Futility

The desert sun burns through the murk
Upon the swirling sands.
A young lad pauses in his work
To knock dust off his hands.

The gentle swish of straw on earth
Is heard. The sand takes flight.
He sweeps the stair for all he’s worth
Against the coming night.

The sun approaches golden seas.
The day is at an end.
He looks behind and sighs. He sees
He must begin again.

Villain’s Villanelle

I am the thing of shadows in your dreams.
Beware, my child, of whom you deem to trust,
For nothing in this world is as it seems.

I am the poison flowing through the streams.
I am the ash that’s blown on Fujin’s gust.
I am the thing of shadows in your dreams.

The water in the desert, how it steams!
Beware the quicksand hidden ‘neath the dust,
For nothing in this worlds is as it seems.

I am the man whose word the king esteems.
I am the arsenic beneath the crust.
I am the thing of shadows in your dreams

The dark side of the moon, O how it gleams
Upon the bloodied blade; upon the rust.
For nothing in this world is as it seems.

Of all that’s evil, I have sewn the seams.
If nothing else, remember this, you must;
I am the thing of shadows in your dreams,
For nothing in this world is as it seems.

The Narrative

The timeless tread of hours
Upon the inkless page,
With words unformed performing
The passing of an age;
And in that void is heard a shout
That no one ever hears.
The unseen footprints leave their mark
Upon the countless years.

The inkwell is found empty.
The pen is running dry;
Yet still, upon the parchment
The words begin to fly.
They paint their pictures, all unseen,
On canvases of air.
A million lives of men and beasts
Are found recounted there.

The timeless tread of hours
Upon the finished page,
The words are formed, performing
The passing of an age;
And from that page is heard a shout
The reader always hears.
The author’s footprints leave their mark
Upon the marching years.

The 5 Haikus of Boredom

I sit here, alone.
I’m bored to death just waiting,
So, I’ll write Haikus.

'Tis a simple form
(All that’s required is counting
And some sort of theme).

Five syllables first,
Then seven follow after.
Five wrap it all up.

As I sit and write
These five Haikus of Boredom,
All I do is count.

It helps pass the time
When nothing else is present
To entertain me.

Something has come up!
I guess I’ll leave you with…wait…
Aw crap! I wrote six!

The Tragedy of Godfrey Weatherby

Upon the Isles of Arborthrall,
Across the Azure Sea,
Within the tower Evertall,
Lived Godfrey Weatherby.

‘Twas he alone upon those isles
Could veiled futures see,
And sailors stood in line for miles
To see Old Weatherby.

His oracles were ever-sure,
And never did he fail
To see the path that lay before
The men who soon would sail.

One day, there came a lad of eight
And his whole family.
They wished to know what kind of fate
Awaited them at sea.

But Weatherby had not the heart
To tell them what he saw.
The Father would be torn apart
Within a Kracken’s Maw.

The Brother’s ship would hit a reef.
Upon those rocks, he’d die.
The Mother would, to drown her grief,
On alcohol rely,

And in a fit of drunken ire
Her youngest son would slay.
She then would set herself on fire
To send her soul away.

Reluctantly, he spoke their end,
But then he cautioned all
That if they wished their fate to bend,
To ne’er leave Arborthrall.

The gods saw fit to curse his life
And break his gifted brain.
His waning days were filled with strife;
A deaf-mute and insane.

The father then his promise broke
And sailed the Azure Sea.
In time, the words the prophet spoke
Grew ripe and came to be.

And so the Fates all had their say
And gleaned their share of souls.
They sent a tithe down Hades’ way,
Then filled their drinking bowls

Upon the Isles of Arborthrall,
Beyond the Azure Sea,
They now, forgetting Godfrey’s fall,
Live in simplicity.

The Seasons

Death, decay, and ash-
The pallid pall devours
Memories of life.

From the ashes rise
The phoenix and its kind,
Restoring Terra.

The phoenix ascends.
Its gentle heat entices.
The world rejoices.

Terra, she prepares
And dons her finest fashions.
See how she trembles.

Sacred Secrets

There is a land.
Few know the way,
But those that do
Have access to
The ancient and eternal.

The Tree of Life,
The River Styx,
The Nether and the Void;
Nirvana, Sheol, Heaven, Hell
Limbo, and the Otherworld.

From these are birthed
Our Legends-
Our Lore-
The Present, Past, and Future
Of Ourselves and of our World.

The gate to this mystery
Resides within.
Those that know
Can form the key
Through sacrifice.

The sacrifice required?
The fortress of the mind,
The wall before the heart,
And the veil of the soul.
Unprotected, enter in.

Passing

I see a land of purest, wondrous white,
And, as I look upon it in the day,
I say that land is lovely as the night.

