On the outskirts of a sadness

otherworldly that casts one

into the mould of observer, 

a mere overseer of self

who's no longer tethered

to the entity observed, 

the very entity that can

no longer be embraced

as one and the same,

no matter how congenially

the arms are outrstretched. 

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Try to grasp at gardenias

and not at straws, 

imbue empiricism with

a splash of lyricism, 

let a leap of language

be a leap of faith

to ward off the wraith

of passivity, and maybe

welcome the sublimity

afforded by a truly 

Present Tense, one

that puts up a fight

against the callousness

of All-Taming Time...

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The painstaking pandering

to a 'needs must' philosophy,

following a catechism in complacency,

makes excuses the shirker's panacea,

allows balderdash to glow as bright ideas,

and though the culprits will be quick

to claim they were only forced 

to don the fright-wig,

the question is begged still:

just how many advocates more

does the devil really need?

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A medallion for the battalion

of disciples that dissemble

the blindness of their obedience, 

as they ride the high horses

of zealotry and expedience,

experts now in low blows, 

having extirpated any dissidence

innate, and learned instead

how themselves to best prostrate. 

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An incremental revelation

Of a reality of exactitude, 

No longer the spawn 

Of wishfulness, but prelude

To a piecemeal peacefulness, 

With secrets divulged

In order that the odyssey

Can be indulged 

And endured in dignity;

A salvation in installments 

Is certainly not in vain, 

For the war still

Has to be fought, even

If you chose not

Its terrain.

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Silence in the sarcophagus 

is pretty much a given, 

so tessellate this life

in a manner worthy 

of the rarity that 

it ever even happened, 

before a triumvirate 

decides it's time for

your mosaic to be riven, 

and even a skeleton key

fails to lead to 

some sylvan felicity...

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They set sail

For stranger climes, 

Hoping new stars

Would pierce

These other skies,

And that they'd shine

Without the need

To chide;

Who knows?

Perhaps even align, 

For them, the ones

That daylight denied...

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Robotic cues give

the order to spread

orthogonal views with

the intention we undulate

gently through our transition

from Prometheus to obsequious...

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Vicious circles bloom

inside the jaws 

of a vise, its grip

vies for wounds 

to inflict, flinches

at the mention

of redemption, flashes

its teeth, and in

dulcet tones reassures

that a cyclical motion

is the sole notion

that can provide

a semblance of sense 

for one who fails 

to countenance surrender

to a better, potentially

sympathetic resonance...

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A golden age for easy rage,

little-substantiated claims, 

sacrificing dissenters 

to the Fates, clamouring

for superiority by standing

on the crenels 

of towers of ivory

that only astound 

by concealing the sand 

they possess as ground...

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All the yesterdays

Of the reveller, 

Flecked with that 

Fin-de-siècle decadence, 

Still won't suffice 

To dissuade the

Great scythed leveller.

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Sharpen the stake

to bruise the earth 

that you forsake;

seven hills for

seven sins, as

gratitude and dread

share quarters

that get ever

so close, and 

Zephyr forgets how

to whirl, whilst

the past calcifies

on your bones.

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It must be 

a fatal flaw

to eschew delight

just because you

find it ensconced

in the midst

of terrors, tangible

or conjured, and

thus injure your

ability to trumpet

those tiny triumphs

of existence, glimmers

of luminescence that

interrupt the dark, 

reserved solely for

eyes willing to 

alight on wonder, 

near, or yonder. 

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The trunks of trees, 

Pneumatic tubes

Dispatching sorrows

That fertilized the soil, 

So that leaves get to hear

Of all the human toil

Expended in vain, 

In a monotone

Repetitive refrain. 

But the willow, 

Wind-whipped though

It may be, to also

Eavesdrop it persists 

On all those wishes

Saturating the air,

The midnight confidences

Of the nearly-b...

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In the futile attempt

to interpret and decipher

befogged divine wills,

might the mere flight

of a bird's wing

signify triumph

or portend defeat?

