Some Scant Poetry: "Angst in Progress"

Here's some of my past incursions. Yes, most of it is angry, bitter, and destructive; an inner reflection of younger days. Also, some are written within the context of a novel I am working on so the greater meaning may be elusive. I would love some critique, as I rarely get any from other outlets :disappoin I have tons more, but I figured four of them should be enough ranting for today

"Armageddon"

Time passes by,
going away so peacefully.
It's the same old thing,
the whispers of ages.

Can you hear it?
The astral callings?
I can't, but I know they're there,
wistfully they hide in concrete and glass.

Gone now is all that mattered.
Here now is all that remains.
I weep to myself in suffered solitude.

Ruins smote upon the surface.
Pockmarked, they sing sour.
The wind grows coarse, heavy.
Eventide comes for the young.

Deep, under the blackest of oceans,
secrets long since forgotten.
The weight we carry;
I hide mine well.

Inversion, antithesis, contradiction.
Breaths shallow, uncaring.
Can you feel it on the wind?

Who could have known
that we would be the harbingers.
Our own destruction
at the hands of our daughters, our sons.

Adolescence fades,
seasons linger.
I grow brittle in the night,
seeking out gods amongst the streams.

Buried under the sands,
the hourglass turns one last time.
Crumbling into ashes and dust.

And we ask ourselves:
what are we made of?
Shadows burned into chain-link,
we murder ourselves, gladly.

And we ask another:
what are we waiting for?
The days of selfless sacrifice to return.
Heroes that never stay.

The greatest civilization
the earth has ever seen.
Defeated by carnal hatred.

If vengeance is truly God's will,
then may the sun cease to shine.
May the wind cease to move.
May the earth reject her children.

May we be remembered as we should have been.
May we be remembered as men.
And may we be forgiven,
for all those lost along the way.

Lay us down, let us pass,
that something better may come of it.
Let us haunt that which we once held dear.

And let us run through the fields,
forever escaping into an embracing eternity.

A faith of the fallen.

------------------------------

"The Seventh Son"

Wrapped in his own,
his mind pierces flesh.
Not what he seems,
impossible to guess.

Dreaming, he walks alone.
Friends kept near, yet so apart.
Harsh acts bleed upon surface,
unsure where he lost his heart.

Lying in the chilling ground,
he finds some sweet solace.
Bitter till the never-end,
he sings an ethereal chorus.

Who is this darkened man?
The one they seem to call "Moth"?
What makes him so abstract,
dressed in his funeral cloth?

Is it murder, or is it kindness,
the ways of the wicked?
Passing so close to life and death,
skewed is the reality in the thicket.

Taking those he wishes,
black heart scarring darker steel.
he takes that cup up blindly,
No longer able to feel.

His blood now runs coldly,
dead and living all at once.
And where to do his allegiances lie?
To whatever pleases his nuance.

He is a ghost, a phantom,
a cowl in the ink of night.
Passing through the veil is his existence,
cursing those in his path to flight.

And on one cruel day,
one so lost to the ages,
the Mothman shed a single tear,
for the life birthed at the hands of Aegis.

Leaving into the mist,
death takes it's grim toll.
"All people live to die."
if only it could be as simple as so.

A friend, a brother, a father, a son,
once so long, long ago.
Treachery, lies, truth so profound,
If only we had the strength to let it show.

Unhealing wounds and scars,
blackness consuming within.
Tears hidden within the rain,
If only he could go home again.

Chasing away all his sanity,
he pledges himself to whatever end.
Time erodes all pleasant thought,
the day life chose to rend
the lifeblood of the ages.