A burst of crimson brightens up the sight,
Then slowly fades like roses in decay.
I see a land of purest wondrous white.

The purple mountains rise to darken light,
And since it’s face is hidden in this way,
I say that land is lovely as the night.


The dusk departs with starry fanfare’s might.
The land itself is darkened. Still, I say
I see a land of purest wondrous white.

The opal moon begins to wing its flight.
Its silent rays create a silent day.
I say that land is lovely as the night.

The Sun and Moon, in their eternal fight,
Have failed to see what lies beside the way.
I see a land of purest, wondrous white.
I say that land is lovely as the night.

The Towers Stood Tall

In a city by the ocean
There stood two towers tall.
All the people living there
Claimed the tow’rs would never fall.
They lived their lives with freedom
and sweet serenity.
The land was filled with purpose
So long as they could see:

That the towers stood tall,
Stark against the morning light.
And the towers stood tall,
A thousand candles in the night.
And the towers stood tall,
Every man would do his part
So that the towers would stand tall
In his heart.

One day there came some strangers
From across the stormy sea,
And their hearts were filled with hatred
For that city by the sea.
They hid amongst the people
Observing everything,
And their eyes would fill with anger
When they’d hear the people sing:

That the towers stood tall,
Stark against the morning light.
That the towers stood tall,
A thousand candles in the night.
That the towers stood tall,
Every man would do his part
So that the towers would stand tall
In his heart.

The strangers made their plans,
The pawns put in their place;
They moved to their positions
With no emotion on their face.
Ash and smoke and fire,
Debris and burning rain
Each stranger had fulfilled his part
And not a single one remained.

But the towers stood tall,
Stark against the morning light.
But the towers stood tall,
A thousand candles in the night.
But the towers stood tall,
Every man would do his part
So that the towers would stand tall
In his heart.

The strangers’ plan succeeded
The people watched in awe
As the towers they thought so strong
Each in its turn began to fall.
And as the people scattered,
Afraid and panicking
They seemed to gain composure
As they heard the children sing:

That the towers stood tall,
Stark against the morning light.
That the towers stood tall,
A thousand candles in the night.
That the towers stood tall,
Every man would do his part
So that the towers would stand tall
In his heart.

In a city by the ocean
Twin towers once stood tall.
All the people living there
Would not forget the towers’ fall.
The towers had stood for freedom,
But every citizen could say
That the land was filled with purpose
When the towers fell that day:

And now the towers stand tall,
Stark against the morning light.
And the towers stand tall,
A thousand candles in the night.
And the towers stand tall,
And every man must do his part
So that the towers can stand tall
In his heart.

FAILURE

I feel like I’m stuck in a mire,
and the more I struggle, the deeper I sink,
but I can’t just give in and let myself be swallowed up.

I find myself looking up
from the bottom of a strangely familiar hole,
the shovel still in my hands,
knowing it’s too deep to climb back out.

I want to move on,
to keep going,
to go somewhere.
Anywhere.
But things keep getting in the way;
things I often recognize as my handiwork.

I begin to wonder, “Is this the right path?”
I begin to question, “Was this really the path I should have chosen?”
“Did I listen long enough for the answer?”
Yet I look back and realize
I really didn’t have a choice.

My life had hit a wall of my own creation.
I needed a way to surmount it.
I chased after the thing I thought would get me over it.
Yet now it is still out of reach
and a plethora of familiar obstacles
block my way again.

How can I move forward
when it seems that I’m back where I started.
How can I surmount that wall
when the same things get in my way.
How can I progress
when history is repeating itself?

I feel like running away,
retreating back
to a time when such things didn’t bother me;
back to when I wasn’t worried
about walls, pits, and mires.

But to go back means that the wall will stand there,
forever blocking my way forward,
and the tools to overcome it
will remain elusive.

I feel lost and confused,
wondering why I seem doomed
to make the same mistakes
over
and
over
again.

Despite my every intention,
despite the urge to make progress
and do something with my life,
I can’t.

It’s like a nightmare.
Like a little child,
I want to close my eyes
and make it go away.
I want to wake up
and find it was all a dream.

I’m falling apart.
I can’t think things through.
I’m making choices and decisions
that I know I shouldn’t,
but I don’t see it until it’s done
or too late to rescind.

It’s like I can’t learn from my mistakes.
It’s like repeatedly butting my head against a wall.
It hurts,
but for some reason
beyond comprehension,
I ram it again anyway.

But most of all,
I’m frightened.
Not by terrorists,
flying bullets,
crashing planes,
kidnapping,
or death.

I don’t think I’d have any problem dealing with those.

I’m frightened
of never being able to move on;
of never being able to finish;
of being labeled a failure:
a failure at life.