A fool's errand,

today we may scoff,

but a populace entire 

would hang all hope

on words of prognostication;

would the semantics 

foretell elevation, 

or abject castigation?

So, Tiresias the blind

...

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A paroxysm of hopefulness

In the midst of meaninglessness,

The bailiwick of a universe 

That casts us as dramatis personae

In its theatre of the abusrd. 

A tragicomedy of trials

And errors, a cyclical obsession;

But even in this losing

Struggle of Sisyphean repetition,

Simply doing battle

Can be the benediction. 

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A whirlpool of 

Tyrian purple

adds flair 

to the descent

into the lair

of unintended

consequence. 

A diadem adorns 

the head, whilst

a requiem rises

from the riverbed. 

But so long as

the flow of nectar

stays steadfast,

you won't, of course,

inveigh; you'll

simply have to be

an iconoclast

some other day...

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Adventure means you venture

To tread beyond 

The trodden ground, 

To seek the bloom

Instead of doom,

And mock the king you crowned. 

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Name on an ostracon. 

The reckoning decrees 

That one is to be

Exiled to the marginalia

Of life, sans regalia

Of former glory, no

Laurels to rest weary on--

But perhaps the chance

To recommence at

The foothills, on a far

Sturdier footing, might

Suffice as recompense?

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Climb the lattice of vices

To look above the parapet,

Towards hope-laced vistas,

Daring to learn the alphabet

Anew, neutralizing the venom

That one tends to catapult

Against their mirrored

Counterpart, murmuring 

Instead, a rare canticle

Of conciliation, 

Not retaliation. 

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We tried our luck

At the labyrinth 

Of life, with that

Deluded persistence

Of pickpockets, wishing

To pilfer just 

A sliver of sky. 

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A duel within, 

The schism of 

Warring wills, 

Factions that still

Salute the same

Flag, but are

Now poised for 

A conflagration, 

Should they not

Succeed at 

Persuasion...

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A collage of snippets,

curated by Bliss, 

a policy of appeasement

you offer the Abyss;

an attempt to soothe

the pinpricks of impertinence

ceaselessy supplied

by all-powerful Impermanence.

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A roll call 

Of lost souls, 

Hiding in foxholes,

In absentia from

Their own destiny,

Engulfed in a digression, 

Far from the main idea,

Where mirrors inspire enmity,

The futility of futurity

Feels more than real,

And healthy skepticism

Becomes stealthy cynicism, 

Without the bridle on, 

Under the graceless tutelage

Of all those doubting Thomases

Who rea...

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Will his Myrmidons, 

his very own ant-men,

make him immortal, and

have Armageddon delayed

just one more day?

Will they provide 

the impenetrable, blessed

shield that transcends

the fatal, accursed

flaw of the heel?

For a moment, perhaps

their phalanx can

render him invincible;

but, alas, not

from first principles. 

For there are always

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A moment that turns 

Into a turning-point, 

Or point-of-no-return,

A Rubicon-crossing

That bears no stamp

Of approval, merely

A refusal to see

Choice as boon,

Instead of bane,

As you embrace

The bruise bestowed

By Fate, in all its 

Uninterrupted glory, 

Handing it the reins

Of the story, so 

That to its decree

You acquiesce; but

Then again, you

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Flakes of paint

float in the air

of remembrance,

from past to

present, vying

for prominence, 

as they aim 

to be subtly

re-arranged 

into a more

palatable fresco

that honours 

the original 

palette, but

also protects 

from the searing

ache of the 

plans that 

never did find

the glade,

the clearing. 

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White around the gills,

but still chasing windmills,

searching for terra incognita,

a prophet's mute 'eureka',

trying to avoid the ancestral

temptation of a centripetal

existence on the scaffolding 

of solipsism, whilst grappling

with the invitation to profess,

without ever daring to confess. 

