Long Phantasms Poems
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Dark World
A world gone dark, trapped in isolation
Reality fades, felt is the approaching cessation
Unmatched is this bleak and utter heartbreak
Time becomes obtuse, present fabrics now quake
Squandered decorum, searching for hopes door
A clear and present danger, discovered once more
Abandoned and sequestered, searching for light
Rearing vital hope, moving forward in the night
Inoculations brought forth which many deny
Phantasms maintained as many more die
Searching for truth in a world that hides
Convinced of false faith, ignoring the tides
False sages conceal empirical fact
Browbeating their brethren with abominable tact
A juncture has come, more lines have been drawn
Man needs to unite before all hope is gone
In the twilight of a violet sunset, when my soul dons veils of melancholy,
I sit alone, surrounded by phantasms and unspoken words, whispering ancient incantations,
My verses, silk threads woven from starry tears and lunar sighs,
Rise towards the celestial vault, carrying the secrets of my troubled heart.
Poetry is my hidden kingdom, a crystal citadel buried in the mist of the mind,
Where no one can enter, where each syllable is a drop from the elixir of immortality,
Each metaphor, a rare flower grown from the fertile soil of divine experiences,
And the rest of the world is but a faded shadow, lost in the maelstrom of eternity.
Who dares to step into my garden of verses, to profane my altar of creation?
Who can understand the cosmic storm in a poet's soul, the infinite ocean of emotions?
Let me sing my pain and ecstasy to the rhythm of my bleeding heart,
For poetry is my sacred temple, and you, mere mortals, have no place in the sanctuary of words.
In the deep night of creation, when the moon weeps silver on astral parchments,
I transform into an alchemist of the divine verb, melting reality into mystical verses,
Creating new universes from the ashes of memories and the dust of shattered dreams,
And you, who do not perceive the magic of this sacred ritual, can depart to profane realms.
Each poem is a piece of my celestial essence, a prayer whispered in primordial darkness,
An invocation addressed to the forgotten gods of inspiration and eternal beauty,
I care not for your petty criticism, for your ephemeral misunderstanding,
For I exist through poetry, and you are but passing shadows on the cave wall.
So leave me alone with my verses, with my demons and seraphim,
With metaphors dancing in my mind like blue flames from another dimension,
Poetry is my intimate ritual, the cosmic blood flowing through the veins of my personal universe,
And you, who do not feel the divine vibration of words, can lose yourselves in the void of oblivion.
I see phantasms floating through the billowing early morning mist
where I stand alone by the black water as its ever
probing tongue licks gently at the granite rocks that line the shore.
Like stone sentinels the fog creates images of snow leopards that seem to stalk the shadows,
lithely twirling as the ebony water casts polymorphous creatures into the living mist.
These images remind me of you.
Your long feline movements leave me breathless.
The touch of your delicate finger tips warm me to my core
as you gently stroke my hair, touch my hand, caress my shoulder.
On this chilled morning as I stand here thinking of you,
your long slim body tattoos images across my mind,
Images that will never leave me,
Images I can never forget,
Images of beauty and emotions that I can see in vivid colors,
Images of the feelings I have locked deep inside of me.
You are the beauty in my world,
the light,
the curtana,
blunted by the haze of your own emotions,
never allowing the warmth of the emerging golden dawn
to lift the vapor of your world,
leaving the sweet dew drops
of your desires hidden within your denials,
always to remain in your darkness.
And if these words are cause for a single tear to drip from your smiling eyes
let it rest upon your gentle cheek for the briefest of moments,
for a breath that lasts an eternity in my heart.
Allow me for that instance this single indiscretion.
Though in reality it can never be,
let me dry your sweet tear
as my soft lips caress your tender skin,
and the clouds slowly fade leaving the warmth of your soul
shining brightly in your beautiful fantasy.
02/08/17
The dream seems real when we don the form
Borrowed from elements of the domain
But if we simply chose not to conform
We wake up when desires to rest are lain.
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Illusions of Solidity
In the shadows of stardust
When night slips through my fingers
Like seconds
The heart spills its secrets
In mirages
Trying to capture
The ephemeral laughter
Of moonlight
Wrestling with rainbows
In the language of memoir
A broad reach into the blanched bones
Of lavender daylight.
