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Ryan Summers Poem
Mendacities wear smiles made of porcelain with teeth more the stature of fangs which drip poison of an end to which I find myself entrusted; shattering is for the mirrors, and being is the soul’s likeness, subject to the inevitability of atrophy, as even the Universe’s own heart must cease its song, giving way to the passing of each beat, the dying of each note, and the falling from grace of a man’s honor. Those feathers on the floor belonged to an angel once, and now they are but quills used to strike names from the Book of Life and rewrite them into the Book of the Dead, made to dance upon the leaf by the hands of he who would see himself departed before he finds the one thing that will bring him light; one atom seeking another, complete annihilation, oblivion, shards of reality loosed from the cosmos, dustings on the floor, snowflakes on the leaves, glints of history within each eye which chose to see, raindrops alighting the face, a butterfly flapping its wings and giving voice to chaos theories as the tsunami washes away all traces of me within myself and brings to the shore the you and the I. Can you hear it? Rising from this hell are the cries of mutiny, the roars made of words that proclaim “Never shall we give credence to the verdicts of the Fates, that we shall be islands in the vastness of the sea!” And never shall we be alone in the face of voids.
Copyright © Ryan Summers | Year Posted 2012
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Ryan Summers Poem
The utterances were trophies; the claims fell upon opened ears, and the whispers danced hand in hand with blasphemies voiced from the heart, and I saw in the mouth of a lioness dead men formed in ranks, like soldiers unprepared to die, and their shields were made of shames, and their swords were made of lies. When those lies cut the flesh, the victims did not bleed, but instead gave way to sin, harming those who were cut from the same cloth as they, and those holy kings said to the masses, hoc est opus dei [this is God’s work]. I sought to answer the question of why pain was inevitable, and why skies must shatter, and why visions must cloud as the Tempest gathered her cloak about her ethereal form and lent to the Earth her wrath and her tears, and I questioned the meaning of it all, soiling myself in woes as I witnessed the angels fall. No words came to mind, no answers, no dreams beyond nightmares of running through unknown districts, in the night, from something sight could not quite make whole; no words save tu animam tuam perisse; you have forfeited your soul.
© 2012, Ryan Anthony Summers
From "The Grey Muse" ( http://www.amazon.com/The-Grey-Muse-ebook/dp/B006YDMR1C/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1326920167&sr=8-3 ).
Copyright © Ryan Summers | Year Posted 2012
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Ryan Summers Poem
Children of Babylon
There was Psalm
rose petals in the wake of March
the laughter of hells
the tears of lost Edens
the looming tyranny of kings
the voices falling as angels from
the sights of God
And what reigned
in the stead of David and Solomon
were the children of Babylon
the beasts risen from the Coliseum’s womb
the savages who called themselves lords
and the whores
who touted their freedom before the world
as they bent knee
opened mouth
and pacified themselves
on the "phallacious" seed of the king’s rising scepter
Copyright © Ryan Summers | Year Posted 2012
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Ryan Summers Poem
If I must be deliberate in your casting
and in your naming
so must you be in marking this world
with what I have given you
In the end
I made you to make myself
so that I could live forever
and so that I may pass
knowing that
at some point
on some day
in some time
I mattered
Copyright © Ryan Summers | Year Posted 2012
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