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A halo of Furies, 

diligent as fruit flies, 

to adorn a head full

of doubts and regrets, 

as judge, jury, and

executioner all decide

your fate in a mêlée,

the verdict to be 

delivered in the middle

of a Sphinx-like riddle. 

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Uncomfortable in Euclidean space,

Encountering skin you'd rather

Crawl out of, left to wonder

How some, fortunate perhaps,

Find sustenance in a steady

Diet of sedation and ignorance,

Both blissful and willful,

Always armed with a lantern

That lights the pattern 

Of their thinking, best

Described as wishful?

Read and leave comments (2)

Will sunflowers still

know who to search for, 

if the tanks march in?

They have a covenant with 

the sky, but their roots

are in the land, and

there's no guarantee 

they get to keep 

that title deed. 

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The sunset of a selfhood

that no longer serves;

who you used to be, and 

who you're supposed 

to be: a blurring,

sun meeting sea. 

The hues of fire govern

the metamorphosis,

set the fictions 

of convenience

ablaze, so that

the ashes of

the perfunctory

may give rise 

to the manna

of discovery.

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A crinkled fountain, 

Every ripple a wish

Just floating to meet

Its very next of kin;

Because won't there be

A reign of similarity

In this aquatic

Tapestry of humanity?

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A college of cardinals

that brims with cardinal

sins, a conclave of

mysticism manufactured, 

enclave of a complacency

so rarely fractured; 

a hub of pomp and

circumstance, harbouring

a pretense of the 

apostolic, enough to

conceal the vitriolic. 

Fumata nera, or bianca?

No one worthy of the stigmata. 

And the epoch's achromatopsia

ensures that the ver...

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The phonograph feigns interest 

In the nets of narrative

Woven in the third person

To catch the tales 

Of a semi-reliable narrator,

Curator of once melodious

Motifs, morphed now into

A diaspora of discordant 

Echoes, which the stylus

Stern but righteous, 

Delivers as it pierces

A lifetime's past tense. 

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Reprising roles

In a comedy farcical

But never radical,

Beginning-middle-end

Stale, nothing to upend,

Left with little more

Than the repeat comfort

Of having to contend

With devils you know,

Who will always betray

But shall warn you so, 

In a well-worn script,

Its pitied pages frayed. 

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The fabricated timelines

that govern our lives:

torture chambers we

saunter into, fooled

by those ingratiating

signs on the door, 

the sinister singsong

at first far too

faint to discern,

but soon enough,

the encomium to

convention begins 

to sound a lot 

like a requiem

without redemption.

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A cityscape littered

With the guilty spires

Of eras bygone, ones

That never did sire

The outcomes foretold.

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In a score-settling mood

With the way things go, 

Though the point might be moot,

If life's sine qua non

Is the precariousness of it all. 

Indeed, yesterday's feast

Could be tomorrow's defeat;

But what of today?

It could be the olive branch

Extended in exchange.

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A polyglot fluent

In too many of

Pain's iterations, and

Evergreen reverberations. 

Born in porphyry, 

The purple of victory, 

But one they called Pyrrhic,

With a tinge of the satiric.

Does the trophy even matter

If they'll make you dress

In the Shirt of Nessus next?

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Recklessly thought it

yet another squabble, 

only to then rummage

through the rubble, 

trying to salvage 

morsels of a past

that's already

cracking in a 

looking glass. 

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Could the license to live

be resurrected from 

the embers of a

borrowed breath, as

the vespers sigh

a solemn request, 

hoping the worshiper

meets the listener

who reassures that

it is not in vain 

all that one endures?

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The confines of a definition, 

Prison of one's own volition;

A marionette enacting

A puppet play of discontent,

Like the renegade once

Fond of derring-dos,

Now marooned sans

A good excuse, pleading

For the autogenous

Warfare of attrition

To, at least, ordain

A sea-change of vision. 

