pananarama

Singularity

Within barren walls, stark naked,
pale, cold and remiss,
dirty, dank and musty
the milew of your bliss

heart seized by the frigid tile
two steps from the slab
the solitude soon hits you
a deep unbridled stab

petrified by uncertainty
a tear drops from tired eyes
the trace of an emotion
too late to realize

sat huddled in a corner
raped by the spoils of life
depression holds you captive
your heart becomes its knife

standing stone faced to block the anger,
sorro, woe and fear
the dungeon keeper squeezes stone
beholding a tear

steadfast in a shallow grave
your tattered soul does rip
steady little soldier
quickly loosing grip

the roar of rain against cold pate
seals a somber day
as leaves caught in the runoff
all hope is whisked away

the peddler and the rose

The moon casts a silver dew
to tease the velvet sky
the stars seem to quite gingerly,
humbly let it try.
The trees in slumber dreaming dreams,
of springs and falls to be.
Leaves rustling as they snore aloud
in early morning glee.
Near by the regal mountaintops,
their peaks encapped in snows,
slump down on comfy foothills,
with heads lost in repose.
The owls coo their lullabies,
to allay the restless rills,
who sleepwalk through the valleys,
and saunter betwixt the hills.
The slight, crisp air caresses,
while nighingales in tune,
lead us off in fantasies,
beneath the harvest moon.
Deep below the predawn night,
we see a modest town,
from flowing hills it's spires jut,
as it's dormant crown.
Peering down amidst the roofs,
with chimneyed, gabled peaks,
our weary traveler stammers now,
been hobbling on for weeks.
This pious man steady walks,
a pauper amongst kings,
day in, day out, alone he moves,
peddlig his things.
With heavy pack and heavy heart,
tired feet resign their game,
as broken body and blisterred back,
resolve to do the same.
With night's slight frost upon his cap,
and hand upon his chest,
the lures of night have broken him,
now his time to rest.
A satchel full of trinkets,
slumps down upon the stones,
coddled by the meter,
of cracking, creaking bones.
Chapped and crusted lips smack,
upon sparse and pallid teeth,
tousled brows unfurl their rifts,
upon stubbled cheeks beneath.
His sunken chest collapses,
with a wheeze and burbled moan,
his hardened body enshrouded,
in hands as cold as stone.
As weary lids unite in vain,
upon crimson swollen eyes,
by want, they shut, to lose in dreams,
the cadence of his cries.
His love's mnemonic beauty,
is quick to come to thought,
with it brings listless comfort,
which in sleep he sought.
Her eyes the purest, clearest blue,
to guide the birds in flight,
her heart could warm ten thousand men,
through bleakest sable night.
Those eyes hid many beauties for
a libidos thoughts to pine,
the perfect gate through which,
her perfect soul could shine.
Her platinum locks caressed the breeze,
like a siren's song of sight,
beckoning toward ceaseless love,
from which no want of fight,
Her smile could crush the coldest heart,
with it's persuasive might,
it was that which made the heavens dare,
to mistrust their own pure light,
the crystal lips through which it shone,
were to be revelld by the gods,
with tender lips and perhaps a kiss,
one's heart was put at odds.
It was in her endless poetry,
in every tiny part,
that he saw himself forever gone,
embridled by his heart.
She was royalty of innocence,
atop a throne of white,
and only by untimely death,
robbed of that birthright.
The brackish wells with which he sees,
spill forth their wretched prize,
his heart by lover's passing gone,
he sleeps, he dreams, he dies.
Every night, like that before,
he rests his somber head,
haunted by the same cold past,
the torment to which he's wed.
A wistful lover alone does lay,
diadaining all the morrow,
broken, beaten, battered by,
his ceaseless pain and sorrow.
By morning's break the sun is guised,
by bleak and darkened air,
the peddler trounced by nature's ire,
but he too tired care.
This somber hamlet caught amidst,
the tempests raising cane,
a crash of thunder breaks the roar,
of cold remorseless rain.
This one vile day, although to ask,
to him, like all the morrow,
find he a token of his love,
amidst his pan and sorrow.
A tiny ember amongst the ash,
of his dying heart,
a swell of joy, a flash of tears,
ignited by, in part,
a tiny rose, diminutive,
much smaller than the rest,
lost betwixt the leaves and twigs,
barely a rose at best.
Precisely at that moment,
as beuty reigned spreme,
the fates took pity upon this man,
through the rose's holy beam.
His tears like rain on cobblestones,
do slip betwixt the cracks,
the rose's glow does bring such warmth,
which his sorry body lacks,
His stiff knees crack to met the dirt,
to partake of this prize,
and as he's reacing out for ov,
this somber stranger dies.