Just the title.
Guten Tag und willkommen, Freunde. Ich habe hier für dich ein neues Werk. Ich hoffe, dass Sie mögen es. Ich habe sehr hart daran gearbeitet. Bitte genießen, meine Lieben. Mit ohne weitere Umschweifen…
There is a horse
With human eyes
~
too many, too short
those legs of that sort
~
The cavalry approaches
in Phantom Cavalcade
~
set there at the edge of the World
by hands that thought their conduct kind
~
I think they’ve gone and made me blind.
Good morning, everyone. There is much I must take care of, much I have to worry about. In the meantime, I’ve a new poem for you all to consider. Without further ado, please enjoy.
Ghosts and specters swirl around
in graceful twirls they do abound,
with their cold touch they do surround,
now feeling lost but never found.
In the bin out there in back
on account of such that I did lack.
My head and hands these thoughts did wrack
on account of that thing which I did lack
and something there I’ll not get back.
I see the ghosts across the water…
Nay, upon the water.
My mind then starts to wander
about those things that hearts do ponder.
Philters and phials could not save
that man which breaks and makes insane;
there is some feeling that does not wane
no matter who the ghosts arraign.
Though it seems the tide is low,
the water tends to encroach slow.
Most decide to go
but while I’m still here,
I think I’d like to know.
Good afternoon, everyone. Have you ever looked into the twilight? Have you ever seen them? Those crepuscular things… Perhaps they look more sincerely into you. Without further ado:
No.
It is so.
They cannot see.
No, they cannot see.
Those things that find their way
into these eyes of mine.
They do not know.
How those ghosts cry out…
No, they cannot see them.
They cannot hear them.
Their cries,
their screams.
They cannot see those eyes,
the eyes of ghosts
inside their hosts.
I have seen the dark,
how those ghosts traverse it.
Caught between the night and day,
it’s past their time
with nothing to say.
No, they cannot see them.
But these ghosts, these specters,
they haunt my nights
and stalk my days.
Perhaps it is so
that I am among them,
watching and waiting
for my time again.
Caught between the night and day
in that little place
with nothing to say.
Good morning, everyone. Walking through an abandoned house, creaking floorboards and shattered glass fill these decrepit halls. It is not dark, nor lit either, though it is not hard to see where you are going. You know this house, but you can’t remember how. Nothing to fear, and yet you are here, stumbling through a place where all the details bleed together. No, there is nothing here. Still, you must remain. Walk these halls and find all the nothing there is to find. Please enjoy…
What am I?
That question,
age old,
which bears no resolution.
It has haunted me;
oh, how it has haunted me.
Ghostly shadows
twist and twirl
in spectral pirouettes
that draw my eye
to something Other,
something else.
Concentration fails me
as consternation fills me
and I find myself at odds
with everything that knew me.
It is the broken mind,
not the broken heart,
that bring the dead to bear.
It’s been a long time since I saw light in there.
Good morning, everyone! I didn’t really feel like writing too much today so I’ve got one for you that I wrote a while ago. My hope is that, in reading, you might see the same things I saw, that you might see the little baroque paintings that run their course behind my eyes. Without further ado, please enjoy…
I don’t dream anymore.
No,
not dream, per-say,
but imagine.
I don’t imagine that world of pigs and pirates,
of castles and coriander,
of vampires and veritas.
I don’t look up and see the stars,
telling you that some day I’ll go up there,
telling you that some day we’ll be together forever and always
under those beautiful, wispy heavens.
I won’t lie and say that I don’t miss it;
the future we had spun.
A thread of fate so long and storied,
severed now,
long forgotten.
I hoped that you would walk the halls of my addled mind with me
and later the sunlit halls of our shared house with me,
but it was not to be so.
Those dreams of mine remained only dreams
now turned to sour nightmares.
The walls of that pretty little house on the hill,
tattered wallpaper,
shattered windows
and empty cribs.
No, I do not dream anymore.
Poems by Sam