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Transfixed by the trappings

of a purposeless sentience

that kindly aim to mask

an existential reticence;

to lull the din of all

the humdrum, and blur

the stalactites that lurk

in the freeze frame 

of a life sublet. 

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Is there a beguiling

allure to being a 

visionary on a quest,

never at the behest 

of anyone but the 

breeze, letting 

Zephyrus set 

the course, for

both the rise, 

and the fall?

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Marveling at the mileage

That make-believe 

Can cover, to give

Scorched earth a tinge

Of the ethereal, amidst

A hesitant penumbra,

One that complements

A silence sepulchral.

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Bet-hedging at the headquarters

of a blinkered vision, trying 

to avoid the collision 

that would make an exodus

the only option decorous,

as you ignore shadows

that lengthen, and favour

fallacies that strengthen. 

Read and leave comments (1)

Life fails to provide

a dress rehearsal, hence

the stage fright remains

all too real throughout

the play, never knowing

what act you're in, 

which scene is coming up, 

or whether the prompter

will be on duty to

save the day, as the 

voice trembles beneath

the spotlights of truth,

while it searches for 

the next line that 

doesn't break character

and fav...

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A vigil for the temporally bound,

Deafened by the bodeful ticking

Of a grinning grandfather clock,

Retinas scratched by grains of sand

Lurking in inverted glass, 

Hermetically sealed to conceal

That all constructs are makeshift.

Try to outrun the analog hands 

That slice like scimitars;

Reside in realms that protect 

From the arbiters of neglect

Who relish chr...

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The paradox of puppetry

With all our chosen strings

Performing the part of analgesic

That allays the pain of picking,

Assails the liberty that looms

An idea too large, and dooms

Us into an epigram of Sartre. 

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Could the sounds of summer

be the tuning fork to which

melancholy sets its pitch?

While the well-adjusted revel

in the crash of the surf, 

and the breath of a breeze, 

others, sickened by the cicada,

resort to a simple wish:

that another bright day

goes by, and they have still

to crawl out of their skin. 

Read and leave comments (2)

A leading question for

one begging to be led, 

to be fed the answer

like manna from 

a benevolent sky, 

one that never lies, 

yet chooses to divide

truths in halves;

and so caters to 

both the picturesque,

as well as the grotesque,

depending on one's 

vantage, and the 

day's selected adage.

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An air-raid siren,

Rhythmic harbinger of war

Ordering a sing-along,

Ready to give right of way

To the jackboot with sway;

To drown out the fifer, and

Awaken the huntsman in Orion. 

The siren cares not

That the daisies 

Are in bloom, or

That the children ought

To be in school, and

That there's no 

Such thing as

An exit wound. 

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The accident of birth

favours and anoints, 

and rushes to appoint

a destiny to match

mercurial georgraphies, 

as well as your branch

on that grand common tree

of our cosmic family. 

Read and leave comments (2)

Trying to build a bridge

from one end of the abyss 

to the other, just to 

have it suffer the very

same lot as the 

Bridge of Arta, built 

by daylight, crumbling

by nightfall. 

Another immurement to 

end the curse and 

save the day, just like

at Arta? And how much

more blood to be claimed

by the mortar?

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Reams of dialogue 

and a newfound love

for the polysyllabic

exalt prevarication, 

the elevation of evasion

into the day's art;

a transparent attempt 

to wrap an end

in leaves of gold, 

instead of a forthright

admission that the time

for curtain-drawing is nigh. 

Yet, an end does not

negate the old beginning,

or the middle; it may

even be the herald...

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A barbershop quartet 

invited to lament

the unalloyed solipsism

symptomatic of a

monochromatic way

of being.

An a cappella rendition

of a pellucid vision,

in which the self

drowns out the rest. 

But the harmony is close,

to the point of suffocation,

and the melody of escape

demands a major change

in octave to avoid

a looming decimation. 

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A rather pedestrian setting

For the ethereal bloodletting

Required to catch a muse, 

Or at the very least,

Catch her in a decent mood. 