A psalm springs from my soul
To gather bits of memoir
When phantasms long
To swallow sunlight
And unrelenting spots of ebony
Pine to sully the new petals of dawn
With sagging wrinkles,
Withering fatigue.
I touch the lightning face
Of the morning’s firstborn star
Drawn into the hollows
Where I thirst
For the integrity of sunlight and thunder
To brush against the zephyr’s density,
Untarnished pearls of empathy,
And leave the remnants of ebony-colored fogs,
Their slight-of-hand, my legacy of dreams,
To twirl into aurora’s arms.
Not to touch the earth, not to see the sun, thoughts coiling like serpents,
I'm engulfed by the desire to run, to run, to run to nowhere,
I race through forests of shadows, where trees whisper forgotten secrets,
Their roots stretch like the fingers of an unseen hand, ensnaring me in a hypnotic dance,
Where the sky is a gray veil, hiding stars that weep silver tears,
And clouds are heavy cloaks covering truths I can no longer bear.
On an endless road of silence, my steps become echoes lost in the abyss,
Each heartbeat, an old clock counting down the remaining moments,
And in this frenetic rhythm, I feel the world unraveling under the weight of unlived dreams,
As time slips through the hourglass of an unyielding reality,
Where the sun no longer rises, and the earth speaks only in whispers.
In my mad dash, I meet the shadows of those who were and are no more,
Phantasms of the past, with hollow eyes and outstretched arms, seeking answers in the dark,
They whisper tales of lost worlds and shattered loves,
Of unfulfilled dreams burning like the fires of a late autumn,
And my heart, a bird trapped in the cage of desire, seeks freedom in vain.
Yet still, I run, I run towards the edge of a world ending,
In a ceaseless dance where hope and despair intertwine like threads of silk,
For in this tremor of the unknown, I find and lose myself alike,
A wandering soul on the waves of an ocean of questions,
Seeking light in a world of shadows, I run, I run, without knowing where or why.
Consensus reality is like a desert mirage,
An aurora of shadows and lights where dreams become tangible,
Each desire intertwined with the invisible threads of common belief,
Our world, a palace of illusions, built on ephemeral foundations.
It’s like a spider’s web woven from moonbeams and silver threads,
Each step on the stage of life, a dance of eternal phantasms,
Reality, a paper note without essence,
But in which everyone believes, and this belief gives it ephemeral brilliance.
Like birds lost in the dream of a star-streaked night,
We struggle between what is and what seems to be,
Each thought, a shining pearl in an ocean of illusions,
We paint on the sky of our hearts falling paper constellations.
In this dance of shadows and light, we feed on collective dreams,
A paper reality that comes to life through united desires,
We weave words, signs, and symbols, building the ephemeral citadel,
A world of mist that disappears at the touch of hidden truth.
But in this sweet melancholy, we discover hidden beauty,
In the game of appearances, in the illusory theater of our lives and dreams,
Each role played, a cadence of an eternal waltz,
A secret poem where reality reveals its enigmatic and fragile face.
Consensus reality is the reverie that unites us in the cosmic dance,
Each heartbeat, an echo of common fables,
And in this play of light and shadow, we breathe pure magic,
A fairy tale of stardust wherein our beliefs take shape and life itself.
Therefore, let us keep the dream alive under the enchanted moonlight,
While our paper birds fly free through eternity,
Our reality, a delicate poem woven from threads of gold and silver,
A melancholic magic that breathes through the infinite faith of our hearts.
The fire burns,
tempestuous rain raging,
stokes, fires spirit;
a leaping energy,
after burners thrusting in flight;
a searing phantasm.
Fire phantasms,
like phosphorous, burns.
It becomes in its flight,
An angry dragon, raging.
Such is the spirit
of energy.
When you see a spirit,
unlike a phantasm;
pure energy,
in its burning;
does not rage,
while in flight.
The cosmic flight
of a sacred spirit,
need not rage.
The phantasm,
Fueled by fear, burns;
it’s fickle energy.
A sacred souls energy,
in its spirit flight,
will brightly burn,
it’s the power of such a spirit.
Recognize a phantasm
by its dark energy rage.
Onward raging,
in its miserable flight;
the foolish phantasms
are dirty energy;
unlike sacred spirits;
they have a cold and dark burn.
Burn your rage, you foolish phantasms.
The sacred energy, of spirits is golden.
