heaven poem peachs almanac

Breathing Purgatory | Poem

Just walking, and groveling.

Well… mumbling, as always;

Habits, they’re sure hard to beat,

Being beaten, being broken – it’s easier;

Letting yourself become broken,

Like a freezer that refuses to freeze –

Pointless! Lifeless! Redundant!

 

Counting down, relentless in spirit.

No doubt, fucked in all certainty.

Lost in the frivolous passing.

Wondering when one might

Stumble upon that revered salvation,

Where dark is light,

And the Underworld – oblivion.

 

Muster in the haze of solitude,

All that fortitude that has no audible voice.

For what is hearing,

If there is nothing to be heard?

For what is living,

If one does not live?

Ha – something of nothing.

Like a ferris-wheel turned on its side;

Revolving… turning – but going nowhere.

 

Red Samurai Peach's Almanac

Red Samurai | Poem

Renegade to the lost enigma.

Laughter in the halls, timid… pure evil,

Jests the Red Samurai, bottomless in his Kings’ Quest

Hand on hilt, writhes his fickle smile,

Edge to edge – wider than light.

As it lives…

And, as it breaths…

As it tears as the souls that fail to wander,

Nor heed, the cries of the One True King.

‘Bring them back, and let their voices sing!’

Rally the pleas of the forgone citizens.

 

Days without the mists of red,

Without the heavens turned black,

Without the immorality of such sinful wisdom.

Yet, it floods back,

Clearer than all joy, and all wonder, and all love.

Red Samurai – bringer of decay, catalyst of entropy;

Standing beside the God of Death himself.

 

Cleansing, that’s what he calls it…

Ridding the world of the weak, and the feeble,

And all those without necessary contribution.

Somehow he can stand,

In pure, defiant reverence of his demonic actions…

Completely alone in the land he calls No Penitence.

Dark Forest Poem

Residing Where There is no Light | Poem

***I promise to post more often from now on***

 

Terrored by the spines that do not waver,

And the life lived by those with little spine.

In the brush of the deep, decadent woodland;

Feet on sucking moss, and rotting leaves,

Lumbers the Beast – eyes towards destined heavens;

Where gods linger, fingers on buttons,

As hesitant as ever with their raging, cleansing thunder.

 

For the time, the wind is silent.

No longer does it sway the branches with fevered anger.

It is still – overpowered by the Beast’s rumbling heart,

Its pumping arteries, and the dark blood that races throughout.

 

Many times, he’s been up for slaughter,

He’s run, run… from the cries of, ‘You monster! You killed my sweet, innocent daughter!’

Though, the Beast of the Wood, he knows no different.

It’s basic instinct; but the masses with pitchforks,

They never listen.

Not with their closed minds, and their simple god-appeasment.

 

Blinking in darkness, the Beast dwells on what has passed.

On all the things that have come and gone.

The light that faded with the growth of towering trees,

And the bright that dwindled in the hope of recompense.

 

It’s at night when the Beast thunders through the undergrowth,

Head up high, eyes to the stars – as they always are.

Deep in thought, in a mind that is accepted to bear none.

Rendered lifeless by the terminally, sickly mindless.

 

If only there were something he could do,

Something to lessen the pain of being unknown.

Alone in the tangle of green –

The stench of aged decomposition.

The stars draw the Beast,

For it is there where he sees salvation;

Be it in the true gods, or the beauty of light only he can see.

Beast… he wishes he weren’t known under such a name…