---------------------------------------

"The Chair"

The School bell rings through the courtyard
Students fill in the green chairs
The feeling of rushing, damning quiet
Sings softly through the heavy air

Wondering minds pause for thought
To ponder the beguiling past
In the center one chair sits empty
A flower long since cast

All vengeful eyes turn to one
The one who knows the truth
He hangs is head in decadence
A sinner amongst pure youth

A car, a bottle, a close friend near
screaming shards of metal
Tearing life from limb to limb
Pavement takes that sweet petal

Spiderwebs spreading through the air
Their end was near and nigh
Frigid thoughts beget deeper cuts
That night they chose to lie

And so that chair stays empty
Never to fill again
And the Friend now stands alone forever
Unable to clean that stain

Tortured, emaciated, broken to the core
He smashes his fists in pink water
Desperate for impossible redemption
The fires began burning hotter

Not one, not all, was safe from him
his purpose turned absolute
His thoughts turned dark, without form
He vowed to destroy the truth

Not heaven, not hell, could stop him
Infected with rage so pure
Only in the arms of wicked nostrum
Could such a malice endure

And so his wings sprout forward
sly evil now his carnal way
He passes on his decrepit song
To wake another day

So now two chairs sit empty
One more subtle than the last
And when did that true friendship die?
When all others merely looked past

-------------------------------------

"Penitent"

You did it, didn't you?
You left her there to die
Didn't concede for even a moment
She was gone in the flash of an eye
Sunrise on the planets surface

Left to wonder and wander
Amongst those abysmal stars
You contend with your own heart
But if the choice was all yours
Wouldn't you do it again and again?

She's gone now, lost in darkness
There's no going back to the past
Many lives may be spared
But how long will it really last?
We all eventually fail, regardless of endeavor

I suppose all that matters to you
Is that the decision was fine and proper
In times of war, times of famine
There is no better doctor
Than the healer with a bullet in his mouth

"I am no monster" you say
"I did what was right" you chime
Keep lying to yourself if you can
No life is worth a subtle line
Love and friendship transcends the weave

What could you do?
Against evil absolute?
You try and persuade yourself
But come off lacking truth
She died for you and you alone

Without second thought
no hesitation in that space
She laid herself down
Not just to save face
beside the rush of that heavenly gale

And now only mist and shadow remain

-----------------------------------------

Here's another one - a song I wrote last night. I view it in the heavy metal realm, but I suppose it could be worked into other genres.

Can’t you see?
What this darkness does to me
Can’t you hear?
Singing softly, I cannot see

Won’t you know?
I’m the last one to let go of
Won’t you say?
Sitting so quietly, I’m all alone

Drudging through darkened waters deep,
I sleep the sleep of a waking nightmare
Passing through those pearly gates,
I hate to hate those fluttering white cares

And I breath....

Can’t you feel?
Burning flesh down in the undertow
Can’t you grow?
Roses of death-tide begin to show

Won’t you taste?
The bitter sting of forced mortality
Won’t you love?
The devil’s ghost nothing but a fallacy

Drudging through darkened hallows deep,
I creep the creep of a dreaming night-scare
Passing under those whimsical gates,
I hate the fate of those stuttering white lairs

And I breath....

Shadowy angels, calling your name
Sharpened teeth at your ear, in darkness they came
Willing, wanting, they drag you down in
Nothing in lightness can they understand

Drudging through darkened nightmares deep,
I weep for some sleep and silent repose
Passing by those pearly gates,
I relate to the late reply to my prayers

And I breath....

Here's a new piece. I was Just sitting here listening to Setu-firestorm's Ocarina of time piano montage, and the desire to jot some words was overflowing. The part of the song, near the middle, with the re-envisioned segment of the song of storms is absolutely haunting. If you have not heard it, head to the man's newgrounds page to listen. I highly recommend it to anyone who is a fan of Zelda music.

Here's the link, for those interested - LoZ-Ocarina Medley for Piano


"Cries of the Children"


Dancing amongst the winter storms,
a heroes blade sings softly into the quiet nether.
Crying out to those once lost, vengeance on the swing,
souls, once parted, leave solitary notes unread.

History fades, heroes depart for grander quests,
and those left to tell the tale have not the heart.
For those saved, their shells bleeding hollow memory,
younger days becoming nothing more than shadow.

Happiness lay in the eyes of the innocent,
conquest and war not yet surviving youth's strain.
Hope, desire, and courage wear thin,
and wholeness may never come again.

Evil takes all goodness,
firstborn feeling the deepest cut.
And we are left to wonder and wander,
At what price comes our deliverance?

