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Rated: E · Other · Romance/Love · #1261609
A poet whose poetry lies within his characters - characters that embody the poet.
Faith in Babylon 
Rejoice!  The desecration of the creativity is at hand!
Pity the dissenters who would disagree!  After all,
How could we berate this of our own doing?
We are the many who built great estates of vice:
Towering tombs that bleed forth
    the Elixir of Greed.
The freedom of the Human Spirit seems lost,
On the winds of change, taken aloft
    by the gale of capital gains.
No trace of Humanity can be seen in our mirrors,
For our reflections are as mundane and pitiable
    as our Faith in Babylon.
We seem bound for the infernal circles of Alighieri;
To exist as ravaged Lepers amongst the ravaging Furies
Which consume the passions of man, chanting:
    “Live in infamy, you amongst the damned!”

Valkyrie of the Ball in Ceauşescu’s Hall 
She was the belle of the ball, in the midst of a Bucharest Fall,
And when she set her eyes upon me, my soul had been lost!
We barely touched the floor in the gala of Ceauşescu’s Hall,
At what price have I sold my soul?  What price, I say, what cost?

I have met her kind before, with an infant night covering the dread
That fills the prisoners of the Bloc.  She lies with them, she knows them,
And she drains their will to resist her until the bed sheets run red,
With enough blood to make any repentance a personal offence against Him.

Unde mă duceţi? Nu mă atinge! Lasă-mă în pace! Ajutor! Ajutor!
“Your destination is my discretion, your body is my shrine to worship,
You shall not be left alone - your cries for help only bolster my lore!
Soon you will take me to the nearest hostel to begin our courtship!

And she spun away from me amidst the crowd, like a predator she stalked.
Amongst the statutes and the relics she hid, those human shields that could see
The death I was owed.  I cursed the Heavens above the ball as I walked,
Wondering what boundaries I would cross to ensure that my soul was free.

But the predator would not be denied, as she followed me to the balcony,
Alone am I!  Cursed is my blood amidst the Goddess, sweet Athena my love!
No, my eyes deceive me!  By thy grace, is this the wondrous beauty of alchemy?
Sweet Valkyrie! Your falcon-talons fade into the gentle softness of the dove!

I am a gaijin to your lands, my Valkyrie!  Yet you use the words of my people
As if I were the son of Bucharest, and you were the daughter of Babylon!
And you sing to me, and my resistance is like a snake to his charmer - oh so feeble!
I should not cower to close my ears, but drift to the beauty of your Avalon!

O’ those ravenous melodies - those poisonous barbs to my ears!
O’ those vicious harmonies, words straight off the viper’s tongue!
The more I resist her intoxicating charm, the more she probes my fears.
My will to fight the Devil’s spawn is lost - by my lust I am hung!

Dreaded are the hours as I plan to run from the shadow of the beast,
Just as the great searchlight breaks the night and crests over the East.
Yet as I make haste to escape, hoping to find means to an end in the West.
She toils over thee, her weakling mouse, threatening to destroy me in jest.

And I know my role now, even as I stand like a God in the eyes of a boyish fan.
I follow loosely behind her, bending to her will as she makes her rounds.
And I turn to the boy: ‘I hold no rank over the Daughter of Evil.  I am but a man…
A man with a curse - to carry the burden of a vulture who knows no bounds.’

Of the Victorious Dead 
We speak of the victorious dead,
They that have gone on ahead.
Let your expression seethe
As your clasp and teethe:
The enemy will be seeing red!

The Honor in Vigilance 
The children of men shall be borne
Unto a world that knows only the scorn
Of the damned man’s call - fearful sounds
As the clouds above make their rounds.

We join, we split, we fight, we die.
Some of us would have you call us Caesar,
Though we are all a unique model and make.
It is here is where the honor in vigilance
Gains the learner the gift of omnipotence.
For the spirit of Caesar is poised to break,
Lest Caesar be tempered as an appeaser,
And his end approach as the night draws nigh.

And the sightless beasts roam weathered and worn,
Wearing nothing but the scraps of a uniform torn.
The force of the Lord beats us, treats us, and pounds
Our forgotten souls into the common man’s grounds

Hearken to our calls for prosperity, justice, and peace,
For only in this way will your lives find new lease.

A Christian Creed 
Glory be to God, Glory be to Thee.
Faith is the Word that Sets us Free.

Vanity, Son of Judas
I crossed the Valley of Death in the moment of truth,
    Riding Pegasus, the majestic beast of my waking dreams.
My valor on my sleeve, my vestment quite couth,
    My faith attached to my soul by the narrowest of seams,          
Only the jeweled handle of a sword rides with me.
    Though the End of Days cometh nigh, vanity reigns free.
Let it be known that man chose lust over heart -
    The unflinching truth to our end indelible,
Our destructive nature trumping those that were smart,
    The atrocities among those of this earth untellable,
The end of a blade looking for a soul to pierce -
    And it is for these sins that the End shall be fierce.          

