Sometimes
I feel like no more than a machine;
an automaton built from scrap metal,
and left by its maker to roam the earth,
forever searching for its beating heart. Most of the times
I’m not even human, at least, not in my mind…
and the day draws on with no consequence,
with no meaning or might.
I’ve been compared to shells before,
spit out by the sea and abandoned by all other creatures-
but at least shells are collected,
at least they’re adored. I always
feel like an impostor in some poor person’s skin,
a thief who stole away their life, pulled apart their
ambitions and said, “No, you can’t have those.”
Perhaps I am a machine,
dropped in this world to ruin lives,
because that’s all I ever seem to do.
War is not a game of sides.
You may don your colors proudly and
thump the sigil on your shield;
you may swear your oaths with your
steel at your feet, and kneel before your throne,
ready to break and bleed-
but war is not a clash of causes,
a battle of banners,
a trifle of titles.
War is a game of graves.
When the rage of swords has subsided,
and the crows circle the blackened sky,
your colors will be no more than scraps in the wind,
and your shield’s sigil splintered wood.
Your oaths will mean nothing when your lips are cold,
and your knees pricked with arrows.
In the end, war is a contest of casualties;
we’re corpses,
and we all look the same dead.
This free verse is a bit dark, I know, but I’m experimenting with getting into characters’ minds. This particular character is sort of on the pessimistic side (obviously).
“And why does the air smell of soot?” the young squire asked. “It reeks of a fire long dead.”
“A Titan stomped its flaming foot,” the old knight said, “and its stride cooked the earth red.”
“And why is the dirt strewn with bones?” the young squire asked. “Those empty white eyes cannot weep.”
“A Titan sighed a hungry moan,” the old knight said, “and peeled their flesh with his teeth.”
“And why do black clouds crowd the sky?” the young squire asked, “For it has not rained in years.”
“The Titan’s peace was a bold lie,” the old knight said. “His tremble shakes the sky with tears.”
Here is another ‘song’ from the project I’m working on. Again, there is a backstory to this poem, but I hope that the ‘lyrics’ portray enough. My first poem/song from this series was The Lily Lords.
In the soft pleats of darkness
I find a strange solace,
like the night knows me better
than any being on this earth.
If the black were to swallow me
I’d have no objections,
for its voice brings me comfort,
and its embrace evokes mirth.
The stars know my secret,
but they’ll never tell,
and the moon listens to my
prayers every eve.
The midnight winds, with their
phantom swells,
sweep away my demons
so that I do not grieve.
Some fear the shadows and
yearn for the sun,
but its glow is a ruse meant to
tempt and chafe.
In the night I am warmed
and sealed by dusk;
for when the evening sighs
am I truly safe.
Wings are hard to come by
in a world where having two feet
planted firmly on the ground
is considered ‘customary’.
Flying is frowned upon,
especially when publicly
spreading your fiberglass wings
in defiance of ‘societal conventions’.
Magic is made monstrous
in a time when casting spells
will get you no more than a funny look
and piece of concerned advice.
Wings will weigh you down
in a sky that spits acid rain,
for flying isn’t safe nowadays,
since magic is misliked.
We are pilgrims,
seeking what lies beyond the amber vale-
a land where the mountains are gilded in freckled light,
and the earth sighs with each step.
Here I live on dirt and rock and water,
and breathe winter air that bites my throat.
But there I’ll feast on garnet grapes,
and sleep beneath a moon carved of opal
every obsidian night.
Where malachite moss creeps up jasper trees,
and seas are bathed in starlight-
there I shall build my home,
nestled in the golden sands.
We are pilgrims,
seeking what lies beyond this molten matter world-
a land where jewels drip from trees,
and time is crystallized.
Time will be your only friend, my child.
It will cloak you in years that I will never see,
and watch you grow in the palms of its hands.
You will hate time, my child.
You will think it your fiercest foe.
But it will be all you have.
Some nights the wind will scream your name,
some days the rain will douse your flame-
but never leave time’s side, my child,
and wander into the shadows alone.
Remember time, and keep it close.
For though it’s short, it is your own.
I have to leave you now, my child,
for where I go, the storm weeps on.
I know that in years to come you will scorn
the faceless man who abandoned you to time.
But time is my old friend, my child,
and I trust it with your life.
In a sea of gray,
the red bleeds out
like a brilliant flag amidst the smoke,
coming to life in a burst of crimson-
I marvel at the sight.
But then it’s gone,
and the beige swallows me up.
The fleeting flare of color collapses
and I am returned to the bleak cave
that is the underground.
I become one with the crowd,
a gray fish in a gray school,
striving for the stairs that rise out of my reach-
they are the deliverance from this pit
that festers with sound.
I am bumped and nudged,
elbowed and overlooked,
like a bobbing leaf in a raging stream.
Curses and whistles drizzle in my ear,
and then I see the red.
As the stairs ascend beneath my feet,
the red pulses past the pack,
a flash of color in the stilted sunlight-
a bright bloom that lifts my soul.
I long for it to stay.
But it is all gray, everything is gray,
and I climb the stairs with heavy feet;
the train whistle below fares me well
as I abandon the gloom.
Finally I break away,
emerging like a wrinkled sprout from the mud.
I feel rejuvenated, I taste the air-
only to gag on the curling smoke drifting
from a man’s pipe.
Above is just as soiled as below;
there is no difference, none at all-
and the gray is fierce with teeth that tremble,
devouring everything. There is no color;
the red is gone.
This poem is sort of long, but it’s the result of a writing exercise. The object was to take a piece of your writing, whether it be a narrative, fictional setting, etc., and transform it into a poem. This was from the opening chapter of a project I completed a while ago, and I decided to give it go. To be honest, it didn’t turn out exactly how I planned…but it did give me a whole new perspective on that scene.
One day
the stars will swallow the world,
and on that day, I will be sitting here,
by this tree, waiting for you
to come and sit
and watch time crumble with me.
One day
the parchment of past and present will tear,
and on that day, I will be holding my pen,
waiting to write my last regards
before the binding melts
and the book shuts forever.
One day
the dirt beneath our feet won’t be enough
to keep us from plummeting into tunnels of space,
and on that day, I will close my eyes,
and dream of fluffing my feathers
and flying through infinity.
One day
the stars will swallow the world,
and on that day, I will be sitting here,
beneath this tree, clinging to pieces
of what could’ve been
if the world went on spinning.
Three hundreddays of red we stayed, and the grass grew with bones in its leaves. And three hundred days of black we blazed, as the lilies were picked by the thieves.
Oh, have you heard of the Lily Lords?
with blue and black petals they lay
dead on the ground, hey, dead on the ground
as the night wept into the day.
One satin eve they met their hands, and with silver lips fought with words; they sought to restore the peace between lands, but their tongues were honed into swords.
Not even a scream could the rose howl
as the weed wound its nettle-wrath roots,
for the Lily Lords’ tremblin’ voices were fouled
by the raw soil they did dispute.
Three hundred days of red we stayed, and the trees soaked the blood up their leaves, And three hundred days of black we blazed, as the land was torn up by the weeds.
Oh, have you heard of the Lily Lords? with blue and black petals they lay dead on the ground, hey, dead on the ground as the night wept into the day.
This is actually supposed to be a “song” for the project I’m currently working on. I’m in the process of writing the music to it. It’s got a fairly extensive background, so it might not make total sense when taken out of context…but oh well.
Stellular Scribe 