We need to dress the world,
tear off its rags ...
We need to offer light to the gloom
rescue the human mass
who lives in the wintry ...
We need to be the sun
of the somber ...
We need to feed the dreams
of the dead figures in obscurity,
of prisoners in murks and nightmares ...
We need to format hope to
people fallen trees,
people who are infertile
in life...
The fog murks its way in front of me
daylight fades into a lurid glow.
I drift loose as stones lost in my mind
hanging on to sanity by a fragile thread.
There’s a hunger within me that won’t abate
to fix my personal planet to a fiery star,
ride its path around the universe
along with other constellations
lighting luminous lamps burning the darkness.
Through an astrological lens, I pierce
the sliver of a half-moon gleaming beside my star
prods me to relinquish a pervasive sense
of hopelessness creeping into deep pools
of sadness, losing myself totally
and I am left with nothing
but a mere whisper of dust.
I latch on instead to the tail of a comet
hoping to land myself into a glorious sunset
but it speeds us through space
plunging me on a downward spiral
toward a stygian oblivion.
@jjote 022121
There are scanty men of tasty rhyme.
Shakespeare is dead and Marlow has gone with time,
Tennyson is under the soil and Holmes is no more;
Bunyan will never live again, and where is Poe?
I miss the verse of Nahum Tate,
A man stolen by the tides of fate.
I wish I could behold the mien of Coleridge,
Or see Longfellow musing upon a lonely bridge!
Now the uncoursed apprentices of this superior art
Have been left to dash hither and thither,
Knowing not which word to choose,
Chasing in vain some erratic Muse.
They say that little boats ought to keep the shore
And that larger ones may venture more.
I vote to labor on hot days and lonely nights,
I choose to rob myself of sleep and such basic rights
And attempt to fill these gaping gaps.
I seek no gain on this sorrowful earth,
I labour to earn some mystic mirth
When warmed by the blissful wings of death;
When its vanished the deceitful pride of breath.
Let no man recognize me for my plaintive works
While I'm on this earth of muddy murks!
There are scanty men of tasty rhyme.
Shakespeare is dead and Marlow has gone with time,
Tennyson is under the soil and Holmes is no more;
Bunyan will never live again, and where is Poe?
I miss the verse of Nahum Tate,
A man stolen by the tides of fate.
I wish I could behold the mien of Coleridge,
Or see Longfellow musing upon a lonely bridge!
Now the uncoursed apprentices of this superior art
Have been left to dash hither and thither,
Knowing not which word to choose,
Chasing in vain some erratic Muse.
They say that little boats ought to keep the shore
And that larger ones may venture more.
I vote to labor on hot days and lonely nights,
I choose to rob myself of sleep and such basic rights
And attempt to fill these gaping gaps.
I seek no gain on this sorrowful earth,
I labour to earn some mystic mirth
When warmed by the blissful wings of death;
When its vanished the deceitful pride of breath.
Let no man recognize me for my plaintive works
While I'm on this earth of muddy murks!
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