Sparkbroker

What spark, in the dark
In disingenuous embers glows the face of a lost lover
Trickle in the feelings, feel the tickle of tears down your cheeks
It reeks of emotion,
And emptiness
Hollow the trunks of dead trees and empty the gust of dead breezes
Make real your imaginary friends
Make an army to fight the real demons
What shark, the dark body of water that last lets loose the dead dream
Eight days underground and the rhythm has you writhing
Light lights, the fire in your eyes
The trumpet tempers the flame in your ears
Too many fears are forgotten
Failed for nothing more than waking up the truth
What dark, if there is a spark?
But what spark?
Who spake?
The voice lost, not found in the failing fire of your final flight
What light?
Whose lantern burns deep in the dungeons and the damp, dying doom?
What room?
No doors to dream the passage breaks conscience, incites passion
Leaks lies
Eats dull razors with crooked teeth
Lights let liars see the lines in your eyes
The darkness harbours friends
The comfort of the unknown
So what light?
Fight!
Bring back the black!
The night will fall
And bring them all
Down
Down
Down
To me.

Breakfast v2

I wrote this a couple ays back, the title is above, and has specific meaning. I don't think it's finished, there are a couple of line which I feel are...inelegant, at best. We will see what you think of them.

Edit: I have made some changes, some based on suggestion, some based on my own feelings, please revisit!

A voice like honey drips
From lungs like steel
A fusion of machine and man,
The consummation of the plan.

The grip of God upon my throat,
The chorus of the Word expand!
The truth of love, the spirit here,
The end of death, of greed, of fear.

When the dawn march up the day,
And when the fast is broken, near
The bridge of mourning, sighs and all;
No memories of death, of fall.

Remember then, the words of us
The songs we sang; and all
The melodies of love gone past,
The notes and tones not made to last!

Those in smaller numbers must
Sing out that much more loudly!
The voices of the crowd are lost,
No matter one, no matter cost.

Beware of them that shine so bright
So falsely in the day,
For when a sparkle moonlight brings
The chorus of the angels sings!

The songs of untrained hearts,
The pleas of broken men,
The crying of a dying child,
The ending of the world gone wild.

It is done

I've finally done it. I entered a competition. While I'm sure that I will be rejected in the most embarrassing fashion, truly, the fact that I did this much should be celebrated. They said a poem of any length, so I entered two short poems and one 800 word poem. Besides the poem I posted earlier, I entered:

--
Whither Thither

A man had fumbled with his life
From his early days of strife
He attempted once to make with peace
A life of bliss beneath the trees
Something missing, he so thought
And left half built what he should not
Have ever had even started
And so his life’s attempt was parted.
He began a journey here, and ended
With his efforts all but mended.

Upon the ground which made his step
Was somewhere he had for been wept
Perhaps by a lover or his mother past
He couldn’t remember. He moved fast
Away to new locations, and
His latest soil destination: sand.
He called this beach his home until
Upon his makeshift windowsill
A bird came slowly and sang sickly
Telling him he must move quickly.

He left his quasi home alone,
And took his pack with him to roam.
He encountered many other birds,
But none who used such soft sick words
As his friend who recommended
That though he steals, this time was lended.
He met a wood, and on it’s edge
He stopped to make that night his bed
Was greeted by a gentle wolf,
Who said that here was soft enough.

That night, from his distrustful soul
He was not a single wink doled!
So left to his next journey’s travels
Tired, angry, and disheveled.
He moved clumsily through the wood
And near the strangest tree he stood
He thought he heard a whiffling sound
And knelt; his ear unto the ground.
While nothing seemed he beholding,
The ground itself to be revolting!

That tree next to which he rested
Seemed to want his courage tested
It failed the test, but not his legs
Which brought him far from anomalous dregs
Upon the far side of the wood he stopped,
And on his now sore legs he hopped
To a bush with sweetest berries
And while he gorged himself, saw fairies!
He had not seen such things post-natal,
And never thought they might be fatal.

They, taking airs of kind, exclaimed,
And when they had calmed down, explained:
He had eaten them of house and home,
Literally, this bush they owned
And lived inside their cherry castles
Which now remnants hung like tassels
From blood red lips, and teeth incarnadined!
Hearing this he wept, for it had seemed
He had so easily made hell for these,
And stolen from them solemn peace.

He begged them, through a wall of tears
To forgive him of his lack of fears
Of perfect bushes, and perfect berries!
They replied “We are but fairies,
“We cannot forgive your sins,
“And certainly no conscience win!”
He pressed though, and so they tried
But one by one they slowly died.
Feeling though it had worked out,
He now ceased his mouth to pout.

He stood again on weary limbs
And marched away with saintly hymns!
Neglectful of his somber deeds
He came upon a bed of reeds,
Nestled on a long stretched bank
Of a river of some worthy rank.
He followed this for quite some time
Forgetting all his past and crimes.
He came upon a great lake, and said
“What a perfect place to rest my head!”

When he awoke, what did he see?
But beauty standing before he!
In the middle of this bodied water
Was the most delightful daughter!
So he decided not to leave,
And of his journey was bereaved.
He sat and watched her days and weeks
So profound and yet so meek!
Composed sonnets to her in his head,
Always thought, but never said.

This continued for months and months
Till he had finally had enough
He waded from the river bank
Into the lake, in which he sank.
Upon reaching the lake’s deep bed saw
A tiny cabin, thatched with straw
In awe he stood, and watched as she
Entered here alone, as sad as she could be.
When he summoned himself to courage
He rapped the door of this sunken cottage.

She answered, and they stood in silence
As their eyes divided diamonds.
He entered and, when both were sat,
Slowly did remove his hat.
She took his hand, this total stranger
Of whom she felt no present danger.
He smiled, and raised his hand to touch
The face that he had seen so much!
When his fingers found her face,
He fell, to deepest slumber’s place!

Soon from the lake he did creep
And somnambulated, from the deep.
So what was said to him was thus:
"Awaken not in pains of lust
"But pains of joy and health receive,
“On merry nights such as this eve"
And when this temporal advice was wrought
He went and ambled back to cot.
This darling home beneath the lake,
There he his life, in sleep, did take.
--

AND

--
Stroke of the Twelve

The thunder rolls about the room, and falls on every ear,
Reverberates about this space, and strikes each heart with fear.
For now this lonely moment is a lonely thought, indeed,
As this wooden ground is shaken, as by a thousand steeds.
Each soul trembles, each heart stops, as if in contemplation,
Each tongue stilled, and each lung stiff, aware of reprobation.
With wicked eyes they look upon the faces that surround,
Hoping for a secret smile, all they can find are frowns.
No words are spoken; an attempt would surely fall to deaf,
As thunderous shakes remind them of mortality and death.
No comfort found within the crowd, some try to find without,
But those who leave with faith return with nothing more than doubt.
More severe than ever, tears form within our solemn crowd,
No longer filled with hope and trust, with only dread endowed.
They hang their heavy heads and weep, for friends are surely lost,
They’ve sown their seed, they’ve made their grave, and now they pay the cost.
I see it all; I cannot stop their tears, and not their pain.
‘Tis by their daring, foolish hearts that they are left disdained.
A single tear rolls down my cheek, as I now walk away,
Their tumble should be short, yes, for they’ve fallen all their days.
The air is still, the thunder stopped, and quiet is the floor,
But alas, that little group, we shall hear of them no more.
--

So there you have it. Cross you fingers!


My Bunny's Back - A Smile and a Ribbon