Tag Archives: knowing

Revelry

Howdy, howdy. Got a new one for you folks today. Hope you like it! It’s gonna seem a little disjointed at first but it’s gotta be read slow. Let me know what you think below. Without further ado…

Revelry

Somewhere close by

in a place that used to be,

you can still hear happy whispers in the trees.

Ghosts who love to dance and play

on paths along the way,

somewhere I lost the means

to find my way back home.

Somewhere along the winding way

i missed my chance at revelry

and now I think of that first day

when everything 

was in all things around,

but now i’ve missed

my chance at revelry

and all there is abound.

Some day I hope 

to find my way back home

and hear that precious sound.

I just hope to find my way back home.

Were It Only That I Had an Axe

Good morning, everyone. New poem with a motif you may just recognize. I sincerely hope y’all enjoy. Please let me know if you like it in the comments below! Without further ado…

Were It Only That I Had an Axe

Whispers again in the wind,

back behind your ear,

around the corner,

and just out of reach.

Like the hunter in the forest,

I strive

to survive

and to thrive,

yet so lambasted as I am

by cacophonous murmurs,

I become dismayed, disarrayed…

Erstwhile duties,

now in stated dereliction,

distress one distraught mind

so taken by dalliance and drudgery

that derogation might duly develop.

And from a seed,

does a simple sprout stretch and swell

into a great tree

now casting its great shadow

across all your ancient truths.

Were it only that I had an axe,

if only to cut through the noise,

for now it feels that I

can no longer see the sky.

The Button

Back on my bullshit, fellas. Another poem comin’ right back at ya from the depths of hell itself (or wherever). Hope you like this one about… hope you have a good time figuring that out. Without further ado…

The Button

Rounded and red,

and still before me

does it lie,

mocking the eyes that set upon it,

and awaiting some foreign pressure atop it.

~

To press gingerly,

or to smash violently;

results do tend

towards the same.

~

Ill-begotten memories

in all their putrid rot

are driven from my thoughts

just as pretty little flowers

are broken in their pots.

~

A thousand little things

that drove me

now a thousand little strings

that cut me

as I fall.

~

Do I misuse the vile machine?

Do I…?

Do I call upon those eldritch powers

that allow me to forget?

To ease that final passing?

~

It is one thing to make a deal with the Devil,

but this…

There will be nothing left.

Mordax

Howdy, folks! I’ve entirely given up any pretense of there being an upload schedule. I wrote this about a month ago and it’s uh… pretty good, I think. Hope you like a little fantasy stuff to tide you over while I attempt to write literally anything else. Without further ado…

Mordax

Here then,

laid afore you

do protest the works of Oezyridus,

last of his name.

The shifting sands that cover his tomb

do show

our high esteem

and mastery of the loom.

A just Lord

in all his vambraces,

burning our villages,

and mockery to our faces

showed us things we could not afford.

Perhaps abide,

as it were

that we could not

the tanning of our hides.

Our Lord Oezyridus,

last of his name,

a title

just a sight too tame.

Stew

Good evening, compatriots. I’ve got a fun little poem for you. Try to read it as if you’re reading a storybook to a group of little kids around the campfire. Feel its somber embrace through the sad and haughty tone by which you might read it, breathe life into its hills and its valleys with macabre sensibility, drag yourself on a journey through those hopeful reverberations… or just read the damn thing with that funny little voice you have in your head. I sincerely hope you enjoy any way you choose. Without further ado…

Stew

And so it was

that the little boy I met

in the forest

by the river

became a sad, sad, angry man

with many, many, many regrets.

~

And in his sadness,

and in his anger,

and in his regret

did the man sit.

~

The man would sit

and he would stew

until eventually

he liquefied

and he himself became a stew

inside a great, big, silver pot.

~

Others would come,

then,

to take and take

until he was all gone.

~

Except that pot never did empty,

nor did that stew ever sour.

It simply came to pass

that one might pass

on the road,

another one

whose belly seemed

just a little fuller.