Concord of creativity,
The poem meets the page,
Paint caresses canvas,
Sainted, scholarly sage.
Concord of creativity,
The poem meets the page,
Paint caresses canvas,
Sainted, scholarly sage.
An active volcano
chronicles
the arena of ancients
with distilled choices,
voices
heard by those who can
endure more
than you can ever inflict,
the fear that affects
like killer kuru,
the clouded mirror
of my guru reflects,
reflects
the catholicon of love.
At a time when illogicality
is tempered with the truth,
devised by mythmakers
who ascend a bridge of
birds to behold love in its
most divine and raw form,
normality is the device of
Da Vinci, Icarus’ spirit
reborn, forlorn sceptics
breathe belief, a true god,
forged in the womb of
sex mad scientists gone
insane… again.
Ungiven,
the gifts,
riven
from rifts
in reality,
fatality.
I am the falling leaf,
the windblown revenant,
föhn, foehn blown grief,
creating covenant
between unseen
unsavoury elements,
Beowulf’s mean,
restless developments.
I hold you in contempt,
Your kitsch and your calling,
The adverse attempt
To find flaw and falling
Out of favour,
Your behaviour,
Abhorrent,
Your arty-farty
Pretentious party
Paid rent,
Integrity, the price for celebrity.
Cemetery symmetry,
Senseless scenery.
Anaemic sentiment
Becomes virulent.
As unforgiving as the sea, A myth filled mind of mystery, The patience of a spider, Insider her, the spark, The craft of the wise And no fear of the dark.
Source: Wytch
The mind shattered like a glass,
The revelation, evolving into
A dark genesis, a catalyst,
For chaos and the kindred
Spirit of the child betrayed,
Displayed as a grim trophy,
That reminded one of shame,
The name of hollow vengeance.
The path, worn and wound
Round by the wounded
Who followed the poor
Souls, now swallowed
And burned, so few returned.