Tag: PROSE
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álas Blood, –
Humanity purged by a lack of belief Through gnashing red wine and the grinding of teeth Drunkards assailed by the conflict of wheat Their mothers who kissed salt blood from his feet Comparing the oil on the fringe of her shawl A proportionate sin for the sons of the fall The march of god-men past…
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Vitals
Life was on the edge of its seat waiting for a broken convention. To be capsized again in an eternal depth of floating freedoms. Sinking further into the abyss of my vitals. Mary strung sequins of a life not yet lived. I will go sailing. Gone are the notebooks of seasons won and here I…
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Unbridled
The belting harmony of gradually building strings layered in practice and ill-composed restraint. A leader, a follower, and the muse. Gentle at the arrival of fresh blood yet an awakened power of infinite depth. Crushing foam leaving remnants of the air she kissed. An unfeeling balanced and emotional maelstrom of activity with unbridled grace. It…
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The Møring Queen
The last prophet etched lines in the sand. Her mellifera axiom. All about her is quiet in the garden where she lay. At the sound of her mournful strung beating heart the Prince of Normandy hazards a doubt. The frailty he long wished to know exposed before him in the flight of a righteous rain; a…
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Prince of Normandy
The great thief of Normandy brought cowardice upon the North mount of France. The guise of uncertain truth beguiled in the dance of the honeybee. A meat-eater whose grounds were the pasture of pines, a sacred place of old. A Queen dethroned. The sickle of death disguised by a familiar coat they had come to know.…
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The Lyric of a Shared Winter
The weary traveler wrote for a grey knitted coat that she wore one day She made her home in the snow and for the winter she wrote for the warmth of May The romantics of life yet burdened by strife, that which made her shy In an old red cafe she left the thoughts of…
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I Saw Them Dancing
The service of bread made a bastard of me Both the yeast and the wine taught me to be free The squalor and sage take their place in the street With dirt on his hands and mud on her feet Old Mayford sat perched on a barrel of wine The priests of Brabant will claim it’s a sign That the end will…
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Beguile
Light through the spire where the son remains Begotten to throne in an old western tone where the spark began You said it was time for the ashes of mine to ignite again In a hidden new low you set a staggering blow to a broken man Every thought left for you to consider left tragedy…
TUMULTUARY 