A Cardinal Clash
The Glass Zombie
Veins grasp for chilled air.
A neck adorned with buttons & knobs
consumes the freedom of relishing
the coming rain.
No smell or gentle tug of hair.
They do not possess themselves.
A Rancid Harvest
Blossoms that mature too soon are
plucked from the Mother Tree.
Solid fruit is a mere underbelly to
teeth of the brute.
Speckled apples and freckled faced
carcasses are not haunted by a
universe they will never touch.
The infinite void is comfort.
Even the stars, who know no name,
are reflections of the civilization that is silent.
Subsequent thunder clouds gather overhead as
blood stains their skin.
Veins grasp for chilled air.
A neck adorned with buttons & knobs
consumes the freedom of relishing
the coming rain.
No smell or gentle tug of hair.
They do not possess themselves.
A Rancid Harvest
Blossoms that mature too soon are
plucked from the Mother Tree.
Solid fruit is a mere underbelly to
teeth of the brute.
Speckled apples and freckled faced
carcasses are not haunted by a
universe they will never touch.
The infinite void is comfort.
Even the stars, who know no name,
are reflections of the civilization that is silent.
Subsequent thunder clouds gather overhead as
blood stains their skin.
Apoplectic Admonition
Beware the dawn, O watchful eye above.
Descend your gaze and nocked arrows, secure.
Rapacious lips, today you fall short of
fulfilling starving hollows, tongues impure.
Appeal to us. Reclaim devout allure.
Consorts of havoc, cease your filmy tone.
Surrender ardent conquests you procure
for silver, gold, and soft thighs you have known.
Speak now, before timid mouths are sewn.
The patience of thy kingdom will run dry,
Decisive drops creep down against thy moan.
Dry crumbling pillars soak the cloudy sky,
Dying breaths waft dreams of twilight seas-
On the horizon, lucid beams drift free.
Proem: An Invocation to the Muse
Settle the dust in my heart, sweet Memory. Weave the last testimony of the imprisoned with my weary fingertips. Stage the finale for the marvelous and monstrous faces who take their place within the depths, awaiting your voice. Arouse this mortal tale once again.
The Falling Reign
He found himself on the same path towards the mountains.
The scattered, fading footprints of Truth left him breathless,
scrambling to catch a glimpse of her just figure,
like desperate prey running towards its own kill.
Droplets fled from his spectacles as he wiped his face.
Lightning struck the peak, following a deafening roar.
His clothes clung to his skin like honey fresh from the comb, wet and thick.
An end to this heat is long overdue, he pondered to himself
as the sweat gathered on his forehead once more.
The crowd was anxious for his return, plump fingers twitched as he made
his way towards the dimly lit table in the farthest corner,
already lined with paper and pens.
Shaking his dusty coat, he hung it upon the back of his seat,
signaling the beginning of the night, the same weary routine.
An old man was first. Shaking, he sat across the table,
as every patron that night continued to sit.
On his heels was a young girl, barely having reached womanhood,
her posture screamed she knew what men are made of.
Behind her, a scrawny boy, pimple faced and disproportionate.
His request was sweet but the paper was folded all the same.
Dusk blended into darkness, everyone having been served a while ago.
The clamouring of a dull bell
followed by heavy boots stiffened the bartender’s back.
Patrons had ceased to traffick the dimly lit booth,
an ambiance oblivious to any unease was preserved in the farthest corner.
Darkness dwindled, a brush of lighter grey
crept up the horizon, kissing the bottom of the windowsill.
Shoving himself in the seat, the politician made the table
creak, all while flashing a straight, white smile.
(Now would be the appropriate time to note his hair,
lined perfectly with the teeth of a comb, and how his thick,
expensive suit wafted a fine scent throughout the entire room.)
Had previous visitors witnessed his stay,
they would be mortified at his careless tone and
thoughtless ramblings of his ride to their pub, which
as the sweat gathered on his forehead once more.
The crowd was anxious for his return, plump fingers twitched as he made
his way towards the dimly lit table in the farthest corner,
already lined with paper and pens.
Shaking his dusty coat, he hung it upon the back of his seat,
signaling the beginning of the night, the same weary routine.
An old man was first. Shaking, he sat across the table,
as every patron that night continued to sit.
On his heels was a young girl, barely having reached womanhood,
her posture screamed she knew what men are made of.
Behind her, a scrawny boy, pimple faced and disproportionate.
His request was sweet but the paper was folded all the same.
Dusk blended into darkness, everyone having been served a while ago.
The clamouring of a dull bell
followed by heavy boots stiffened the bartender’s back.
Patrons had ceased to traffick the dimly lit booth,
an ambiance oblivious to any unease was preserved in the farthest corner.
Darkness dwindled, a brush of lighter grey
crept up the horizon, kissing the bottom of the windowsill.
Shoving himself in the seat, the politician made the table
creak, all while flashing a straight, white smile.
(Now would be the appropriate time to note his hair,
lined perfectly with the teeth of a comb, and how his thick,
expensive suit wafted a fine scent throughout the entire room.)
Had previous visitors witnessed his stay,
they would be mortified at his careless tone and
thoughtless ramblings of his ride to their pub, which
was quite dry and sent him into several coughing fits.
He laughed to fill the silence, eventually calming himself
by taking a long breath. He began,
"Yeah... they said you wasn't a big talker. I ain't never cared til I seen how
persuasive you is. I read Christine Highmount's lil piece and
wooo-OOO! You got me convinced to drop everythang and
tend tuh all those sickin’ out in the valley."
His jovial tune faded on every syllable.
