The "last round" bell clanged, sending
Island night owls slowly shuffling out.
Drunkenly, Ernest eyed the lighthouse above tops of trees
Showing the way home, stumbling back from Sloppy Joes.
Cracked chips of paint cling
To his hands in the humidity, from clutching too tightly
At railings, mounting the porch steps where
Six-toed felines and a wife wait on Whitehead Street.
Clickity-clackity, composing chapters, putting genius on paper
Before electroshocks and shotgun solitude can take it away
Like Castro confiscated his Cuba, leaving
An old man and his sea of sorrow, stretching
Ninety miles to Havana Harbor.
And you -- fixed between the moon and naught, seem
A satellite that orbits 'round my world
And others', too, but I can see the gleam
Of your smile so high above me, that pearled
Glisten of Light reflected from the Son
By your burnished surface; shimmering you
Dance across the sky, for you know that one
Gaze tracks through the night your path straight and true.
Circling others, you do seem quite small
Bright stars surround you, but you stand apart
From them; so unique, you confound them all--
Yet you still found your way into my heart.
Though gravity holds you not and you soar
You'll slingshot this way and come back
I don't know who you are - you who can look
Me straight in the eyes and then lie without
Flinching, silently twisting into doubt
An image once so clear to me; you took
My face and made me blind until I cease
To appear. Display what I will you to,
Nothing more. Master of illusion, you
Deceive so well, though you're merely a piece
He was Doomed. For in his state of Grace, a tiny crack appeared in the crystal - A subtle flaw, an idea, an infatuation that grew, and spread, until his entire Sphere was tainted and cracked; the moment the fragile crystal shattered, his fate was sealed... The Book was closed; there was no turning back from his horrible quest... the Quest to best God. Thus he Fell… Plummeted down in anguish, embraced by Chaos, 'til he landed on swirling, bubbling naught … and he stared …
- Hunter Chorey
You try so hard to be
You fix your gaze, observe the world
But can you really see?
To see inside; so hard to do
You think you have the key
You try to see where I'm coming from
But instead look straight through me...
Summer bliss struggles
To set flight and soar
Through the restraining final days
Of glazèd eyes and far away looks
Staring blankly into dreary textbooks
Pondering summer in countless ways.
The sun and the heat
The ground under their feet
As they waltz and circle around
But before they can Dance
They must in advance
Leave their fears behind and break free.
For after the fact
At the end looking back
Dreamers evoking an impartial eye
Will see in their smiles all the hopes unrealized
In the summer that was afraid to fly.
Drawn and Quartered
Delirious lyrics run through my head;
It's August 30th, and I am lost.
God, what am I to do? I'm pulled in all
Directions by my Loves, rendering me
Static. Stagnant, snared at the cusp of life.
"And I'll wait for this light to break…" My light.
I cannot complete the essential things
In life. No time. No Desire. No drive.
Oh, lift me, lift me ever higher now!
I've sunk so low, mired passions wasted; yet
I brush the sky when your hands surround me.
Flirtations of opportunity feign
An opportunity for flirtation,
Yet nothing is there - so empty inside.
Why don't I run for the truth kno
I am not my own. I hold not, live not.
I am dead, as far as the world can see.
Wistful for days of ignorance, I sought
The times past when living was so carefree,
Days when my life seemed less painful, I thought.
What drove me to this? Not dimming; but a sort
Of glorious light, to which I have naught
To compare. Dirt and flesh, all fallen short
Of what I was made to be. I abide
In the Fall. I lost before I arose:
I never knew how dark I was inside,
How frightened I could be of my shadows.
I am not my own. Set apart, I boast
In the fact that my sin has lost its grip.
Pressed on all sides…but not broken. So close.