It is a forest, ageless and eternal
this perceived afterlife
within the living day
breathing in amid the cold pines
slower and colder
harsh inside my lungs
as I imagine the taste
of my final breath.
We were arboreal
children of this verdant womb
within its living green
birthed amid the rain painted leaves
but slower and older
we have forgotten our mothers
and our last breaths
will taste of stone.
there is no movement
save that of meaningless flags
over the battlefield
what are we but seasons
unnamed
which change
not in any reasoned way
like years believe they ought
for years are nought
but empty fields
where time must yield
to the changing seasons.
some marines
in submarines
went sailing out to be
respectable
in spectacles
to see what they could see
reversing
in submersibles
they beached upon the shore
and in wet socks
dashed on the rocks
their dreams for ever more
away with the grandest reverie
those forts and towers gleaming
I discard such fantasies
of irrelevant dreamings
send me instead a simple place
not empires draped in gold
let my sleep bring me to grace
in the innocence of old
a hound as fair companion
verdant groves of trees
where nought holds a dominion
and warmth kisses the breeze
no flags to wave, save birds in flight
no anthems platitudes to please
no borders over which to fight
a place where I may rest in peace
damn these sober lines
give me absinthe tinted songs
and dancing verses
a minstrel born of poet’s heart
for heart a minstrel needs
as in my songs and ballads pure
my soul marks all its deeds,
so gentle is the writer’s heart
yet cruel and cold at times
the poet lives but for his verse
and breathes but in his rhymes
and though I may write a million words
as write them all I must
it matters not for like my heart
they one day will be dust,
skylarks on the wing above
dare not serenade his bones
not while they’re bereft of love
but ghosts stray cross these broken stones.
sculpted from shadows
that scatter into the light
a murder of crows
what great battles bloodied thee
spirit of the broken briar
do you from campaigns flit and flee
as sparks escape the dying fire
I fancy thee as kindred heart
alone among the mass and fold
a soul that solitude imparts
your counsel to yourself paroled.
the blighters rock 