Details |
River Lyons Poem
Equilibrium of Delirium
Strolling alongside my casted shade,
the forlorn rememberings have stayed
in this far-flung antipode of a star-lit glade,
where the skin of my self was flayed.
Though the butcher vanquished,
I was doomed to wander
across plains where thought languished,
and utter chaos loomed yonder.
Yet there beneath a gnarled old Willow,
lay the Sandman’s very pillow.
So down, down below I ventured,
to the primal dark: ‘o ultimate solace,
where the mind cannot be censored,
and logic becomes weary and nauseous.
My mortal makings now dismembered.
The last of my humanity disemboweled.
Yet what I once was shall be remembered,
as I abandon the heresy I had vainly howled.
My thoughts now echo aloud
in abyssal depths of a timeless shroud.
Ever deeper into the depths I implored,
wavering over my early erected cenotaph,
while olive branches whispered the deplored,
and I could somehow not help but laugh.
And so my being went to and fro,
into realms as would the newborn doe.
Though in this murky orchard,
not even light permitted me to see,
and as my vision was further tortured,
I stumbled blindly into what I was to be.
With neither sword nor shield required,
the dweller on the threshold quivered
as I ended what he had conspired,
and into Truth was I delivered.
For my brittle bones are embellished
by gems which Kings have relished.
My muscle boiled and rose in steam,
precious organs torn at the seam,
and all the while ran a red stream,
as I basked in the sweet Void’s gleam.
Alas, the final vestiges now fade,
surviving only as dirt on the Sage’s rusted spade.
My withered feet now freely skipping
down a strangely familiar cobbled road,
while the thoughts of doubt slipping,
and a sense of serenity seems to forebode.
Downward once more goes the stone path,
as I climb into the canopy of a pale tree.
And as I leave behind all feelings of wrath,
I am given anew the ability to see.
Now here have I arrived,
though no mortal survived,
at last at the Divine Equilibrium
of this flawlessly Chaotic Delirium.
Copyright © River Lyons | Year Posted 2015
|
Details |
River Lyons Poem
It’s all I can do to not carve these words across my eyes.
To immortalize what I imagine,
on this bleak, innocent canvas.
Each thought is a stain that seeps through beyond my reckoning.
It spills out, unbidden, to fall from the heavens
and lay withered on cracked asphalt.
Buried is the green,
and the world with it.
Strewn out upon these barriers are the bi-products of society’s desires.
Somehow the idea blossoms that this waste is cast down
to smother an even greater crime.
No one wants to see any longer.
They only want to believe.
As so I myself perceive.
And as I walk down these paths torn asunder,
through a labyrinth,
a catacomb that holds all of our perfections,
I can only search blindly for the footprints
that I have left a thousand thousand times.
Alas, they fly with the wind.
Carried off to places unfamiliar, waiting to be embraced once more.
Uninvited, they may creep into my pondering.
Secretly, they may attack me on my wonderings.
Yet how can I resemble them, recreate them,
when they are forgotten to me?
Piece by piece,
layer by layer,
they plummet to crash fragmented.
Under the sun I chase these riddles,
trying to reconstruct a monument that was never built.
Though as my last sun sets,
I hold dear all that has eluded me.
For when my eyes close,
and the monolithic projectors begin their show,
I can only sit and stare.
Caught in the illusion of an audience,
I watch as they do:
bright eyed, full of wonder, at what the next frame will bring.
Yet I have seen these sights a thousand thousand times before.
So why, in the beautiful darkness,
must light be born.
Is it enough to live each day like the last,
when each step you take edges you closer to the End,
or the Return.
And after each breath that I have taken, every word that I have read and written,
I can assure you that I know nothing.
I am forgetting what the sun looks like,
though the moon has found a place to reside.
So under these starlit twilights,
I will watch as I always have: without them, without even you.
Only I, as I run through reaping all that I have sown.
Copyright © River Lyons | Year Posted 2015
|
Details |
River Lyons Poem
Immortal. The word spoken passed through on a slight breeze, a wind to splinter trees.
A flaming light, in the distance a bird in solemn flight.
Soaring over, down below, drove into the depths as the White Willow sheds its last leaves. As green as the first morning of Spring, yet now rots in slow sleep to become once more: One.
Immortal, gasps the widow of wisps-- the pale Madame of the White Willow. Crying out, wishing to take to the boundless dark above. Gleaming gemstones, a necklace wrought in the cosmos: one of which the loveless lover desired. Above all else: wanting love and loving to want, these malignant forces of an antithetical nature reflected what she found deep within her. And her silks turned to rags. And her hair turned to brittle strands, ones of which the Autumn winds howl into submission.
Immortal, her lips pursed around a dying fire, stoking the flames with the last of Spring’s Dream-- the faded fragments of a once blinding green, now set in flame. Now resting in ash.
Darkness: Eternity. Her reels and gears make their final rounds, while the sculptor perishes. The garnishing has turned to rust beneath the bright pools, yet they are ever-glowing beyond the bounds of what we believe to be our lives. The pendant, once the mortar of what she had lost, though now the supernova of what she could no longer deny.
Immortal, she smiles as she climbs ever higher into the canopies of the White Willow. Higher, higher, closer to Nirvana-- a place of kingdoms constructed of star-light, of moon, and of the dark more immense and deep than any God could ever comprehend. Let the dusk descend, for it is always the darkest before the most radiant of dawns.
And as her eyes close, the undying pondering a leisurely slumber, the Willows wail once more:
Immortal. She wakens with a fright.
Immortal, she calls out softly, until nestling again in the shade of a white tree-- it’s branches heaven-bound and it’s leaves more green than the vividest dream of Spring.
Copyright © River Lyons | Year Posted 2015
|