Time flies

I am not expecting anyone to read this (well, maybe a few would be nice). I'd forgotten I even had a blog, to be honest. I only got one because I felt like writing one night. However, since I have one, might as well use it. So, starting on next post I'll get into sensible stuff. Semi-sensible. Kind of. With some ranting as a sidedish.

Two attempts on a same story

1.
He comes through nightmares to your doors,
bringing with him the chill
of those old moores
which hold men beyond all payers
beyond good will.

Many know, few dare to think,
that you've seen him stride the street.
And if you do, your heart would sink
-for your hope it's someone else
he's there' to meet.

He has too young look
for such old eyes,
a smile too gentle for those he took,
as he walks so brisk
to meet the one who dies.

He's not cruel, hardly unkind,
but merely relentless, honor-bound.
And when you fear his passing, he does not mind,
but goes by in his silent task,
leaving in his wake not a shadow, not a sound.


2.
He's got a smoke colored trench
and far too young face.
Fair skinned hands,
unsuitable for his work.
He travels as he pleases,
comes and goes
through unkept yards
and closed doors,
striding past dirty alleys
and fine neighbourhoods.
And he doesn't ask for a permission,
nor will he apologize
(altho he looks at you with pity).
For he's only doing his job,
calling us to come home.

Epilogue (under work)

In a time where Poetry
is an un-required, un-desired
remnant far exiled
in exhange of Sensible Theory.
When not an ounce of Wonder
fits among Logic and Reason
in our hearts -and upon
emerging, its fragile lines are torn asunder.

Thus I come, a poet poor,
with my un-wanted, un-heard
words, yet my gaze is turned
at you with hope. As I ignore
your disdained looks, I do see their cause.
In your world "wonders" are neatly explained 'n stored,
You are offered everything a-plenty,
and with plentifull you are plenty a-bored.
So for my small gifts, why'd you pause?

I do not have what you seek.
To rekindle miracle to life,
to explain unmarred Love, endless Strife
-my soul feels them, but my hand is weak,
unable to pull you out (to set you free)
from your selfmade cage of silverfoil
and glitter, which you willingly traded for dreams
(now strewn on ashen soil).
If you cannot hear your dreams rustling, how'd you hear me?

Regardless, I will try. I offer you my pen,
and with it all the things I know.
Glimpses of futures yet-to-come, times long-gone-by
And perhaps the True Dreams you tread upon
will rise again, and teach you how to fly.
For altho Salvation is certain, it's revelation is slow.