A golden beam

Beams find their way through the boughs and the leaves,

Bringing gold light to this eternal place,

Sweet waters slake sheep and cloth halls are weaved,

High priests of high press put smiles on our face.

Yellow, white and blue steps we climb as they creak,

Abiding limestone worn by gleeful feet,

Mean valleys reach towards towering peaks,

Colours in’t sky match carnival in’t street.

Yet darkness enthrals and shame falls upon,

Those that come to take our culture away,

Shards of brick clatter in the dark arches,

As they harry the North, bringing decay.

Our city rises with brushstrokes not cares

Taking to wing from the banks of the Aire.

Sonnet IV – The Tragedy

From dark places with dark thoughts, I return

Aware now of malignant agendas

Dream-woken and passion-weary, I yearn

For simpler days spent in love’s soft splendour.

I have seen verdant vistas turn to ash

Cerulean seas dry Vermillion

Bastion walls, weak pretenses, can’t last

Fragmented victims, numb’ring millions .

The rigours of Love are manipulations,

Poesy and art, a form of Vengeance,

Our lives, an illusion of salvation,

The tragedy, our struggle with sentience.

Love; thy necessary mechanism

Thou art but a primal despotism.

Untitled

When will I be free of this painful state

Of mind, body and soul longing for you

When will I avoid fits of rage and hate,

Searing jealousy, to me nothing new.

O’ if the crashing waves of time doth heal

And your face, seen upon sands, away will fade

Then never again in thrall shall I kneel

to your monstrous, intoxicating shade.

Until, borne upon Saharan zephyrs

She, another, arrives, to torment me

and make me ashamed of all my nevers

leaves me adrift on a desolate sea.

Still do I yearn for that which caused me pain.

Love is a cure that leaves it’s patient lame.

The Priest-King

Across the dark wastes, under frigid skies

Through cold air ‘neath apocalyptic clouds

Where haunting albatross, wing weary fly

Above ships, heading ashore as drums pound.

A lone figure stands, waiting to recieve,

Hooded, Priest-King of these complex heavens

He surveys the masses gathered, relieved

Arms raised, the start of the end he beckons.

Fires die as his vengeful tempest rages,

Eyes widen at terrors not of this earth,

Wind bites and tears at distorted faces,

As bone white legions wade through breaking surf

He lowers his hood, and with practiced ease,

Summons arcane Mephistopheles.

The Moth

I am trapped in this painful state of mine,

Where time’s soft healing absolves of my blame

Nothing, solace is sought with the next line,

Yet it only serves to deepen my shame.

Absolute error in its purest form,

Apologies are anthems we don’t sing

Lightly, desolate, I bequeath forlorn

Denials of unoriginal sin.

Man or Animal, fall prey to desire,

Torn asunder by guilt, or each other,

Icarian lust draws into the fire,

The Moth, whom flickered, and failed his lover.

Delicate, underserving of this pain,

I will let nothing extinguish the flame.