I spent my dying days shunning away from Christ,
    In the name of perdition, I cast myself free of guilt!
Who is the Beginning and the End to judge me,
    Lest I judge he who cast his scorn on his children?
The sons and the daughters and the siblings of Freedom
    Expire in the name of a God that presides over three manors!
Yet my soul betrayed my heart, which had gave itself to lust,
    When a pittance was caste by the Parishioners of Paradise.
Behold! A cure to the world was placed at my feet,
    Its form enrolled in the Word and Faith and Salvation. 
I read from the Scripture until my vision was lost.
    Yet I could still see the world that I hoped to save.

I made it a point to cut each of my sins loose,
    As I prepared to wage war on the sons of Judas.
No innocent would be suffered by my sword’s abuse,
    Lest my hands be bloodied like the gullible Brutus.
My vengeance was to be had as I rode into the darkness -
    No rapture, no blood yet - just the first hint of Dawn.
The dawning of Omega now guides the way,          
    As the hungry damned emerge through Hell’s foyer.
The wickedest of the dead should rule the day,
    As my pale horse carries the last Christian warrior
To his rightful place - casting judgment down
    In a world where false prophets wear false crowns.
My fury restricts the lost from the capacity to breathe.
    My accomplice cleanses the Earth with her pestilence!
Let the damned be lost and the cruel left to seethe;
    Your Judgment hath restored you to your reverence!
O’ Lord, your flock will bream with the innocence of youth!
    Once they understand why your glory is Supreme.

Sonnet-Ode to Wollstonecraft: Prometheus Nexus
As I toiled in the wires which would ruin me,
I crafted my creation under the knife
As the falchion in a grand toile de Jouy;
Those muted, vibrant strands which bring to life
The fruits borne from a meticulous strife.
Breathe, my being, open your eyes and see!

And the creature hummed like a broken fife.
And as it opened its eyes, I could hear
The thoughts of a creature with hatred rife.
My heart was drenched with a palpable fear,
The kind of fear spawned as the end draws near.
Has Cain been borne from the womb of man's greed?

Has science doomed the streets to flow with red?
The blood that shall drain from the walking dead?

The Chaplain's Prayer
The sky pays no attention to the dying son,
As the long grass sways in rhythmic cadence.
The wind carries his solemn cries aloft,
As his painful expressions grow shallow and weak…

And the spirit of the lamb rose to its Shepherd,
Futile words I sing, lost amidst the wolves.
Hear not the war’s pipers, for they know not what they sing!
Escape the destruction of us hideous vipers!

And I turned my head to the Heavens above.
Little time he has left, before he leaves this world.
I kneel beside his body, and begin to pray,
Amidst the smoke and fire of this Hellish eve.

Dear Heavenly Father, I ask of thee,
Save this child from war, and make him new!
Shield him from suffering, thru the perilous night,
Give only to him what is fair and just.

Let no psalm or song attempt to sing of his praises,
For no war is glorified with the question it asks:
If war breeds hymns for those nevermore,
What are we singing for?

Lord Almighty, take this child away,
Into Paradise, where the Angels sing.
Take him back where you first gave him life…
Let him revel in the innocence of childhood again!

And if you answer me, O’ Lord, to him allow me to say:
Dear child, may the Angels of Heaven lead you on.
There is no more world left to haunt you.
Now, go in peace with God my son.

Escape this world of evil and sin,
In Jesus’ name I pray, Amen.

The Nightingale, Writ in Time
My poignant end - ‘twas painstakingly grim,
Yet I have no regrets, few last words to say!
I had a zest for life, overflowing at the brim,
Like a pitcher, contents melted on a summer day.
I lived life on my owns terms, my own way,
My gift with the pen warmed me through the cold.
I captured the Nightingale, a spring day in May…
I experienced Paradise, as Revelation foretold!
I never had my dearest Miss Brawne to love and hold,
Yet I cherish all memories of her - those that I keep.
There is not a rhyme, nor a word left to be sold.
I go now to the Ever After, whose spoils I shall reap.
O’ glorious Heaven high above, a message to you I send:
A nightingale rises to you on the breath of Nature’s wind.

The Nightingale, Writ in Sarcasm
My poignant end… ’twas worse than a Wordsworth ballad!
Someone spare me from suffering this pain!
I would rather indulge on a rotten Caesar salad
Than cough up blood like the sky spits out rain!
Miss Brawne, please tell me that I am still sane
And that I’m not strolling far away from the park
Am I really taking a walk down this wooded lane?
Or am I flapping about like a lost little Lark?
Wait, is that the sound of relief I hear?  Hark!
Is my suffering coming to an end?
Oh wait, it’s merely the sound of my voice trying to bark
Foolish I am to think my woes are on the mend.
So I guess this ends my letter, and I hope you are well,
Because I‘m stuck with Wordsworth, bloody Hell!
© Copyright 2007 Byron Keats-Harte (charlottesbest at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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