Reincarnation

In dimmit light, the seething saints of hell
walk free among the commonality,
like charlatans with nothing left to sell
but for their individuality.

Ragamuffin heroes spew their rants,
The ragshags and tatterdemalion,
and mutter insurrection as they dance
on sidewalks - a concrete cotillion.

The morons and the idiots run loose
and fester in their grand stupidity
yet hold dominion as they spurn the truth;
the agents of destruction's augury.

Sharp shards of pretense littering the streets,
intelligent ideas erased by rain,
their tendrils loosened as they chance to sleep,
then washed, along with bum piss, down the drain.

I act the hawkshaw, searching for some gold
In sanctuary's safety I explore,
Insensate, as the trail I trace grows old
and febrile flights of fancy I endure.

But silence has a death grip on my pen.
The truth, I fear, inspires perjury...
Let phantoms guide insistant thoughts, and then
we'll stand beside our mortal injury.

If there be light it rises in the east.
From pulpit streams, on those who are not dead,
and from within we freed the mighty beast...
salvation's dues were paid by what we said.

yet quietly it settled into dust.
in reticence it ate of its own past
until another voice scraped off the rust
and offered it harmonious repast.

The idiots and morons cannot know
of symphony once etched upon the sky.
deprived the stage upon which it would grow...
now on the threshold of new majesty.

'twas love spake more than pious platitudes.
'twas love that lived within the poetry.
To kneel as one in humble gratitude,
for once there was we kissed eternity.

Unrequiem

(the muse)
The orchestra sits idly on the stage.
The artist stares at blankness on the wall.
Notes wander off the canvas into cage,
to wait in abject hope, the artist's call.
The color of the music isn't real,
the color of the music's out of time.
These notes then paint the artist's funeral,
whose instrument has always been his rhyme.

More than just a prop upon the stage,
a painted dirge that hangs upon the wall.
Like music trapped within the artist's cage.
Like songs the orchestra cannot recall.
The notes upon the canvas seem surreal,
he knows not how the orchestra keeps time.
Why merrily they paint his funeral.
His instrument has always been his rhyme.

Then suddenly she's there upon the stage,
with swirling lilting brushstrokes on the wall.
releasing all his rhyme from rusted cage.
The sweeter note that heeds the artist's call,
as only she sees images too real.
The painted soundscape captures fleeting time
and splatters music on the funeral.
like instruments that only play in rhyme.

Sweet muse that stole the painting off the wall
and painted music freeing captured time,
thus cancelling the artist's funeral,
whose instrument must always be his rhyme.

Scheherazade

A Sultan knew caprice at woman's hand,
through infidelity, his love betrayed,
then cast his rage on women through the land,
and at his hand all purity denied.
For ev'ry night he'd take a virgin bride
to have her executed on the day,
to merely compensate his wounded pride.
But love lives on, so long does poetry.
For from his heart all hint of love was banned,
as further treachery he'd not abide.
Thus pleasure granted at his want's command
that each new maiden would for him provide...
then slaughtered - as his innocence had died.
The tainted hues of love, but shades of grey
for in his heart - all poetry denied.
But love lives on, so long does poetry.
Such grievious insult spit upon the sand,
and weeping love lay prone while poems cried.
Impossible to touch the cold demand...
'til 'fore the Sultan stood Scheherazade
who would not have her poetry denied.
She told her tales unfinished on the day
and curiosity he could not hide.
But love lives on, so long does poetry
Enchanted for a thousand and one nights
by sweet song of Scheherazade... and she
rekindled something very deep inside
for love lives on, so long does poetry.