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Picture Credits:
My humanistic mind,
Could not comprehend nor hear it,
The speeches of his kind,
Nor the secrets of his spirit,
But was to write in morbid verse,
In hope of being healed,
From the never ending thirst,
For the mystery he revealed.
Deep inside this dusty den,
Of hidden treasure rare and find,
He listened to the howling wind,
It's whispering lips kissed his spine,
And the whispering kissing wind,
Blew into his mind,
Was silent but to howl again,
Then whip about him like a vine,
The doors he dared not enter in,
The stairs he vowed to never climb,
became obsession to him then,
He bound up them 3 at a time.
I drifting through a mortal sleep,
Like a star in the night,
Eyes ablaze with Qadosh heat,
of God's eternal light,
Descending to the deepest deep,
To soar above the highest height,
I wandered straying like a sheep,
And lonely as a kite.
Across a path paved in gravel,
Into a legionary tomb,
In mystery too deep to unravel,
And inside the dusty room,
A sleeping child that yearned to travel.
I saw him in the spirit realm,
This sleeping poet of yesterday,
As a cheap and tarnished gem,
In the casket he did lay,
His body but a mummied stem,
Trapped beneath mud and clay,
Yet I loved and cherished him,
Despite the process of decay.
His essence shuddered in alarm,
At the specter by his bed,
Whose icy eyes and silent charm,
Betrayed her as the living dead,
And the baby on her arm,
Filled him with uncertain dread,
Yet he knew she would not harm,
A single hair upon his head.
He watched me like a spirit dreaming,
In another realm or time,
And my eyes were soft and clinging,
Around his body like green vine,
Or a foreign sun whose beaming,
Is an omen or a sign.
Reaching out I took his hand,
And held it firmly in my own,
And bade his soul to understand,
Death was but a stepping stone,
And I held his fleshless hand,
held it firmly in my own,
As I went on to command,
Life restored to his bones.
His screams came roaring like a tide,
Between the heavens and the earth,
And the baby by my side,
Was none other than his birth,
Torn from my bloody womb,
Cut off from the mother vine,
And hurled into a waiting tomb,
Before the designated time.
I know he's gone yet somehow,
He lingers like a summer rain,
I hear him in he winds that howl,
And rattle on my window pane,
I feel a chill cross my brow,
Before I hear him call my name,
And crossing through the night I prowl,
In the form of heat and flame,
Swooping down is mist and smoke,
This phantom poet to embrace,
I find him huddled cape and cloak,
A wistful smile on his face,
A gentle ghost out to evoke,
The love of God's amazing grace.
With hands beneath hooded pockets,
He stands silent and alone,
Staring through empty sockets,
With spirit eyes hard as stone,
Then in a shower of rainbow rockets,
He bursts into bits of bone,
To become a memory framed in lockets,
For the master's view alone.
Like a cheap psychotic demon,
I go howling to my den,
There to lie in limbo dreaming,
Forever with my bloody pen,
There to lie in silent screaming,
For him to come to me again,
With his blood stained verses streaming,
Down his face and chin.
And in my dreams so it seems,
this child poet calls my name,
Like a balm his voice redeems,
Me from a death of fear and pain,
As a light he softly beams,
Into the realms of dark domain,
Into a hell through spirit means,
On soles of kitten feet he came,
Through the dark mirrored glass,
That reflect the living dead,
Below the withered summer grass,
overgrown above my head,
Through the dusty crypt to pass,
Breaking through the spider's thread,
With a sing blow to crash,
The vault around my satin bed.
From a cloud of Smokey mist,
The child poet takes my hand,
And grasp it in his bony fist,
With the strength of mortal man,
And flying from the crypt in bless,
That I cannot fully understand,
We greet the sunlight with a kiss,
As only fire-birds can.
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