The Eternal Wasteland

Have I reached, the end of the abyss?

Thick, dry humid air, as if I’ve decended

To the highest low point, swallowing it’s pungent breath,

All that once was, has been depleted, spilling sand

Through broken fingers, and watching it weather away,

I dredge my mind, only to unearth the insipid spider,

Feeding off the random streaks of light, snuffed

Into the outer limits, beyond what I can consume,

There is no death, only the stale walk

Around the repetitive process, which melts my strength

And locks me, into a sinking standstill peering

Into the void, leaving behind the evacuation,

Even as I hear the fire, cracking in the distance,

Separating will, from defeat, it becomes an added strain

To the constant emphatic emptiness, dawning

Doubt, feeding it my own thoughts, that expand its stretch,

My mind bears it’s incompetence, through the stutter

Of my empty page because my hand won’t move

The eager pen gracing the openness, that haunts me,

The way forward seems so daunting, all because the horizon

Has been lost to me, for all there is, stews in this wasteland,

So is this the end?

Have I done all that I can?

I fear for my mind, that’ll go mad from wondering

Inside its own den, stuck within the familiar landscape,

Bricked up under the shadows that creep from the past,

Am I doomed to this Purgatory, awaiting no end,

For all that I once held tight, is now flickering

Way beyond the rattle of the gate, and I, a spectator

To life continuing around me, suffering from

The dread of the foreboding, which overpowers hope,

Existence of any inclination of an escape,

Back into the spirited, slips past me and into that terror

I can’t camouflage from, the wasteland is my open casket,

Laying my mind deeper into the murky world,

Nothing left to say,

Nothing left to inscribe,

I’ve told all my stories,

Until I reach this world’s end.

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Power

An empty throne, at the back of a deeply dim room
Simply occupies the splintered faith, tainted by doubters,
They chase out belief, within themselves, holding torches
To the light, that they say deceived their expectations,
The town has gathered beneath the throne room’s window,
Shouting death, of the praising rumble, now hear
The thunderous rebellion, falling on a vacant seat,
A runaway, finds their own way in masquerade,
Pass the hunters pounding on the door, an illusion
To them, as they herd together on the tiptoes of defeat,
The love that faintly drifts the halls, vanished in the con
Of the people’s hearts, and now fires erupt throughout,
The throne, still holds its ground, elegant in the dusk,
A facade, to gently brush them off the scent of their crowned,
But where is the powerful one now, that they were unveiled
To the rotting promise, exposed by the squawk
Of their own actions, that they fear to answer for,
An admittance to their own hypocrisy upon the guillotine,
The insurgents demand their blood back,
But still, they yield before an empty throne mocked by the raven
Perched, squawking at the broken, you will bleed for another.

Peace of Mind

The gate thrusts violently, locked, fighting to break
In the calm winter night, as a feverish chill bites,
I approach, slowly shuffling my steps, barely holding
Myself from trembling, for an ominous glow, spotlights,
Keeping my focus locked tight upon the grumble
Kicking up a fog, putting the world, behind blinds,
A narrow tunnel, that I should be running away from,
Why, nothing is being kept beyond the clanging rattle
But the phantom, craning out from the spreading myth,
A tale I’ve heard countless times, that I now sink
Into the words, whispers crawl up my spine of its legitimacy,
Claiming control over my consciousness, a cold
Grasp inside my chest, turning up the bass drum,
I drop to my knees, hoping it’s enough of an anchor,
I beg for it to end, as the fog comes in closer
And the lock, loses its hold, letting the gate creak,
Piercing my malleable skull, inviting the dread
Right in, as they loop under my arms and drag
Me through the gate and into the asylum,
Then into my padded closet, and finally the choke,
Nothing left inside my head, but the story
That had chased after me, and forever stalks
Me in the shadowed corner, until I let the phantom go.

What Once Was

Torn paper, left in the shadow of ruin,
No matter the words stained there
A fire, breathes out from the lost rage,
It doesn’t belong here, what was once
A place of ease and passion,
Yet the fire rummages within this place,
Breaking what once was,
Gaining speed and strength in its swift
Movement through the deserted light,
It swallows everything, leaving it all in ash
Unrecognizable remnants of memories
Out of mind, buried in the flame,
What was once a home, is now
A cemetery, with no one to mourn
For the passing, the vanished life of all
Who laughed within these walls, cried
And shook in the comforts of loving arms,
Step out, beyond the chaos of what once was
And see the world, matches the home in ash.

©DorianPoe2016

The Waiting One

He softly speaks, “Let me go.”
Quiet moment, except for the
Crinkle of bones, loosening grasp
As he jumps in the murky swallow,
Never to be in sight of collapsed moon,
She keeps her watch on the abyss
Hoping to shine light
From her housed place, on the sand,
She pleads with the inimical storm
That clouds her sight
With rising terror, consuming
All the wreckage it caused,
A night darkened, by the shadow
Cast over her island,
While she perches, atop her peak
Waiting, refusing to swallow hope
For his humble return,
Finding a never ending horizon
Consuming her desperation,
She waits, till the end of all existence
To avail to herself, her house in ruin
Spread by the decay, of tarnished years
Waiting for the return of a sail,
Lost.