I come upon myself
meet anew the new, the old
harvest whatever has gathered
burn the purified fires of the soul
Those waged imperfections.
I seem to glimpse across
those barren fields
where mind to heart
seemed to dream
Had their fill of the night embossed
And drifted their separate ways.
Little tales, aphorisms of a life
pressed upon itself
expressing its delights, frights
seems indifferent
these pathways
gathering upon the roads of nowhere
await some form of light
That flickers upon a black flame of night.
We each prowl these courtyards
where harvested dreams dangle like rotten fruit
mangled expressions of all we once perceived
Knew to ourselves
We feared the reality
and blanked out the truth
wanting perfection's role, its play, its lay
some established consistency
that would allow the mind to see
that heart to know
The soul to bestow
Some sense of forgiven.
Do I see it?
stretched upon the wad of flesh
where the needles cling
between my nightmare self
And my dream.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph