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?

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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. 

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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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