poetry

The Last Breaths

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.

Naive Dream

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

A Minstrel Born

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,