Peribyss

The Gargoyle It hangs upon the ancient Gothic church and glares in angst below at passersby; a fanged and wingéd stare atop its perch as ever watchful as the starry sky. The gutter water courses through its stone, that rain that stutters down the orphan's cheeks and seeps into the ground to parents' bones, that turns a heart to stone and stone to beast. The passersby declare it ugly still; it torrents from above the starry sky from wedding bells through final rites and will, so how could it look well? They curse it; why? Without its monstrous wings, inhuman teeth, then who's to say that monster isn't me?

What was it then, before hanging flowers and soaring towers, but pining lonely men? Where the dust runs in the burning sun is the wanting Babylonian. One tongue of flame in the air, and the glare of sunny streaks. When the gardens reach that flame in the air and bear forth fruit from the branches of trees, the tongue, now forked, begins to speak. Two words flourish and flower through the halls that gird a young Babel's tower: birds are nourished among its strung cables like a hallowed, rusty bower, and the tongues disperse in a dusty shower. As the spire starts to rise, through the fire from dust to the heart of the sky, a bust is car

Gnawing on the scraps of the shining ballroom table, down to the roots, rotting food, the pining mood for a chunk of maple from a horde of swarming rats. Bringing with a haze of filth to hardwood and marble, all of the soot, could or should, with or sans guilt the ripe goods a cart full of swill for the vermins’ graze. Hanging on a tree Like an apple or a ripe fig, they grapple, inevitably crackle no matter how wise or big; the eyes around never let be. Tow’ring tall, an oak, poplar or long lasting pine; up farther small wood carvers, on all the rats chew and gnash and grind to dust, caught in their fur coats. Sprawling bene

A caged bird, looking down on the stage with a script, but no words but chirps, caged bird. A new face, lovely scent, curving plumes; what makes your heart race caged cockatrice? A white cloud, missing the passing flight behind bars around you, a caged bird: losing words, never found or learned, who has left you tied and bound? A caged bird, looking down on the stage with a script without words but a caged bird.

Wand'ring through the forest dark, Where shall I be to lead and breathe My new vitality? The lonely sky, so high Above the forest bark? Or prowling low Beneath the dark undergrowth? Winding the sinews of my heart, What drink of love or burning blood Shall fuel my new mortality? What fire scorch my life force Bubbling in my sprawling veins? The night's dark insight, or The golden sun's mane, so bold and bright? My soul inflates my chest; What vessel is best to begin my quest For true immortality? Will the great tyger's fearsome fire Bestow me fearful symmetry? Or will the albatross, with Wings of frailty, carry me across? But if I

The Black Horse The sparks along the spine, The ripples along the skin, In this you're kin to all you find In travelling to the sunlight, Drowning 'neath the Western line. The black inside Its eyes, The black across the sky, Apollo's flight is out of sight And we've all said our last goodbyes To the morning sunlight. The fearful howl-melody, The booming thunder bass, The conductor's face is far too foul For mortal hearts so oft in place; Life demands the heart to race. To feel its stinging leer, And all the ringing bells to hear, Hope is out of sight, but never close your eyes; To carry the Eastern light Demands the steed of Fe

Time Charges In gentle frame of time atop My shining guarded tower, The waves are still and soft In every frozen hour. The sun remains so still on high With lovely crystals suspended, For clouds themselves refused to cry While such a joy is apprehended. I stand atop my obelisk, Behold the dream that I live 'round. Encased in cordial ice adrift The times gone past and not yet found. I stare into the thin divide, By which the sea and sky confide The secrets of peace's demise. The edge of my desired foresight, Like orange trim of warming firelight, Conceals the shadows of a fortnight. That edge, the horror of my eye, A dreaded precipi

Tree after tree in a haze of green Still pass me by, almost unseen. Always been so far it seems From where I've been And where I'd like to be. Concrete thins and headlights dim To meager glimpse as I come in. Somehow missed the interim Just like all else since. All this time I've moved inside Saw nothing on the outside Still content all the while. Fear my hopes will pass my flash Behind me as I crash.

Dare I extend my hand Into the lovely night? Tender night, all so close in sight Yet reaches beyond my fire's light So bright, stay I hope I can Away from the lovely night? Dare the lines intersect Into one so fine? Lines, lovely curves entwined And binding, so hard to find Unparalleled; dare I neglect The function of the line? Dare the shadowed, blurred lines To cross so close in sight? Hyperbolic, curving heights, Irrational night, dark is light Inverted; dare the fine Recalculate what is right? Dare my hands to count Hairs on a head so fine?

Ringwraiths Lying silent, wrapped in meager sheets, the biting cold prevents me From my lovely sleep, prolonging haunting visions left from tales of old. Feeling through the darkness, grabbing books and tomes to ease the foulness Creeping through the darkness of my heart: the fears that were untold. Howling winds that chill and sear the bones are tearing through the cold, Bitter, burning, biting cold. Finding light to read the ancient words, the fear that goads me forwards Halts my progress through the text, but pages and pages do still unfold.   Tales of myth and legend tell of Nazgul leaving none unrended Speak as though it were but lege