Hueless is the painter
a writer void of words
bleached is the rainbow
silenced are the birds.
Leafless are the mountains
sunless is the falling sky
parched is the fountain
opaque are the eyes.
Faithless is the priest
temptation prunes all wings
throbbing is the fetid soul
of the grinning beast.
Childless are the parks
can any hear the sound
hollow face and needle
shine less on the ground.
Compassionless are the smiles
poisoning the emerald pools
famished is the human race
sated are ogres and ghouls.
It was the point of a meaningless moon,
That being dealt life, its absolute gloom,
Vague stars shone hope to reposed past of Earth,
Dusk hath casts a crazed eve, pure hueless girth,
Joint lives of suave views have spread neath vain space,
Twain hearts of faint aims bent at an odd place,
Hath time rose, it was at a library,
Heartbeats are intact, waft of rare moon, free,
Scene set single swift shift that sways said lives,
When immortal kiss filled, hatched modern drives,
Flash of bliss, sum less than a week, pithy,
Souls warp sovereign time a dichotomy,
Ageless Sun o'er timeless Earth, midst readers,
Pave periods, us, episode writers,
Two; songbooks split, both sung; books wrote, both said,
A book close, ashes to ashes, rites read,
Ode paid, poet refrains, anew begun,
...Chapter One.
No regrets, separate lives lived since my first kiss experience, though death came at mid-life, both of us had a fulfilled life, and for that, I am content.
Alas, in the entirety of my composition I see, I feel, now, a part missing whose shape is strange, a form which nothing, without and within, might fill;
It is you, My Dear, whoever, wherever you are; you are the missing part, My Love, the phantasmal modicum;
One day you will come to me, and the hole will be plugged, and this frosty winter draft will cease to blow about the creaking corridors of my being; My Dear, the leaks will stop;
I won’t feel so heavy, so down; I will be full yet light, cumuli; I will be complete; alas, you are but a fiction, My Love, a lie, a distant note of hope, dishonest as a child’s laugh above a funeral’s solemn load;
For it too will cease and perish as the white dove, above turmoil and war, will fall and rot;
But you’ll see me through this hueless, harrowing day of trees crawling about my blank, birdless sky;
My Dear, for now, at least, My Love, for now, at least, My Lie, from now till the last, everywhere, nowhere.
My tortured weary body aches,
While my minds bright embers aglow,
The songbirds of sorrow awaits,
Reaping dark empty seeds I sow.
Lost traversing aimlessly through,
The lush spring prairies full of life,
I seem to unknowingly choose,
Desolate vast tundras of ice.
A colorless empty wasteland,
Slows down my once wondrous journey,
Turning my hueless eyes face down,
Numbing the thoughts that concern me.
Devaluating precious time,
And prioritizing my pain,
Has left self-loathing in my prime,
With a pessimistic disdain.
I have known that for survival,
Trapped within this frigid glacial world,
Atonement flourished revival,
Sent within a single warm word.
Precipitous licking fire,
It's flares echo from up above,
Precipitates the muck and mire,
To precipitation of love.
The Forty-Fourth Conscript of the People.
A portrayal of intellectual and political multiformity.
Its present-nature is captivating and inspiring,
Its epochal-nature is unmarred and univocal,
And its future-nature is unknown and essential.
An Intermediary of faith in change,
Stirring echos of "Yes, we can!"
Rendering credences of optimism,
Stimulating the honesty of a republic,
And awakening the unconscious hope of mankind.
This recipiency dims the light of yesteryear,
And proceeds into an age of hueless expectancy.
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