And for the one to save us all,
his part lay darker in wait.
For his sentence is a place of forgetting,
us takers leeching shallow still.

The blood is on his hands,
his death is left in ours.
His sacrifice lay with Goddesses eternal,
and we are left behind; ignorant.

For we are but children,
lost on that winding path.
Heroes leave, old ones stay,
and youth becomes the tomb of virtue.

Mmm... the first two lines of "Cries of the Children" are beautiful. They evoke winter in all its softness and silence so completely; without even closing my eyes, I envision "the winter storms" - white flakes stirred with wind, clustering, showering - the shining steel of "a heroes blade" in their midst.

But my rhapsodizing upon such a narrow part of "Cries" does your poem no justice, so I'll stop now, xD

I'll have to read "Cries" several times over to really understand and appreciate (or at least try); right now, I can only extract bits and pieces, images, that I loved while reading.

Eh... and I have to go. Will return!

Thanks Selah, I appreciate it!

“Fate is a razor”


Try as I may, try as I may not
Drifting along crooked lines doesn’t heal
Grieving over spilled blood, ignominy breaches the loom
Shallowness misconstrued as memory helps none

The world is on fire, licking against shored masonry
I curse the eons with my whimsical tidings
My eyes grapple with falling skies
Virtue calibrates tangible penitence

Callow dreams burn, maturity exchanges
Aspiration turns cold, solitude beckons
Destitute sunrises break the chill
Gnawed to the bone, survival becomes capricious

Wish I didn’t know what I didn’t
Misery misses me, and I relate
What is this droll eventide?
Desperate madness

A soliloquy in preference
Hazy lines pierce - appreciate the copper
Numb to the core, ghosts lash out
A seraphic blemish

Am I wicked?
Do butterflies breath life into the tempest?
Faceless beauty, I envy you
One last fortuitous tear to cleanse the stain

White roses in the harvest

Here's five others that I found in the abyss that is my hard drive

"Graven"

Heavenly waters dancing, marry blood with choice
Thoughts are cursory, actions are crude
Fixating upon this purchased curse, lives are chained

No respite, no nostrum; no immortals here
I waive through the flask, my weaving the creeper's web
Tangled, ensnared, we howl to the cold earth in our compulsion

Streams of amber coursing in the mind
Stones take root; defy they may, but decadence comes still
The mass-murderer is paid; sly grins and easy substitutes remain

Lemon gold waxes into oil, greasing machines for their daily races
Bane's blight burgeons billowing browbeats
....I forget how it feels without

In this stockade, each of us suffers his own spirit
but does the spirit suffer mortal liberty?
And as I consume the flaxen ambrosia, the body ebbs it's final paean.

I succumb, adoration in fist, and she sings to me softly as I pass her by
Her tears channel the way for the ferryman: cold compassion
....and I return home

------------------------------

"The Civil Servant"

He is my friend
He is my enemy
He is the taker
He is the giver
He seems so random
But his purpose is absolute

Shrouded in black
To bring you to the light
You cannot stop him
But why would you want to?
He destroys families
To reunite them again

What an existence
To be the gardener
Plowing through the weeds
To find those flowrets gay
Binding them in his sheaves
To set them free

-----------------------------

"End of the Trail"

Drifting along they gallop into that feral sun,
affectionate air brushing across their fatigued faces.
Their skin harsh, their manes shorn, they push on into the deep, vast unknown.
Whispering as one with the wind, they ride.

Can you hear their voices?

No fortune, no fame, no masked rider to call them "mine",
alone with themselves they are free again; wild, unbroken and young.
Burning through the parched underbrush, the desert calls them home;
Sonara's dust never tasted so sweet to dulled city-senses.

Here they could run; run forever; catch that stitch of time; their souls kept safe.

Oh to die here on the arid plains; bittersweet fear graces their thoughts;
only to fade away as the red sands near; consuming; re-birthing.
Here, on the shores of Sonara, the horses are strong, stout, and swift.
And here, on the shores of Sonara, the horses ride on; eternity in their blood.

Only here, where all old horses go, does God smile a tear.

Only here, where time is at it's end, does purple sagebrush grow.

