The Artist

On a bleak summer day,

A face all old and broken with lines,

Peeked through the window,

Eyes shinning with guilt,

As he stole from behind the curtain,

Moments of men,

So that he could carve,

In the stagnant listlessness of his home,

A myriad tale of love and loss,

To hang by the fireplace,

For all to witness and whisper about,

A myth, a saga, a tragedy,

A lie to give life, 

To him who never lived 

And lives no more,

But exists like a monument, his masterpiece, 

Holding in it’s silence, secrets of the centuries.

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Haiku : The Sculptor

The man sat as statue,

Aware that the marble round his bones,

Was flesh in the making.

TRANCE

I stood long,

And watched the supine sky,

Dwindle into darkness,

Until the drops of conscious trickled,

And the truth slowly dawned,

That the dusk has never arrived,

But it was I who had closed my eyes.

Shadow

I am a shadow,

Thus I cannot blink,

When studying the cold blindness,

Of this smooth, molten world. 

I am a shadow,

Sliding into Oblivion,

As formless as infinite,

And as helpless as one.

I am a shadow,

Paraphrasing mute words,

Raging amidst masses ,

In thread like ripples.

I am a shadow,

Curious and quite,

Like iron draped in rust,

Neath veil of silver light.

I am a shadow,

I reign on the line,

Nothing farther than thy far,

Nothing nearer than mine.

I am a shadow,

And I speak of night’s past,

As I sailed under starlight,

And people’s twin hearts.

I am a shadow,

Spurred on by flaw

With Equanimity my armor,

And ambiguity my law.

I am a shadow,

And I whisper through the ages,

Sifting stained pages of history,

Marking epoch and phases.

Portrait

Breath, breath, 

O potrait black,

With blind eyes do whisper,

Laugh now, whilst the paint is wet,

For once the lines are cold,

And the hand of reason stays,

Your smile shall freeze, 

As you would cease, to exist, to evolve,

For on the threshold of perfection, 

The mirror reflects no more,

But resigns in destitute, 

Having been deemed futile.

Catharsis

The tree with a thousand branches,

Fell down one night,

And all who looked upon said ruin,

Despaired at the loss,

All but the woodcutter who nodded sagely,

And fished out his whetstone.

Eye of the Masses

Look beyond,

But no farther than the walls which guards you,

For then the scene changes,

As all you would see shall voice,

Their own tales of tragedy,

Till those screams vaulting freedom dies down, 

And the silent catacombs stir awake,

In ash and dust, 

Raising ghosts that would scale the wall, this wall, 

To take shelter by your hearth,

And of all those who shall heed your reminiscence.

If Illuminated the specters will stand,

Looking beyond,

At the flames lighting long horizons,

Towards a new path, towards a new world,

Yet unknown and unchanged,

Awaiting the distant dust of their march.

O Witness, who saw true,

O Descendant, who braved, 

When you tousle the wordless shards,

Know that the mirror then would reflect neither the stillness of time, 

Nor the ember notes of progress,

But would turn opaque, uncertain,

As is all that resides, 

On the other side.

For it is by the brink of one’s eye,

Where the blindness begins.