"You's also had every citizen in our good mountainside
tending to all them infected. We’s could’ve had a see-ray-us problem, mister.
But! I seen what you is. I seen what you could do with that pen.
Women and men bawled at your paper. I thunk to myself, a business
opportunity like this ain’t come often, do it?"
The pen-bearer looked on all the same.
The rambling continued, greased hair unwavering,
yet not as immobile as the deep eyes of his counterpart,
who one might suggest gathered a twinkle of the faintest variety.
At the close of the mayor’s speech, he made his request.
Like a man who exists beyond time, the pen-bearer pulled
a long cigar from his bag and lit it carefully.
Leaned back, cigar in hand, setting his pen against the
delicate paper sleeping before him. Soon he would awaken it.
With a slow, dreary voice he replied,
“She has eluded me for far longer than you have been elected over
my mountainside. I longed for her when the soil was fresh and fertile from
divine flooding in the valley. What you ask for cannot be given.”
A raised voice, the slam of a fist, and an impractical threat
nearly made the bartender faint but failed to stir the slumbering paper.
He laughed to fill the silence, eventually calming himself
by taking a long breath. He began,
"Yeah... they said you wasn't a big talker. I ain't never cared til I seen how
persuasive you is. I read Christine Highmount's lil piece and
wooo-OOO! You got me convinced to drop everythang and
tend tuh all those sickin’ out in the valley."
His jovial tune faded on every syllable.
"You's also had every citizen in our good mountainside
tending to all them infected. We’s could’ve had a see-ray-us problem, mister.
But! I seen what you is. I seen what you could do with that pen.
Women and men bawled at your paper. I thunk to myself, a business
opportunity like this ain’t come often, do it?"
The pen-bearer looked on all the same.
The rambling continued, greased hair unwavering,
yet not as immobile as the deep eyes of his counterpart,
who one might suggest gathered a twinkle of the faintest variety.
At the close of the mayor’s speech, he made his request.
Like a man who exists beyond time, the pen-bearer pulled
a long cigar from his bag and lit it carefully.
Leaned back, cigar in hand, setting his pen against the
delicate paper sleeping before him. Soon he would awaken it.
With a slow, dreary voice he replied,
“She has eluded me for far longer than you have been elected over
my mountainside. I longed for her when the soil was fresh and fertile from
divine flooding in the valley. What you ask for cannot be given.”
A raised voice, the slam of a fist, and an impractical threat
nearly made the bartender faint but failed to stir the slumbering paper.
Nevertheless, the mayor received his poem the morning the drought ended.
Billowing clouds swiftly rolled towards the summit of his mountainside,
won by cooing to fair people that war was a distant rumor,
allusive and mythical like the woman seen floating among the trees
since their ancestors made a home in the unforgiving rock.
He grabbed the enveloped piece, unaware his paper was folded unconventionally,
and hastily departed for the publications office, pleased and oblivious.
Slow, creeping fog gave way to an easy drizzle of rain,
stinging every creature in surprise at its cold wetness.
Indistinct patter wasted no time swelling into a monstrous hammering,
faintly resembling an urgency of caution, demanding all to
stare at the grey sky with open mouths, faces bared to the unrelenting element.
Rain poured mercilessly from heaven as an unsuccessful attempt
to fulfill the rotting holes of unanswered questions.
Farmers wasted no mourning on their swallowed crops,
barely having a moment to blink in the face of their drowning profit.
They shouted at the courthouse, used tractor lights to illuminate windows
and fallen logs from their land as battering rams on the old hickory doors.
The mayor was dead by nightfall the day the drought ended,
hung from a tree on the mountainside he loved to rob.
And he who wrote those troubles away disappeared to become as fabled
as the wispy lips they longed to kiss with their pen.
Men took up his old chase, craving her breasts,
trying to reside in the nape of her neck, untouched by calloused hands.
Trembling, humid air was swept away by the dismal autumn breeze.
Anguished by the torrential realities approaching, they who walked
the exhausted dirt could not find comfort in the soft, drooping cover of the forests.
Only the eerie beckoning beyond the mortal plane of fear
Billowing clouds swiftly rolled towards the summit of his mountainside,
won by cooing to fair people that war was a distant rumor,
allusive and mythical like the woman seen floating among the trees
since their ancestors made a home in the unforgiving rock.
He grabbed the enveloped piece, unaware his paper was folded unconventionally,
and hastily departed for the publications office, pleased and oblivious.
Slow, creeping fog gave way to an easy drizzle of rain,
stinging every creature in surprise at its cold wetness.
Indistinct patter wasted no time swelling into a monstrous hammering,
faintly resembling an urgency of caution, demanding all to
stare at the grey sky with open mouths, faces bared to the unrelenting element.
Rain poured mercilessly from heaven as an unsuccessful attempt
to fulfill the rotting holes of unanswered questions.
Farmers wasted no mourning on their swallowed crops,
barely having a moment to blink in the face of their drowning profit.
They shouted at the courthouse, used tractor lights to illuminate windows
and fallen logs from their land as battering rams on the old hickory doors.
The mayor was dead by nightfall the day the drought ended,
hung from a tree on the mountainside he loved to rob.
And he who wrote those troubles away disappeared to become as fabled
as the wispy lips they longed to kiss with their pen.
Men took up his old chase, craving her breasts,
trying to reside in the nape of her neck, untouched by calloused hands.
Trembling, humid air was swept away by the dismal autumn breeze.
Anguished by the torrential realities approaching, they who walked
the exhausted dirt could not find comfort in the soft, drooping cover of the forests.
Only the eerie beckoning beyond the mortal plane of fear
would consolidate their cavernous trenches of desire.
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