----------------------------------

"'Twill be Darkness"

Echoes of laughter, romping through blind eternity,
leave shallow waters, stark contrast bleeding off rough diadems.
A somber symphony, a placid poem, a contrite canticle of lovers torn 'tween,
shrouded and solemn they struggle, intimate strangers bound by cold caress.

Wishing it to be easy.

A lustful magnificence, a magnificent splendor, a splendid choreography of souls.
Reforming all that once was certain under jealous skies, breathing through heavy words,
promises fall short and gold loses it's luster.
Into water I wring myself.

Wanting it to be over.

Subtle niceties and feral emotion pays no heed to distance, stretching far amongst the stars.
Self-servitude and the drawing of skin, in essence I am but pieces, shards, remnants.
Straight lines, deep into the moss, tearing across damning sickness, indifferent to parties.
Unleashed, unabridged, unfathomable.

Thinking it to be fantasy.

The forests burn, the lakes dry, the skies fall, the apple tree....dies.
Jaded into simplicity, I have failed myself, but, believe me, you have failed me too.

Unto the very destruction of the stars, I would have followed you.

Unto the very threat of death, I would have saved you.

Unto the very pain of heart, I would have loved you.

And once, on the drifting plains of Sonara, writing songs left unsung,
I fell, like raindrops in the wind, drifting forever down the mountainside,
listening to the waves of silence, the call of darkness, that loquacious, solitary flight.
And in my loneliness I realize what I had, what truly mattered, what elegies!

The love of a lifetime, the hate of an eternity, the knowing that I was still alive.

Scars mark my shame, memories burn fresh the guilt, and I am whole again.

I'm not afraid anymore.

------------------------------

"Alibis for Lullabies"

Rounding corners, I'm in too deep
Bullets flying, cannot sleep
Tearing shrapnel cuts my skin
Running and running again.

Devil's angels track my way
Burning crimson with death and decay
No more weapons, shaking hands
Can't find the strength to withstand

Burning through the streets of gold
Looking for some sign of safe escape
Reaching for a savior's hand
Over and over again

No more running, it has to end
Bleeding bodies, make way for the man
Here we go now, open the door
Bullet casings litter the floor.

Burning through the streets of gold
Looking for a mindless soul to take
Reaching for a savior's hand
Over and over again

Ghostly faces, echo through
The only thing now is just me and you
So much pain now, can you deny?
No way now that you can survive

Burning through the streets of gold
Looking for some sign of safe escape
Reaching for a savior's hand
Over and over again

Tearing down the streets of gold
Looking for another heart to break
Looking for that savior of mine
Over and over again

::returns... weeks late::

Sonara's dust never tasted so sweet to dulled city-senses.

That is the line I love in the poem I most treasure in your latest batch of poesy: End of the Trail (do forgive that mess of a sentence above, >>). I suppose I could say a good deal about End's "beautiful imagery" and "evocative brilliance", but I've been saying too much upon those cliched subjects for too long. xD I'll just mention that End of the Trail is the desert; it is a sense of liberation. I can taste the sand, sweet to those who have longed for it and been starved of it; I can feel the energy coursing through the veins of the characters "gallop[ing] into that feral sun" - I could run forever and a day across that parched, red sand, "wild, unbroken and young".

Is "Sonara" part of that novel you mentioned in your first post? I noted the name in another one of your poems.

The only point I have by way of critique is that many of your poems seem a jumble of lovely words that confuse and obstruct any meaning I might derive from a piece - though perhaps by "meaning", I meant "story". I can't seem to figure out what's going on, or what's being described, @_@ I mostly noticed this with Graven, Twill Be Darkness and Fate Is A Razor; even End of the Trail gave me pause in the beginning, with the line, "Drifting along they gallop into that feral sun". "Drifting" and "gallop" are such contradictory words in the images they bring up; they render the line a "pretty phrase", one without much sense of substance behind it.

What inspires your poetry?

Sonara holds a special place in my heart, and yes, you will find it in many of my works. The name speaks to me, gives me solace and makes me dream of red rock and desert sand. I don't know what it is that drives this connection I have to the desert, but it's always been a part of me. I don't live in one, per say, but I just sense that whenever I go there I am at peace. Like the old sailor who never dies - he just returns to the ocean that gave him life.