Spirits in their joyous flight, have a benevolent burning.
In a world of dreams, where hope dissolves into nothingness,
Life is a drunken beggar, reaching out to its own shadow,
Phantasms of illusions passing through its troubled mind,
Like a sea of shadows crashing over cliffs of old memories,
A grave of unfulfilled desires, crucified on the cross of forgetfulness.
Sleep is the shadow of death, but more than that, it's a breeze of sweet oblivion,
A balm for the soul wounded by existence, a fold of tranquility,
Where I will completely lose myself, dissolved into nothingness, healed from the pain of being,
Like a leaf carried by the autumn wind, detached from its branch,
Falling gently, without noise, into the silence of eternity.
Dreams blend with reality, a labyrinth of thoughts and feelings,
A river of images flowing endlessly, washing the shores of the soul,
Where the drunken beggar continues to wander, searching for a lost light,
A hope unraveling in his trembling hands, like sand from an hourglass,
And the night, with its black mantle, envelops everything in sweet forgetfulness.
When I depart, completely lost and gone, a faded echo in the vastness of time,
I will melt into the silence of infinity, a point of light in the ocean of darkness,
Leaving behind the pain of being, like a shadow disappearing in the morning light,
And life, that drunken beggar, will continue to wander in search of the lost dream,
In a world of phantasms, where hope dissolves into nothingness.
Written: September 06, 2023
I dream poetry Sponsored by: Ink Empress
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I wander in the night of ebony embrace,
Lost in dreams, heaven, or nightmare chase
Searching in vain for a misty glimmer of hue,
A muted color, yearning to trace through.
My fingers nibble to nudge your comely face.
To glimpse a xerox of your soul in this barren space.
But phantasms and dreams are drowned in tears.
Dreariness and skepticism drench my fears.
Wishes, once vibrant—now unbearably barren,
Each flinch of solace mauls annihilated and torn.
The moon, with a crimson glaze, casts its light.
Uttering the details of this celestial night.
I'm glad I sensed this infamous hue loop.
Yet these are crumbs of an urge to stoop.
They scolded me sternly from the start.
A sane conviction into my flaunting heart.
I swallowed a smidgeon of your spirit.
Silken strings of split that we skillet
Mirthless melodies form a philharmonic of pain.
Sisyphean scarcity smolders at me again.
I waltz to the woeful waiata of weary dance.
Oddments of our devotion, a haunting stance
Alone, I bemoan in the manor of the moon.
Will the sun ever hover over my sorrow soon?
Could the growl as it rains blur a rainbow?
While we witness it from the apathetic row.
Or am I being scolded and rebuked for being alive?
Will the spasm that lends life veer and strive?
In the abyss of darkness, there is light.
A beacon of optimism that shines so bright.
And even if I wander, adrift and alone,
Iffy down, surely my soul will cinch home.
I'll retain probing solace in memories past.
They are the fragments that will ever last.
Yet throes may abide, and anguish may resist.
I'll cling to my optimism that love will persist.
Love is an odyssey full of swings and turns.
But, at last, it is an affection that returns.
So I'll betroth myself to the dreams of the past.
They sang to me over the glorious time I cast.
Midnight envelops the pillow
where her head rests sleeping
as each shaft of moon light glows,
umber and ocher traces,
through the satin nimbus of her hair,
gently caressing her soft cheek.
The billowing gossamer of sheer veils,
like phantasms, take flight
with morning's sigh
through the open window,
while the shadows dance playfully
through each beam of light.
She stirs but a moment when the cool murmur
tickles the lashes that smile across her eyes.
Smiles of the wonder of life once lived
of friends once known,
now, mere dreams that taunt her
in early morning slumber.
She, once the consummate ingénue,
naive of life's sorrows,
innocent of the pain of affairs
lived and loved and broken,
lies like a babe in mother's arms
cradled in the bosom of her warm haven.
As the sun scales the scaffold of early dawn,
its light scalds her eyes
and harsh reality again awakens her.
With painted face and perfumed breast
she is no longer the innocent,
for life demands tribute and she pays her debt.
Act II, playing the part comes easy now,
the soubrette, her new role,
her transformation complete in the light of morning.
Hiding her doubts behind coquettish trifles
She makes it through another day,
only to await her midnight dreams.
11/18/2018