Set Aflame Your Modern Prometheus

You wield old irony torches to
weld iron infallible foundations,
savagery is your own sanction
and primal rage a prime thought,
so you will choke on the smoke
and ash becomes your own grave,
yet the ancients will not weep,
nor will the kin you use to kindle
free us from your very bonds,
you will sway your splendor of pyre
and flames will rise beyond control,
animate this passion to a prometheus
and launch your glowing final salvo,
now seal his fate in driven fervency,
the ashes will be your fucking grave.

Dance of the Bone Lord

He danced to deeds of the undead,
and the undone,
he danced to cries of the meek
on the ashes of his pyre.

Maggots filled his rotted heart,
and evil flowed his veins,
each step forward was a plague,
each step back was bloodshed.

His bones were brittle and flaked
as they clenched his staff,
and grinding with his movements
he grinned as best he could.

Persephone

I once visited your lake shore home
by the sea of fire, when I was known
as a king of man and a good friend
to that wretch you call a husband.

Like Agamemnon and his horse of wood
as a statue to courage for where it stood,
I accomplished what they said could not,
that of a companion, a kinship begot.

But in that same spring, he became
a conspirator with another by name,
one I dare not speak out of fear
because Helios can even watch here.

He snatched you from mother's grasp
and gave the living a wrath in vast
by bringing forth his death's season,
mistaking love for lust his only reason.

On all fours you scrub his citadel,
and clean the walls, and all he tells,
and all the floors and his daily chores,
and all the while he just ignores.

And you dare not speak before he,
his temper reigns, and will ever be,
only you and the dog know how that feels,
because I know all his love Minthe steals.

To Castle Carpathia, Part I.

Onward past the Black Sea through the land of the Great
we tread beneath fall eventide to the dead undead estate,
within the gloom, lady and I, spied the children of the night
calling the witching hour and a meal for their bellies to sate.

We crept on past mounds of bones and unmarked graves,
deep in the blume we found a path and his name engraved,
but the effluvium filled her eyes, so her tongue soon advised:
"Abandon all hope ye who enter here, as none are saved."

Winter

In winter my blood no longer boils,
and it cools my tempered heart,
then I start think of the gray sky
and all the beauty they miss,
because when the cold bites at them
and they whine and they moan,
I laugh so hard that I cry
because nothing makes them happy.

Miss Delirium

She buckles under pressure, and fights the sleep,
and thinks nothing of promises she can't keep.
She shrugs off the routine and can't understand
why others around her seem to have other plans.
She faces trivial matters with overwhelming stress
and starts to stand out when all others feel less.
She needs the chaos and desires the tension,
and she'll never rise and find her ascension.

Dark Demon Roast

Holding cup & saucer
containing its tainted mud
black & thick as African ink
with 72 (un)natural spices-
roasting, roasting, raise to toast
to the tide, to evoke an infernal seal
imprinted as a stain-
registered as gut reaction-
reaching out to no One
in the raven circle abyss, dreary
in solitary, Imp-ious nature-
a starless kiss, livid-
as it stretches across lips
for the final, funereal finale-
no morning, the spotless white
so saintly lucid, no mourning-
all with just a sip of Goetia coffee
from Solomon's very vein.

Copycat (or Something Similar)

Again I retire to the porch
to smoke in the cold
dead of night,
to sip my coffee
and breathe a sigh
of relaxation,
and to watch the neighbor's dog
dig through the trash
while still bound to his chain,
and I can't help but think
about how I'm really no different.

Omen

About six years ago
we put our money into the pot
and worked our way through,
I didn't make it,
but he did,
he always did,
and at the start of the last game
he sank the eight ball
on the break
and broke his cue
against the wall,
there is no such thing as luck
but, unfortunately
in his case
there was.

An Autumn Evening

Deciduous trees shed,
crops are harvested,
night comes sooner
and stays a bit longer,
the cold starts to set in
so the birds fly south,
and it all reminds me
just how beautiful
this world can be
when I watch it die.

Swallowing of the Last Quasar

An enigmatic halo, ever-slowly dissipating
into the dark, abysmal depth of discord,
not soon, but eventual, succumbing to all
whom point and pull with the hidden sword.
A steady state in mob rule and misrule,
though still fortuitous despite the chain
by the final remnant of a forgotten breed
sparking the dying light hoping to remain.
A luminous burst of brilliance speckles
the night sky in harmony and an allure
before being engulfed in the horizon as
one last frequency emitted goes unheard.

The Dreamers

These holy innocents receive,
racing through the Louvre,
isolated from the cruel world
with morning matinee and amour,
with Sobraine, not Molotov,
with lovers' hearts in hands,
"We accept him, one of us."
Until the siblings resist no longer,
and France is forever changed
with the death of its own children.

A Place So True

The cool breeze brushed against my face like soft fingers of a lover,
the trees so green, the mountains towered above,
kindling beauty surrounded, a place of slumber I found.

I closed my eyes, and smiled, clearing my mind,
I never knew of such a place, always looked, always tried,
excited, thrilled, such relief and passion,
feelings of joy, past forgotten, depression passed on.

Darkness loomed through each tree, mysterious,
my heart ran rampant, my sadness died, oblivious,
inspiration, the name rang true, appreciation grew.

Take me back there, I need to live, oh, please,
I found comfort in Mother Nature and her trees,
again, take me again, venturing on through,
a place so pure and real, a place so true.