As far as inspiration for my works is concerned, in all honesty I can't place it. There's something out there that drives it, for sure, but I am at a loss as to where it comes from. I would almost label it as randomness, as when I write it just flows. Dark and dreary for the most part. I don't plan much, and I don't envision a whole lot, it just comes out when I start typing. My wife tells me that my old style is like Charles Dickens, as if I was being paid by the word, but I'm not sure if I should take that as a compliment or not.

I dunno, maybe that makes sense to someone.

Oh, and as for the composition, yes I agree that they are a rather hasty whipping up. A lot of what I am posting right now is old-old-old and represents my first attempts at writing. I'd edit them to what I now view as proper, but that would be like re-writing your diary to how you now remember things happening. It may not be up to standards now, but it's a history book of where you came from. Rubbish and junk - my fading adolescence.

*Edit* - I take that back, about not knowing where the inspiration comes from. It's Music! Whenever I was writing back then, it was all based around the thought of dramatic piano, violins, Spanish guitars, and the like. Not necessarily music that is already out there, but I would just envision the scene with the music within, the notes actually telling the story, not the dialog. Wow, I just had a revelation! That was the problem back then! I was telling the story around the music, though no one else could hear it but me! Oh, the Shenanigans!

Here's some more trash

- This is a short inscription that was intended for my novel, though it was replaced with something more fitting and not so....blah. Now, some would immediately say that my wording is done horribly wrong, hooked on phonics style, but it was intentional - just so you know.

A Golden Box sits on high,
weathered veins cannot spy.
Ev'r to watch daze go bye,
puzzled mines start to cry.
Weeping tears cannot lye,
butterfly wings have to tri.
Solve the mystery with one closed I,
else forever and tether may die.

- Doesn't make much sense, does it? I'm not even sure I can remember what it meant anymore!

---------------------------

- FYI, This one is rather heavy and hateful, as the title would no doubt imply. I wrote it during some of my....dark times.

"Murder Me"

Lying here, wilting into my own decaying core
As wicked as I am, beauty is found in the black
The lies, the drying blood, the violence in my mind
Stirring echos of supressed emotion
It recedes in time, but is never lost
The key being manic memories and vile virtues

The breakdown is here, but empty I feel
How do you shatter nothing?
How do you burst when you cannot bring it out?
Building, building, building even higher
I am starting to slide
I am starting to crumble
I am starting to cave
I am ceasing to care

The day is almost here, the flesh of fallen angels
Bring me to the cusp of pain, only to give me pills
Heal my wounds, only to make them scar
Tell me what I am made of, so the salesman may die
Tell me what I must do, to make myself scream
Please......hate me......so I can learn.......to hate myself
Teach me to be ugly
End me, murder me, ghost me

I've run my course

-------------------------------

"Locking up the Sun"

Cold, endless twilight. Dying winter's Sun.
Searching for some answer, man destroys it's only one.
Sealing it forever, time and eternity
God, glory, and tarnished gold is what they want from me.

Who will stay this madness? Who can decide what's right?
A chosen few with hopes anew will sacrifice tonight.
Though in vain, no chances here, they battle for the cause
Against a God, what can you do when you are in the maw?

Then when all seems to be lost, dead heroes line the halls
Turning time and undead kind will fade with one and all.
Petty strife and rusted knife will never be forgot
until all is gone and none is won, only death will here be caught.

And so we pass through the Serrasalmo, who here has no more teeth
For none are required to build the pyre of man turned indignant beast.
And so it ends without large song or cheering, parading crowds.
Built by hand, the doom of man, to the whimpering of hushed clouds.

"Destiny’s Call"


A winter’s sun warming their chilled faces,
the navigators of the heavens depart.
Sailing on wings of air, they course into the wild beyond,
to search for what was lost.

Children shout and cheer as they embark,
the families left behind shed tears.
They won’t be returning, but in them lies dreams;
a dwindling hope to find sanctuary.