But what will it be today?

Thalia's ivy wreath, or 

The knife of Melpoméne?

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The script of one's life

written in Braille. 

The future artfully

rendered in grisaille.

At the rendezvous of

fate and personal 

agency, which wins

and which bestows

clemency?

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A sea shanty or a siren song?

A smile that had to be stitched on?

Always on the cusp of a golden age

That waits in the wings, yet

Refuses to take centre-stage.

A universally accusatory 'why'

Permanently rolling off the tongue,

For isn't it far smoother than

An apologia for ignorance?

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Stare at the dotted line

Till it blurs,

As it attempts

To confer a choice. 

But are you willing 

To bleed on it, 

As it morphs into

A ligature that

Connects the shaky

Hand to that

Precarious equilibrium

Of safety and liberty,

With a signature that

Threatens to turn life

Into a caricature?

Read and leave comments (2)

The glittering lake

beckons a face to 

find the forbidden 

reflection, the one

heretofore hidden for

his own protection; so,

Narcissus, convinced

that who he sees is

other than himself, 

becomes enamoured of

the hydrous wonder, 

yet no amount of

genuflection ever moves

the inimical reflection,

and the youth, spurned, 

dies of a broken heart;

an artfu...

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Truths twisting tongues

into silent submission.

A spiteful song emerges

in place of contrition.

The eyes seem mesmerized

by the sudden ultimatum,

but won't ever blink

to grant the imprimatur. 

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A music box ballerina

trapped in an on-demand

universe of dance.

A dervish who never 

gets to cherish

the fruit of the twirl.

A pearl doomed 

to be entombed

forever in its shell.

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Utterances never to be made,

devoured by the quicksand 

of a mind stuck on the refrain

of dementia, lucidity 

in absentia; and though

the wheels of cognition

on occasion seem to spin, 

the will to endeavour speech

fades with facility, just

to hammer home the fragility

of an orchestra whose conductor

fails to be the anchor 

required to prevent discordant

notes...

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Running through a tunnel,

But you're on a treadmill.

Panting for the exit,

But you're only guessing. 

Looking over your shoulder

For the Fury on pursuit,

But you're just ruminating

While the Jury she recruits. 

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Clinging to ill-fitting goals

Is to accept being addressed

With a borrowed sobriquet, 

To expect protection 

From a bedevilled amulet,

To forage for an entheogen

And end up with a pathogen,

To pray for a philosopher king

But be gifted a profligate régime. 

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Forced to extract subtext

from  threadbare sentences

spoken with a Spatrtan

disposition, not out

of reverence for the

laconic, but rather

a fear that honest

exposition might 

lead to a shift

tectonic, where

proper explication

banishes prevarication, 

yet opens the door

to the realm of

irreparable fission.

Read and leave comments (2)

Hope persists like

barnacles on a boat, 

even as said boat 

sinks, and nobody

proves invulnerable;

because even Thetis

couldn't guard her 

son from menace:

she dipped him

in the river Styx,

but left his heel

ground for a mortal

wound, portal to

the land of those

who perish in the

flux of a different

river, the one

of Heraclitus.  

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Dreams coagulate on a

horizon never to be

reached.

The wire behind which

they lurk is barbed,

and more than willing

to draw blood. 

But perhaps it's in

the reaching that 

the meaning lies, 

that a saving

grace resides?

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Irises dipped in fury.

A confession through coercion;

A lullaby off-key;

A laurel wreath veiling fangs,

All as fatuous as basking

In reflected glory, with

A Jolly Roger on the mast. 

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In medias res of the cataclysm,

Trying to trace the commencement

Back to a Pandora's box that

Looked like treasure galore, 

Failing to understand that

The cornucopia also fostered 

The dystopia, as divine

Temper tantrums disturb

The fulcrum on which

Humanity swivels as it

Dithers over good and evil.

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A counterfeit complacency

to ease the bane of being.

