Dawn

In twilight's breast
My head is pressed
Weeping for the dawn
Out of scourge is borne
The illness of centuries
Finite now, a span for
The lives of many
A golden carriage
Within sleeps the infant
Of tireless eternity .

Pulled down, the keystones
Like teeth, then blood gushes
Demolishing the palaces
Of age-old monastacy
Forth go the indulgent
Civilized hermits
Seeing what is as it truly is
Disillusioned they are
For grandeur is a veil
Oh, dauntless silhouette of time

Give the impoverished happiness
Inclined to find what was it all?
Defined, my glimpse at carp swimming
In a bloody ravine
Made of the people's hopes and dreams
Notice night's romantic niche
Nearing naive knaves stitched
Into the fabric of the soul
To be cleansed by the lull

Of our decadent dawn...

The Sleeping Worm

The sleeping worm lies awake
For some subtle passion
It givest not the eve of fowl day
Nor grants a lone wolf's passage
To madness

It grieves only for apples insipid
It failed to plunge within
Be them of carnal or innocent stead
It's wrath is but a deed
To happiness

When it cocoons deep, unseen
All are agape, wondering where it's been
Tis' only but the gone, silent hints
Its belly swollen' from love's contempt
For silence...

Professional Handicaps

There are men, I can tell, who live their infant lives in jail. That sour taste which stole away, my childish love of life and play. This evil world is all I know. This haunted playground by the holes. Where dug to hide impunities, dug by the likes of you and me. A shattered tenacity lost in an undertow. A harrowed generosity towards those we know. If maybe nothing new made sense, then something more than thought could glimpse; lost, portrayed realities upon flatscreens. Never wonder just where the screams, for help, for love, have sounded from those shoved; towards vacancy in longing, wandering is blaspheme. What you and I see is all there's left to tell: Professional handicaps lost to no avail!

Submission- Poem

There's no such thing
As flowers blossoming
When all you see
Comes from a screen.

There is no truth
Divine, sublime
Which comes to you
From paper-starch news.

There is no worth
In ferried-births
Brought to our shores
From technology-bred stores.

There is no sight
And there is no vision
For all of us when
We are prone to submission.

Wisdom Twins Books

Here is a link to Wisdom Twins (UK) and my new book THE VOID:

www.wisdomtwins.weebly.com

Data

"I was never a boy."