of

a diving dove.


Now and again, illusions form–

blankets of snow are tricks from the midnight moonlight,

whispers beyond the hallway are shakes from a cold chill,

and painful thoughts are only fragments from feelings of the past.

We have buried ourselves,

all of us.

In so many shapes,

in so many ways,

in so many places.




But now, the air is aberrant

and these vessels;

these veins and vines,

these eyes and ears,

see and feel and hear

the heart of the matter–

the only matter that has ever mattered.


And so we travel on,

picking up the pieces,

trying to live our lives like circles.

Perfect in our own rotations.

All to touch again,




tender to shine together

we all are,

as long as we breathe



our skin.

As long as we share





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Thy luscious valley veiled a cove of calamity,

As far beyond thy ocean routed waves of wrath and fury,

And thy hills were of emeralds, a glowing grace of green,

And the mists of thy morning dew were thy lord’s holy beam,

While the horizon was silver, beyond riches to any pocket thou fill.

All the tellings of the morning leave thy heart heavy still,

As a soothing companion was a wind upon thy warrior,

True it be told, telling tales of long past and vanished glory here,

But still thy horses galloped to the ocean ire’s,

To face thy evil, and thy enemy, eyes to eyes,

And thy pain and pattern of such past cometh to cloak again,

And the wind that had whispered with solace and hope, silenced in end.

Such hope was held in the hands of all hearths that die upon the cove,

Thy voices echo in valley and in virtue, and live still in good soul,

But battle be denied to good soul that silence cries, fearful and faint to fight,

What it be but in vein, to continue remain in the clasp of a foe’s darkened night,

And that foe be only one of continuant sum, raged by sin and led to sacrifice,

Not of a lord or a love of world here and above, but of self which feed entice,

Be this a man of power and none, whom want the world as if he can sole create,

And if such cometh true, he turn on you; and but a voice in the winds be thy fate.

Thy stories that last of warriors past be not taketh to pages of ages to set,

For thy bleed through the pens, haunt and remind thy men, that their battle not won yet.

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Faces are melting,
with spirits slashed by sharp daggers,
hearts torn and teared,
like a fray feathered pillow
blowing to oblivion.
A compromise like a promise made
long ago.
A bare tree in the moonlight
has more to share,
A canopy of falling leaves like the rain
knows more about me,
The fog over the hills has lost nothing
and taught so much with its lingering presence.
A quiet night with empty bottles,
the onslaught of the morning sun
like a rebirth.
But they try to convulse me, indulge me,
and mold me,
never do they try so hard.
But they don’t know me, they don’t own me,
and it shows on their faces that it
kills to be them.
The only glimmer of hope, in the rapture of turning
a soul into the walking dead.
for this I hold no eulogy, no song,
but only a poem of pity.

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