i’m a derangement.
forty four angels at side.
or just getting old.
gristled old vet
the fat of the land
now all emaciated.
gristle and sinew.
lunarium
the body is scraped thin.
i am stretched taut.
my frame is made herse
my voice remains terse.
but my vellum is thin
and dusted by ages of chalk.
blood is my ink.
veins are my quill.
this life written out
on this papery skin.
my voynich manuscript
never decoded.
the song of my soul
never sung.
i stretch ever more
towards the sun.
the lunarium thinning
my skin tight as a drum.
and still my tale unseen
the thrum of my song
dead to the ears.
the long living of
the years, the years.
the end of my rope
frayed and unraveling.
the journey i’m on
just about done traveling.
the lunarium a crescent.
my lunacy now nascent.
i nick my aorta and
from the last inky dribble
i quickly scribble.
i was here
didn’t you hear?
the thought was dear
fortune favors the bold,
or so that story is told.
but fortuna is a woman
fickle and flighty,
and her nickname is fate.
and if you cross swords
with fate you might taste her hate
until the boldness in your veins
runs cold.
i want fortune and fame
and a flaming passion in my breast.
the latter i have
but as for the rest.
you might say i haven’t been blessed.
and the sigh like a cry
a plaintive motif.
i can tell you another thing
about fortuna so fickle.
the supplications of you and i
fall on deaf ears,
and all that is left is the dry
track of tears,
and the years and the years.
the bloody knees the unending fears.
the bowed back of an old man,
arthritic fingers still reaching,
that once held something
he thought very dear.
heartfelt
where is the joyful
song that sprung from happy heart?
gone the happy boy.
soul juror
the dark heavy heart
knows the weight of broken dreams.
but the soul leads on.