"The laddie reckons himself a poet." (A line from "The Wall".)

Vapor Trail

A sort of gravity alive in time
when what is and what flows
are not separate but united
in mind, alive in space
in air exhaled from the depth
of a fleshy, angular temple,
whispered in that sacred cleft
echoed through smoky light
and tinted shafts, along pale lips
and darkly granted eyes.

A fire lies within this truth,
the gaze of which I pray
never falls upon the
shining visage of a child,
but upon the withered
patterns of blood-stained flags
buried in sand too dirty
to hide in the glass of time.

Tiresias

I wanted to burn with the fire of pride,
To become a burnt offering to
the God inside.
I wanted to feel alive, away from this,
To arrive in a world free of pain.
I gathered vessels of repentance divine
and felt as though their burdens were mine.
I drank the blood, ate the flesh, carried the tree
To a place of decay.
The path, the Truth and reality of this
cannot sustain ones such as I
who refuse to be skeletal souls,
Peering into blinding light,
Reverent for the gift of death.
To say I want to be free and crushed beneath
An eternal gaze is not a simple scream.
It requires the talents of those stored away,
In rooms made of pillows
And sanitary corridors,
Places where doctors can’t see the moon.

The Lady

Hath not our eyes laid weary
upon the face of earth
that all inherent beings
retain their basic worth
and none that effort cast
can be for evil saved
until the moon has shed it's blood
and the ocean speaks its waves
in whispers
in whispers
to her that shines fairly
within this living dark
a ray of light so nobly born
the place that vision marks
with stars
with stars
to whoever claims her truth
a chest in treasure wrought
the blessing of her wisdom
is all that I have sought