Chanting Beneath

Jesus Calming the Storm - Gustave Doré


Chanting Beneath

Chanting beneath the doors we cannot reach,

to drive us from being happy, for what shall we preach?

Behind the glass lie glass hearts between walls of glass,

Tearing souls en masse, without the brass, turning us into mass.


To what degree may it feel extreme for thee?

To watch the sea of mass or to make us plea?

Rivers red, skies blue, hearts dark,

With a world none other than stark.


An experimental poem. May or may not serve any purpose. Regardless, it enriches this gallery.

Created using 4 words: Happy, glasses, extreme, and colorful.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

All Past Girls Now Sunny Meadows

Image
 All Past Girls Now Sunny Meadows Not much of a tale dare we speak of and also bitter the tongue that speaks of it now, a vile beast that looms. Long have I grown meadows that once sprinkled with ashes, that smell like love. Once banquet for eyes, now a husk. All the meadows that I grew, and dare I say, quite a few, ruptured a fragment of my soul leaving the shell of a man. All the girls that I loved smelled like sunny meadows. Reminiscent of that bloom fills the heart, and the heart that blooms. All the girls that I loved smelled like sunny meadows. Like a smell that shall never leave but alas, one you never preserve. All the girls that I loved smelled like sunny meadows. Stems made of passion to stem the blood that soaks the petals. All the girls that I loved once danced in my meadows. Often rainy, we, the wet peasant, devoured the gifted, the above. All the girls that I loved once laid their compassion to rest. Where the hollow meadow grasped soaked their souls with peace. All t...
Read more

The Sundial in the Garden

Image
 The Sundial in the Garden The Sundial in the Garden —after afternoons unwitnessed Beneath the cloisters' sighing shade, Where ivy grieves the stone, I stand where lovers softly laid Their secrets into bone. I, time’s obedient servant, stay— A brass throat kissed by sun— Yet no warm hand has turned my way, Nor touched the hours I run. Around me drift the springtime pairs, With hair like drifting flame; Their fingers write in midday airs What I could never name. A head upon a chest reclines, Their temples in duet; Their breath explores each other's spines— A pact the soul forgets. I mark each pulse. I hear the knee Brush softly against thigh. Their shadows curl around the tree As mine just points and dies. Their laughter, like a distant song, Spins circles in the air— Not unlike that endless wheel That winds the windmill’s stare. They trace the arches of the brow, The jawline's sacred bend. The lips are doors they enter now And I, outside, preten...
Read more

The Nurse

Image
The Nurse And I quote, "To have such essence paving way for our heart's incandescence is heresy within souls' verity and shaking me, pure asperity." No fall on Earth is reminiscent of such a visage, leaving fidelity sufficient. Trembling me from a far is no miracle, yet here you are, an account lyrical. Beheld in the visions of blazing thoughts melting hearts as I am praising. An aspect of beauty blooming petals every step and an heart cannot settle. Two wanderers, one ablaze from a moment, fractured, gazing upon Her as a heaven, fallen, enraptured. And Her, an image of imagination, fecund, An idea, shunned, and each step, stunned. What is a man if not a pursuer of dreams to bring forth hands connecting at seams? Alas, this but a mere moment, fractured, and there my image, in awe, captured. A sense of wonder and reverence, fleeting between my feet, treating it as a meeting with no unity and a greeting, repeating a heart that is heating and a purpose, self-defeating. H...
Read more