Genius Burns

Untitled No. 13

Screaming.
Forcing.
Zipping up dreams.
Sewing up seams.
Hiding in reams
Of paper, crumpled.
Butterfly lost,
Memory gone,
The field over-trod
With suffering hearts,
Playing their parts,
Struck deep with darts
Of anger and hate.
Too much on my plate,
I try to relate,
But can’t seem to understand.
Unzip the dreams, should you?
Tear out the seams, could you?
Write on the reams, would you,
A love song for me.

Waves Crash

Waves crash
Over the rocks
That sit upon the shore
Of the barren wasteland
Of the twisted world
That conceals something more.
Waves crash
Upon themselves
In the ever-widening sea.
No one ever hears,
No one ever knows.
None except for me.
Waves crash
All around
As I ride upon the wind,
Away from all
In this world,
Away from my own sin.
Waves crash
Over myself
As I fall down to the deep.
Mercy comes
As heaven does,
And I drift off to sleep.

Stony Brooks and Storybooks

Stony swiftly-moving stream,
A brook trickling by.
This place is where magic seems to go
When a child dies.

When a small soul departs
To heaven up on high,
The brook flows grey through the ice
And sorrow trickles by.

Like a mystic fairy tale
Read in a cozy nook,
This is where a child sits
To read a storybook.

Tales twisting through their minds
And through their bright souls eyes,
This is where the children go
When a story dies.

When the hero has triumphed
Over hellish frights,
The story ends almost abruptly
As a summer night.

Children come to sit and ponder
By the stony brook.
Here they bring their hopes and dreams
Inside their storybooks.

Merrily

The world was full of perfect evil,
And times seemed always scary.
But merrily the children sing,
Though their elders were not caring.

The village toiled through their plights
Without help from outside.
But merrily the children sing,
While their elders stay inside.

As the children age themselves,
And take on growing worry,
Merrily their children sing,
Even as war is stirring.

When hope is seemingly gone for good,
And death takes many men,
Merrily the children sing
A song of hope again.

Nothing Here Is Real

Misting rains falling swiftly,
Like a band of angels weeping,
Over greying fields of freedom
Where dreams go when they are sleeping.
A life I spend here, decades long,
With love and children and a home
And then I wake and all is gone
And the real world is so unknown.
I try so hard to get back there,
To the only home I knew.
Sometimes I can nearly reach it,
Though it’s only a window I’m seeing through.
Melancholy fiddles
Call to my very soul,
Trying desperately to pull me back
To my home of old.
Finally, as I am dying
In this world I never loved,
I find myself back in my world
With darkened grey skies up above.
I revel in the fateful wood
Where the secret stories hide.
I walk between the sacred roots
Where tales of mystic myth reside.
I live here once again through life
And love for it is what I feel.
Until again I’ll wake one day,
For nothing here is real.

©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

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Genius Burns

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