when you go to sleep, sleeply dream,
dream of berries bright, heavy with delight,
dream of blessings, son, don’t ever play the sun,
for earthly things are mortal, mortals be,
away from darkly lit, the skies are hallowed see,
mill the words of old, and seek the holy fawn,
who sleeps in sleepless dreams,
among the glades of men,
yet within the barrows lost,
lie mysteries unforgot,
and heaven lies in wait,
for he whom tomorrow takes.
Generations come and go, but
we remain. We remain silent,
the ones behind, the ones with
the philosophy of wayward souls:
but words like this mean nothing,
they care not for weary tirades
or serendipity and souless skies.
It is like a dark blade of grass
under a new morning, the sun
shedding her light over the
phosphoresence, the glisten of
the dayfire shuddering across
the tip of green.
Alive and well, it seems.
I stamp in the ether,
my feet making fog-holes,
the clappity-clappity muck
sound frogging the effervesence.
Wherefore art the single-minded?
Where has the poem gone?
Into the netherworld, the solemn
and dark land of delights, chocolate,
and cream fingers.
Where are the juke-boxes?
Where are the simpletons in
the plastic hats, waving their arms
and singing folk tunes while
carrying backpacks of rocks and
burning the land in their wake?
I saw a lad not long ago,
he sat by the fire in Tomble-Toe.
He drank a glass in one hand-right,
and strung his soul with eyes of light,
he filled the room with music fatly,
while the world outside burned luminescently.
He�s a bard yes, of that terrible time,
one of the pack, they said, who roamed
the land with string in hand and voice
of silk, who could capture your soul with
just one note, and wait until the world outside,
became as ash of a dark, dark day.
They pass, as they always have, but
their shadows turn to figures, and those
figures taken upon the earth, gathering up
within the ash and taking form, to play
the lyre once again, the music of the earth.