Why aim for the firmament when

you've read the fine print?

Inscribed in small type

is the loss that won't be

quantifiable, yet readily

identifiable. 

So you lower the sails

in shame, before the

voyage even gets

its say. 

Read and leave comments (2)

A master weaver unwittingly

Challenges the divine

To duel, eluding humility,

Ensnared in the lair of pride. 

Arachne declares her skill

Superior to Athena's,

Forgets that her gift 

Flows from the goddess

And that it would behoove her

To be grateful and modest. 

Athena in old lady garb

Appears before Arachne

With but a single chance

For the mortal to...

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The Andromeda galaxy, 

principal dancer in a 

patient collision ballet

choreographed by a universe

and its benign indifference;

a galactic pas de deux 

to span the ages, until

prima ballerina and Milky Way 

merge to commence

new dawns and fables...

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Train the eye

To find the miracle

Prior to sanction

From an oracle. 

Cast the die. 

Don't deliberate 

In the purgatory 

Of the dilatory. 

Meet the tide

As if facing

The elements' whims

Was a life's calling. 

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If cannons shot out 

crayons and we made

canon the common

picture children

painted, might there

be a chance for an

innocence revival

to ostracize the

ouroboros of 

incursion and

reprisal?

Read and leave comments (1)

A nighttime pantomime through

weeping windscreens, a 

different shadow play

in every car, gestures

that run the gamut

of emotions, humanity

in silhouette form, 

mini-dramas in

proportion, soon

to be carried away

by an asphalt 

reminder of 

the fixity of

transience. 

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The human nuisance of being

An amphibious dweller,

A hell and heaven lodger,

Amity and anomie

Within a single psyche;

An asset, this biformity?

Or redolent, rather, 

Of fated deformity?

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Hindsight marches in, nonchalant,

And makes one a revisionist historian:

Dilemmas resolved but deleterious

Once again promise to turn mysterious. 

So the agony of crossroads past

Is sculpted in high-relief,

While erstwhile echoes

Taunt in high-fidelity. 

The farce is interactive

And the thespian exceedingly demanding:

Exhumes storylines thought inert,

Han...

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A roman-à-clef with

real-life theft

flying off the page.

The triumphs and travails

of personages writ large

instantly all the rage. 

Will the requisite anagnorisis

ensue, or will the protagonists

hide under fiction's guise

and eschew the humiliation

involved in avowing that

they, too, are flawed?

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Beware the glad-handing, 

there's a flicker of

schadenfreude in those

beady eyes, like the

fleeting glimmer of 

a switchblade

interrupting the 

crepuscular before

it goes for the

jugular...

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Scheherazade devises a plan

To wear tales like jewels

And use them as munition

On her ever noble mission

To assuage a sultan's wrath,

Till he simply has to know

Of all fresh follies

In strangers' stories,

And is thus safely enrapt. 

So to spin a good yarn

May transcend the realm of art;

It can be the armament you need

To resist tyrannical caprice. 

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The glass of hours

salivates and devours

the moment too long

it took to forgo

the role the force

of habit assigned, 

rendering you thus

yet another conscript 

in its granular

army of sand. 

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A vernacular from the bowels

of the ancestral tapestry

that seeks to preserve

the familial alchemy,

a saw-toothed serenade for

the generations' cavalcade;

but if self-begetting

is the goal, is it not

high time you maimed

that mould?

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Lethal combat before

A Theban wailing wall.

Brother versus brother.

Polynices and his six

Against usurping Eteocles. 

A double fratricide. 

Not even zero-sum.

Mutual assured destruction

No longer a safety valve, 

But a cold, blooded fact.

The jigsaw of hubris

Won't be complete

Until noble Antigone

Clashes with the crown

Of Creon, and marches

To her...

