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…

 

 

 

Hillside, on the South Banks

**I’m not dead!**

 

Dreaming of light that once flowed so smooth,

And with such determined vigour;

Of trees, and the tree-spirits that reside within.

All across the Lands of the New World,

Where we, feeble and weak, drink from streams;

Rust coloured, tainted by their shifting conversations.

 

Whilst foxes roam the valley, and the birds the hills,

We wonder, because wondering is our hope.

In grievance of what falls so swiftly to the ground-

Resenting, often living inside hate,

Of course, what else?

Blue skies, and blue water, and blue minds…

Insistence on belonging, just in the right time.

 

Brushed by the sun – caressed by warm winds,

Carried to faraway lands on the clouds that soundlessely swim-

Some days – beds of white.

Some days – suffocating black straight-jackets,

Unsure, not knowing the where, and the when.

And yet, in the moment, grass is still.

 

Our huts, warmed to the stones beneath.

Some days we manage laughs,

Some days we hold, and we drink, and we sing.

And in those times,

When Winter’s Philharmonic rings-

Living here in the hills, where the sun sees –

No matter our wild, wild dreams –

Isn’t so bad as one might first think.

Secular Polar Bears

White Beasts,

Evil antagonists of the clergy,

The Reverend forced to hisĀ  knees;

As clean, and as untarnished as the dense fur-

Looming, prowling,

White-hot stars from the North.

 

“Take me, free, me,” the voices relay,

Deep and sorrowful – crossing worlds.

“And rule, with heavy hands and few words!”

Let the masses wonder,

In hesitance of a black or white future.

 

Imprints of the cross;

Imprints of people long passed, long gone-

Beyond the Boundary of that fretful snow-North,

Where cold is unshifting,

Where the ice moves not an inch South,

Where thoughts freeze as they are conjured.

 

“Hurry, with the words, and with the devilsome deeds!”

Jaws wide open, teeth bared,

As the pulpit is savaged,

As the beast ruminate through dreams of terror

 

War on the horizon,

They scream “The Battle of Needs!”

Ringing tempered, and true,

Orphaned by the lives in which they thought they knew.

 

Looking South,

Pleading to some eternal, eclectic creature.

“Away! Away! AWAY!”

Shout the cries as the White Beasts pound nearer.

 

Until, all that’s left

Are the souls of a thousand moons.

Eyes vacated – voice after voice, quelled.

The White Beasts have taken this day,

Starting at one again,

The remainder, they simply pray.

Deserts’ Speak

We walk, and we carry on walking across the lengths of this desolate world. Counting the stars and the steps taken, blistered feet and weathered minds. Something whispers in our ears during those cold, shivering nights; when the winds howl and the true wild sleeps. Bodies close, resting together, living as one like an ant colony. Needing the heat and needing to acknowledge those distinctive, most personal leads. There are days when the sun pours down, and days when the steaming rain beats silt and sand. Looking to the horizon and into the deep valleys – onwards towards an outpost, hope in hand of the life that might dutifully follow. For we live in desperate, yet revered hope.

In Some Place. In Some Time.

Blasting through the desolate cosmos,

Destination, unseen – unheard.

Life on the edge – vanguard to the posturing elite.

 

Shrimps drifting through the black mass,

Unable to witness the gleam of stars,

Unable to sing, and to laugh – exiles;

Living amongst the ice,

And encased in the shields that

Fail to falter and blink.

Languid in eternal, light-less sleep.

 

Craving all we cannot have,

Free movement, and happiness, and love.

Under the hammer,

Pressure beating like that at the core of a star;

We cannot move.

We cannot hold;

Those nearest – simple acts overlooked.

Separated by countless light years,

Galaxies spanning the indeterminable void.

 

One day, maybe we will arrive,

Pioneers, starting over – another try.

A time when we can hold, touch,

And linger in the soothing heat of close bodies,

The promise of warmth and intimate pleasure;

Sleep, with dreams, and fleeting images of the past,

Ushering us along

Towards a mirage that shimmers

All along the boundary, eclipsed by only vision.

 

Some day we will exit this relentless purgatory.

Some day we will kiss, and make love,

And bathe in the beauty of re-kindled humanity;

As we sail, and as we drift,

Living – but just for the moment,

On the cusp.

From the New World

Leaving behind home – some home, at least.

Backpack, scarf, and winter coat,

Alone and youthful

In the desolate Wilderness.

Bare feet on the bitter frost,

Not a moment passing, without glancing back,

Watchful of what might come running

From the ravenous purgatory of the far North,

In search of forgone humanity.

Crossed raging rivers, and traversed flats,

Into the distance, wanting – needing

To touch frail skin, and linger in the essence,

The sweetness, and the rare euphoria

Yet, my feet, they sink too deep.

So, maybe I don’t truly want to witness

What awaits beyond the decadent Wilderness.

Beyond the air of Death Roses,

And the scent of age-old ash in the choking breeze.

You wonder… why now,

And why here… why just me?

Staring into the bleak divide – the line,

Wondering if it is a sin to see;

If life might just get a chance to freely speak.

Across the mountains,

Along the coasts of seas’,

Where whale song once bellowed,

And where men were brought to their battered knees.

I tread the lines,

Paths not taken for untold millenia.

All for touch, and all for sense?

Driven to the ends of the land, through basic intent,

With the need to lay hand upon skin-

Hear a voice whisper beside me-

Share a bed that has always been for one.

Until then, the Clouded Sun can wait.

Honest… Honest Work

Flashing of dire images,

Like ghouls in the Mirror of Regret.

Temptation sulking in red-soaked-pools,

Knowing that if I fall, there are no nets,

And the walls – they’re far, far too steep,

Covered in layer upon layer of bleak memory.

 

And I look upon the canvas, devoid of paint,

As I frantically search for that rosy paint-

A medium for expression;

But it’s oblivion… not a single brush,

Nor a pencil.

Nothing to imprint the white.

Emptiness – alone – lonely.

 

Traversing corridors – back and forward,

Forgetting the doors on each side,

Forgetting the chances that wait beyond.

Needing to walk back into space without electricity;

Or, at least being duped into thinking so.

 

Please, do something, I was caving,

Mites ruthlessly bit, and the ticks latched without remorse;

Eraser, white pen on white paper.

Each stroke heavier – breaths taken on Mars.

 

My laugh filled the empty stretches,

Bleak, and self-depreciating – honest.

Painfully, wretchedly, horrifically… honest.

Heard by not one soul.

Breaking the boundaries of sound,

So loud – silent – vacuum sound.

 

All these years,

Time ticking like a clock at half-speed;

Time spent, time… honestly wasted;

Not wasted honesty.