Their ship sturdy, faithful, and strong,
the sailors break out into empty space.
The stars reveal their brilliant constant,
the threshold of eternity at their feet.

The order is given, the men and women answer,
time’s face begins to bend.
Like burrowing through a thousand supernovae,
our heroes blindly jump into the void.

The Captain stands firm against the storm,
his face seasoned and determined.
The task was his, a heavy burden to bear:
bring God’s children home.

The Master Mariner takes his place,
ready to carry the price of his people.

Fires ensue, the ferry tremors at the strain,
brave souls giving their all for the sake of their children.
Cracks appear in the shielding grace of the view,
the end of time begins to ascend.

Memories weigh heavily and permeate,
the fate of man lying on so few.
Driving hard and fast,
the crew gives themselves to forever willingly.

Shredding steel and flailing cables take many,
the vessel bearing them hence failing.
She was sturdy, faithful, and strong,
but sometimes strength and faith isn’t enough.

The Captain seals those below deck to their doom,
saving those who can still try
to make it to the lost home-world;
their wings becoming wax.

The ship begins to slow, her body unable to sail,
falling into the stream, she sinks into the glow.
Seeing all but lost, the Captain gives the command:
“Straight on till morning!”

The Captain retrieves a locket from around his neck,
gripping the cold metal tightly.

The reliant navigator at the helm responds,
taking heed to last resort’s final issue.
Pulling that switch of crimson threat,
he ignites the conflagration.

The ship bursts into expedience,
denying all previous notions of haste.
The ferry bearing humanity hence shudders,
taxed metal exerts that feral shriek.

The slipstream fails, the ship runs aground,
tumbling into that starry vacuum.
Emptiness fills the crew;
failure was at hand.

Though kismet was inevitable,
as they knew when they set sail,
the dire need for redemption stood fast,
as the crew accepts their fate.

The Captain smiles, closes his eyes,
Destiny’s Call allowing a glimmer.
Through the web of shattered glass and mangled steel,
a yearned-for mother Earth slowly comes into view.

Eons since she was lost,
humanity had again found their way home.

Fading away,
heroes kiss their final goodbyes.
The battle is over, for some,
and homeward bound is our compass.

Bloodied and cleaved,
we soldier on into the darkness.
Ourselves lost amongst the corpses,
we give hollow definition to the breathing.

The dead speak to us,
their tongues of snarl and snap.
We listen intently, desperately,
unsure of what the way might bring.

Faint echoes draw near,
whispers hidden among the screams.
We reach out, remorse hidden in our fingertips,
extending forward to touch the silhouette of death.

The veil parts way,
though it still clings tightly to some.
Memories align into intense reflection;
the good, the bad, and the unseen.

Awaiting final judgment,
soldiers pay the ultimate price.
For in the eyes of a stranger,
we be not, but murderers.

Relenting, releasing, accepting,
we bid our brave farewells.
Into the arms of this beautiful stranger,
we lay ourselves down once more.

For the ugliest feline in the world - April 4, 2004-April 19, 2008



Tired, drained, alone,
I type here a last goodbye.
Saline echoing my keystrokes,
the grief still burns near.

We stand by, helpless,
waiting for some shimmer of hope.
The stitcher walks in, emotionless,
the box of tissues in his grip betrays all.

Cold, stuttering, and defeated,
she feels that coursing darkness fill her veins.
Insidious and worming,
the contagion has taken it's course.

I gasp, my stomach wrenches.
Mortality is at our door.

It didn't have to come to this,
suffering until the coming of death.
But I smile, laboriously;
it was worth it in the end.

Had we not taken her,
had we left her to the wind,
she would have been cast aside.
Such is the veneration of disease.

Her nose turned pale,
she gently rests in my hands.
I cradle her as the lifeblood in her drains,
the pain slowly fading into memory.

We leave her hollow shell,
not but a breath on the weave.
And like all my past loves,
she is released into the wild beyond.

Dashing through golden fields,
the warmth of the setting sun on your face,
I hope you would remember us fondly,
those who could bear you no more pain.

Be at peace,
oh Prowler of the night.
Loving hands hold you now.
I will miss you always.