Part 33 (1/2)
The victors speech fill gaps unsaid and gloats upon the bleak now wed amongst the blades; by river bled I rise up and leave the dead.
The war for self is rarely lost and budgeted in acceptable cost.
If spirit powers down too soft then apathy's the coin not tossed.
The wage is bad; the nights are long to solidify in this peculiar song.
Once more to take the highroad strong? And stand against the rights of wrong?
The field turns to ash and dust in empathic view of my foe's dark l.u.s.t.
Reflection mirrored of nighttime rust that struggles for this world to bust.
Our blackened side fulfilled by hate, to balance out the neutral weight.
Tipping scales for either bait endangers self and mental state.
Mead moon s.h.i.+nes with silvery light to witness self's gargantuan fight.
Neuroses troops poised in flight, the battle royale now far from sight.
The winning move deployed in zest is how the wretch can cheat this test, And as karma blows in from the west, I dispatch his form at my behest.
Job mentally done for now, at least I commit to the truth of the unending beast.
The dual of humanities' pie as meat, forever to plague its soulful seat.
CROSS BUT SHAN'T.
by Nathan Rowark The bridge that I should cross but shan't is that of which I could but can't.
Cold metal structures lay to lead but going there will make me bleed.
I sit upon the bank and gaze at the unfolding of the plans she's laid.
Knowing damage yet to come, if I followed her dreams undone.
No longer one that wants to save, I leave her side to watch her cave.
It fills me with the depths of dread to watch unfurl what's in her head.
A beauty that to me resides the hopes of two that well in eyes, Yet effective pull of darkest strife now takes her down as nighttime's wife.
About Nathan Rowark.
Nathan Jonathan David Lee Rowark was born in the pagan county of Hertfords.h.i.+re, England. Nathan has been writing since he was six years old and he wrote his first novel at the age of twelve when he moved to Ess.e.x.
Nathan currently writes screenplays and splits his time between running his own business and directing short horror movies. At thirty-two years young, Nathan's hopes are to follow his first love, which is poetry.
Nathan is Wiccan, which he feels, along with life experiences, has helped to form ideas for his poetry. His family's surname was originally Warlock and it means, according to Norse sailors, ”to bind with words,” or ”spell singer.” Therefore, words are in his blood.
If he were asked to sum up his love of poetry, it would be the way a poet can convey situations, emotions and physical environments with just a few words and is the only medium he has ever found that can have such power. Nathan is an eclectic human being and has discovered that an open mind is the pa.s.sage to the divine.
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WHEN GHOST CHILDREN SPEAK.
by Paul Sohar.
The voices of ghost children grow.
like mildew on the tapestry, they wind around the lily pattern floating in the background free.
where the backs of chairs and sofas turn, where only cobwebs stand on guard, that's where they can wiggle up on the backs of adults who park.
their lives in pointed circles around the gray litany of the coffee table till these trickling voices touch their earlobes with the tingling of a fable.
fanned by the naughty unseen children; then the grown-up backs will twitter, speak about the temperature and the snow that's sure to wither next week or sooner when these voices slither back where they came from and where they send all those who listen bang into a maelstrom: say! whispers hone the craft of kissing...
THE ABANDONED FARMHOUSE.
by Paul Sohar The carca.s.s of the old farm house harbors no sounds yet I'm afraid to follow the slender sprite of an early spring breeze as she slips into the vandalized living room and gliding past the dusty bones of old dining chairs she slithers into a water-stained volume of poetry- fluffing up the pages she seeks out some comforting rhymes to rest on until ma.s.saged by the soft iambs she creeps out again into the ghostly late afternoon sun tiptoeing on the skittish leaves of a moribund rhododendron she climbs up on an invisible rope back into the sky and then there's nothing left to show that I was standing here by the broken window and like a peeping tom I watched her wordless tryst with an undead poet in the forgotten old farmhouse trapped in an idle growth of maples.
THE KNOCK.
by Paul Sohar It was quarter past nine when I heard a knock on the front door.
I looked up from my book, but the door looked no different, the off-white semi-gloss paint had started to crack and curl in a malevolent grimace some time before, and now it didn't bother me at all; I knew I could outstare a problem but why waste time on it when I could be reading or falling asleep in the armchair with a floor lamp positioned right next to it. In fact, the door was as still as any of the pictures on the walls, even its grimace seemed to sag and soften as I sat there thinking I could hang the door on the wall as an object of art, after all it had a message, something to say, maybe a lot more than the tulips in the print beside me or the blue hills in the landscape above the fireplace.