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The endoscopy provides a verdict:

Cause of the potentates' malaise

Is the footrpint of a pharisaic

Adherence to norms prosaic,

That aim solely to maintain

The appearance of beatitude

And conceal a kleptocratic attitude,

While the clamorous miscreants

Inhale plumes of smoke to be spewed,

And trail shattered mirrors to produce

A tale of funhouse phantasmagoria

To dis...

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Stuck on the wrong side

of Kafka's bespoke door, 

professed gateway to the law, 

with a lock and key made to fit, 

and a gatekeeper quite akin

to the dreaded hound of Hades. 

To plead, cajole and bribe

adds only irony to the plight,

for Cerberus cares not

for the tremulous who fawn. 

Action sans sapience, 

sure-fire path to stasis;

yet the psychomachy ...

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A leopard's leap of faith

For the ability to claim

A primordial goodness

In the collective nous,

When the cable ties of comfort

Dictate the deleterious refrain,

Whereby a barrage of bullets

Signals one is thrice betrayed

Right before the rooster.

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Is there a sentinel

on life's citadel

who has a view

panoramic and true, 

who can sound 

the foghorn when

it's time to eschew

the bane of knowledge

from the bosom

of an apple tree,

and choose to let in

particles of light

that alight on souls

weary from crosses

cumbersome yet trite?

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Play snakes and ladders

With the night sky,

Spot the Seven Sisters

With the naked eye,

Pontificate on the chasm

Between tactile and phantasm,

Take umbrage at the adage 

That time is the master-healer,

For Atlas still carries the heavens,

And Chronos plays the hand-wringer. 

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The sky brims

with umbrellas

for a rain that

never comes;

the other shoe

suspended

in mid-air,

as crows

terrorize 

the doves.

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Life dressed in riddles

And speaking in synecdoches,

As angels and demons

Tap-dance on the spokes

Of a Hephaestus-forged

Wheel of fortune,

The whims of which

Seem to narcotize

Clarity out of its wits,

Just to crystallize

The notion that devotion

To a destiny definitive

Will forever be laughed off

By the empyrean

As the arrogance of

Anthropocentricity...

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Consult the almanac.

Perform a litmus test. 

Check the astral alignment. 

Find faces and facades

In soggy leaves of tea;

Anything really, to avert

The momentum of an impulse,

Safeguarding thus, sans reversal,

The title of loyal dweller 

In the stronghold of inertia.  

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Lies reeking of pathology,

Omissions pseudo-sanitized

By good intentions, as they

Venture linguistic crimes

With a con artist's pride. 

Second-guessing shall become

Second-nature, as you learn

To trust solely in fitfuls,

Because you can still smell

The burning flesh from that

Last time defenses were lax

And trust was considered apt.

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A psalm to act as balm.

A canticle to chronicle

the fall.

The howl of humanity

that laces the humdrum. 

The cartography of an apocalypse

as mandatory manacles strive

to burst into marigolds. 

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No matter the thalassic antics,

there's always a glow soterial

without motives ulterior, 

to soothe the seafarer's blues;

a little magnetic comfort

from the sky's anchor:

Polaris to the rescue, 

a benediction uttered in

silent resplendent diction.

An invitation of friendship

from the firmament

to the Magi of the sea,

a little something fixed

amidst the w...

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Your wings are made of wax.

They make a foe out of the sun. 

But each piece of them that drips

Proudly declares that you've lived. 

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Grandmother. 

A rocking chair.

A back and forth. 

From present to past,

Past to present, as

Future rests uncertain.

Myriad tales to be told,

As the phantoms of yore

Loom more real than

The aims of today. 

An anticlockwise choreography 

Needs seatbelts fastened,

The fireplace crackling, as

Lanes traversed are interspersed

With paths forsaken. 

...

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Every court needs its jester,

Every king his truth-teller,

A daring gadfly to pester,

To challenge myth and legend,

To render reality in the demotic,

Before the realm turns despotic. 

So don't look down on the fool,

He's there for a reason:

To see beyond the pomp and crown,

With a bout of Socratic inquisition. 

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