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Best Poems Written by D William L

Below are the all-time best D William L poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Fools

We spent today, singing of tomorrow,
but tomorrow never came.
With naïve hearts we wrote undying love songs, 
to transient deciduous souls.
We mockingly sat deaf at the foot of wise men’s lectures,
while we barked mute revolutions.
Brains thrashed in dormant bodies,
celebrating enlightened states of nothingness, 
We played with our lives,
the way a child plays with a gun.
And we wasted today, 
singing of tomorrow,
but tomorrow never came.

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Perspicacity

“Whoa children”, sayeth the author of perspicacity. “You may choose to be one of three. A slave, a whore or a rebel. Whichever you choose will make you pious amongst your kind, but a villain to the other two.” 
“Be a slave. A safe, secure little coward whom does as they are told so as not to disrupt the dispatching of their rations. So as not to feel the sting of your master’s stick. Choose one of the other two and you shall be accosted as an oppressor, for by a slave’s mentality, if you are not a slave, you are the oppressor.” 
“Be a whore. Like a slave, only you are not bound by your master’s commands. You are in wedlock to the cashier. You are nothing more than a vaginal pit for the merchants of the world to climax in, and you take it unto yourself willingly, like a dog to its own vomit.”
“Or be a rebel. A mess of theoretical chaos with no solid foundation. You spit at the other two, making yourself an enemy to all, wherefore no peace, nor unity, nor love nor compassion can be found in you. You live not to challenge for betterment, but to basque in the vanity of your delusion, chasing an orgasm of “I told you so”. “ 
“Oh great author of perspicacity!” sayeth the children. “To which of these are you sworn to?”
“I am none of these. I despise you all. You are rotten and sour and I cast you out of my mouth like rancid dog meat. I, am suicide.”

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No Title

As the spirit of Lazarus, I animate. Reanimate, from a bizarre slumber to a palpitate night air. Gulf winds intrusively herding heavy clouds like spirit cattle, bearing arcane riders of esoteric threat. Even the paunchy feline whom lays upon my window sill like a tapestry, raises his head in diagnostic concern.  Search the meager commorancy. Search the garden. Search the street. Search the air I breathe. Search the sky. Question the felines. Interrogate my own consciousness like a paranoid constable, inquiring of a delict event to come, or that hath already come. No evidence. Only my own spent cigarette that nursed my uneasiness and succored this dark morning probe of delirium and aberration. And now, with one final breath, cessation. Quiescence.

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No Title

Each day I am born into a symphony. Tones and chords eloquently choreographed in minor keys of insurgent melancholia. Lumbering contrition escorted by virulent humiliation where no penance can seem to be found. A drum beat of loneliness as bitter as flour, marches an aging reflection that can only scowl and mock.  This beat, beautifully and relentlessly recited as a tempo for horns. The onomatopoeia of these horns is my recalcitrant social seclusion, played by the trumpeter that is my refusal to accept the world as it was handed down to me. The horns, escorted as a prisoner by his guard, are the strings. Strings of repetitive failure drawn by the bow that is my incompetence and inadequacy. Each morning, I awaken to Mozart, to Stravinsky, to Mendelssohn.  Each embodied by variations of my own melancholia. Each piece written so perfectly as if I were only ever meant to feel this way, that I cannot close my ears. Each days emotions crafted for me with such care, that I believe it may lead to some heightened level of introspection or enlightenment, that I force myself to learn to dance its waltz. And, each day, the piece comes to a close with no edification to be spared to me.

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No Title

Insulated by seclusion, comforted by wine, 
my evenings of dormancy are once again impelled 
into the quiet seas of rumination. 
When, as randomly as my drifting thoughts 
weave in and through my indiscriminate cognition,
a soft unbidden light gently transudes through my minds curtain of lethe,
and lays a tame glow on a forgotten young face.
Warm reminiscent coruscations of your adoring touch,
bathe and soften my callous melancholy into velvet, fluid tears of lamentation.

How i wish i would have told you.

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No Title

In fruitless tradition, 
to kneel at the redingote of memory, 
in this garden of loss and souls, 
an insoluble desire to court heartache. 
To renew a dark corner of the heart, 
like a half burned candle that we labor to reignite,
through the bitter ephemeral winds of time. 
But only illuminate that which will never be again.

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No Title

I do not bewail the transient era that is youth. For in it, I was blind to the grandeur that is life. I was ignorant to love, and incognizant to its importance. Beholden to no strength, nor wisdom, nor virtue, I possessed no constitution that would urge nor encourage me to continue to love, even in the depths of loves absence. My existence bore no understanding of the gravity of human life, the influence of trust, nor the sageness of compassion. Tomorrow was assumed to be guaranteed and there was no urgency to my short time alive. All that was before mine eyes, the air in my lungs, those who stood beside me and those now gone, were all taken for granted. Tonight, these hot sea winds blow the amber coals of my cigarette back upon my face as unwelcomingly as the unwanted memories of my imbecilic youth. It miss it not. Let the clock spin. Bring me those ephemeral decades, for they only make the wine taste sweeter.

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No Title

What care I for love! Its adulation that drowns out all other enterprise of the heart like a siren. Its promise of treasure that lures man to concession of loves knavish aptitude. We overtly advertise our heart’s mannequin guards to forge the illusion of strength, yet wittingly concede love and the pursuit of, to direct our actions, choose our robes, set our goals, assign our speech. We grant it, like a spy, to ensconce in our aspirations, to squander our time and memory, to seek out names, to remember faces and places. To afford its attempts, avidity and appetite to influence even the most infinitesimal of decisions. To say this street or that street. This café or that café. And as a sportsman’s caddy, we follow. Is love so rich and potent that a mere drop hath the ability to dilute one hundred barrels of its ill side effects? Or is this mere legend? For its legend is all I have ever tasted. Why then do I proclaim a dish’s superiority if I have never tasted it! Why do I dedicate my life, to a king I have never seen?

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Her

Enchanted by these two bale fires of jade before me,
their soft spring green gives life to my smile,
and I willingly become their prisoner.
I wait eagerly next to her, ignoring the rise of this morning’s sun,
for there is no more wondrous view to behold than the 
emerald dawn of her eyes opening. Their beauty gives light to the room
that the envious morning sun never could. 
As warm and tender as love itself, 
I endearingly hold each kiss as precious as the first.
The gentle touch of her lips, rolls my very soul as the seas tide. 
I float helplessly in its ebb and flow. As each kiss comes to its inevitable close,
just as the tides themselves pull away, my lips draw helplessly with hers, as a sparrows feather on waves break, and coming to rest on the beach of kisses end, 
I wait longingly for her lips next tide,
to carry me away again.

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Blank

Bound to my gurney by straps of lassitude,
I lay immobile,
Poisoned by quiescence, my eyelids fruitlessly petition for strength,
Hours of dormancy pass and pass again,
As predicatively as the monotone ticking of the clock,
Recalling memories of these days are but hazy coruscations
of temporary consciousness.
Recording only the fading evolution of the days light on the wall.
Fading shades of titanium white, 
Falling victim to sun kissed ambers,
I only arise to granite, charcoal blindness.
The world is quiet now.