A poetic journey through my mind

Archive for March 25, 2012

Little Things

the mystery that lies within,
the dreaming that’s our second skin,
the paths we walk, the winds that blow,
the words that let our spirits know,
that what is now has gone before,
the quiet that’s our inner core,
the timeless wonder of the stars
that whispers “this too can be ours”,
the magic of a single minute,
that has so many choices in it,
the peace that dwells within a flower,
the lifetime held within each hour,
the caring touch of heart to heart,
the soul healing power of loving art.


A thieves prayer

This one is for the rp geeks out there.  I love playing rogues/thieves/rascals/scoundrels in roleplaying games, and once, I created a world (not the rules, just the world) including gods and goddesses and mythology for them.  Yay fun.  I wish I still had the notes and pages and maps, but unfortunately they were lost long ago.  All I have left is a poem I wrote for my main non-player character, a trickster-ish rogue named Mika and his patron god, Erevan god of thieves and fortune.  😉

 

Erevan, the silver-haired,
lay your hand upon my shoulder,
you remain my only comfort,
as the winds blow ever colder,
as my skillful hands grow older,
as the younger thieves grow bolder,
Erevan my hands are steady,
ever in thy name.


Infection

The first thing is Pain, and the second is Hunger,
The third is the feeling of Time rent asunder,
Things long since lost echo back in my head,
Cellophane faces, and things that were said.
“Don’t go…love you…careful…take care…”
Whispers and ghosts flicker by on the air.
I’d think myself mad, if thinking I choose,
But one cannot go mad with no mind left to lose.
The Hunger calls now, and its pull is extreme,
Their shrieks meld together into one endless scream.
The echoes of Time become louder yet,
The Pain makes it certain I never forget.
Engraved on each cell, the death that I bring,
I hear its sad laughter, and feel its glad sting.
It is ageless, this Hunger, and it must be fed,
It will never be sated till my spirit has fled.
But not even then will the world be set free,
For it moves even now, as the sap through a tree.
It wriggles and squirms inside of the brain,
Till the Pain and the Hunger begin once again.
And once more, a form shuffles into the night,
The Child is reborn, and his name is Blight!


Underhill

masquerade, play pretend,
down the hall and back again,
bow and spin, whirl and sway,
as the lights turn night to day,
colors swirling all together,
shades of mountains and of heather,
pastel tints of sky and grass,
and jewel bright, like leaded glass.
music lilts and skirls like water,
round noble lad and burghers daughter,
whispering of sweet romance,
until they whirl as in a trance,
the silken threads of magic wind,
whispering into each mind,
holding them in bondage sweet,
while outside night and morning meet,
the sun shines bright through windowpane,
and still they dance on, lord and dame,
masquerade, play pretend,
down the hall and back again,
spinning webs of color bright,
until the day turns into night,
round and round and round about,
beneath the shadow of a doubt,
beneath the moon, beneath the hill,
the stolen ones are dancing still.