Details |
Joshua Moulinie Poem
The Nomad
Some men are nomads, not meant to plant roots.
No families here, just more dust on boot.
Wander aimlessly, seeking our sun.
No multiplying, hollow be our fun.
We merely observe, their scans myopic.
Yield gestating dreams, we’re cursed not to fit.
Home yet to exist, for the Nomad King.
Carry it on backs, into wind we sing.
Lovers now shadows, their own story told.
No place for us left, our chapter’s been sold.
Memories of love, punches holes through souls.
Where do we have left? Twice found, both grew cold.
So the Nomad roams, restlessly through dark,
Flashes of little things, kids smiling in parks.
Testify our loss, that’s the Nomad’s lot.
In both life and death, we stir empty pots.
Shimmer white cottage, glowing picket fence,
So simple, easy? Never dreamed of less.
Though a Nomad’s dream, but an awful blight.
He gives it his all, yet lose every fight.
Another goodbye, so used to them now.
They get still to dream; we must forget. How?
The Nomad yet walks, through desert and ice.
Thinking of breakfast, family sounds nice.
Ice does grow colder, in newly sealed heart.
Feelings fade softly, hollowing this part.
For love rarely stays, it drifts and it fades.
Mere daydreams for fools, delusional haze.
Obtuse thoughts of noose, perhaps he craves death?
Stick around for now, walk a bit more yet.
Perhaps if he keep, forward movement more,
The Sunset will strike, malformed as a whore.
The Nomad ponders, as I won’t plant roots,
Is destiny set, falling from a roof?
Apotheosis, of the spotless mind,
Perfection of self, so rare that to find.
The heat inside builds, Icarus my son,
Revel in yourself, with haste you’ll be done.
Let her fly away; roam bird, fate yet waits.
Story’s written now, epilogue of pain.
The Nomad nods, accepts; packs his sack and leaves,
Waits until eyes fade, in darkness he grieves.
Hibernate for now, sleep for a while.
Forge fresh a new mask. Don’t forget to smile.
The Nomad chews air, he sucks dry a bone.
Wistfully he sighs, ‘Hold me, I miss home.’
Copyright © Joshua Moulinie | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Joshua Moulinie Poem
Still you sit, in the recesses of my dreams.
Tugging at the cracks, pulling on the seams.
You’d have though, that after all the sand that passed,
You’d have faded now. I’d stop looking back.
But eyes roam, haunting still the castle of dreams.
Tip-tapping down stone, barely touched. Unclean.
Your face beams. Guiding moonlight of wayward heart,
It’s quite dark now dear, my castle cracks apart.
You’re not here, I project your phantom resin.
Not you, I’m in love with a harsh lesson.
Something long since lost, at greatest of costs.
I lost me, somewhere outside the castle walls.
Yet still I wonder, these silent stone halls.
Can’t even destroy. I’m the architect.
Can’t move on, trapped in my own made monolith.
The worst gaol is this, labyrinth of time.
Castle stands, as shifting sands bow down to glass.
Obsidian walls, decked the halls with ass.
Lost color, the trail of the phantom Pixie.
Orpheus screams out, Zeus knows what about.
Hades laughs, that fairy-free world fades to grey.
You were never here. Alone here I lay.
Were we real? Or are these crimson hands of mine,
The death of a dream? Or the death of a lie?
Painted in, the fevered ramblings of a fool.
I built this tomb, crawl back into womb.
Gestate me, placate my tenacious memory.
A new me will crawl, through viscera and all.
Pixie’s dead. Blood born an amaygdala moo.
He lets out a scream, raging fire abyss.
Had to die, to let your phantom form mist.
Copyright © Joshua Moulinie | Year Posted 2025
|