They say not to cry over spilled milk,
Not to let it scar you,
It’s only milk after all,
There is logic to those words,
But consider this,
What if it took heart to pour said milk?
What if you missed drinking milk every day?
What if this milk was everything to you?
And what if it were the last milk you’d drink?
Would you still not cry?
Now hear me dearest reader,
I’ve not been upfront with you,
The poets prerogative,
If it were not yet overt,
I am not speaking about milk.
At the end of the world,
Under magmatic skies,
A place I see in my fevered dreams,
Only one thing still walks the wastes,
Man had become a monster,
A titan of flesh and bone,
An amalgamated frankenstein of the populace,
Eight billion bodies bound together,
Making up muscles of great scale,
Still trying to reach out,
Still crying out in discord,
Each step was met with cracks and tearing,
Bone organ and ligament,
Agony fuelling each movement,
Humanity had finally become what it deserved,
A collosal corpse,
Its transit was a cacophony of pain,
Even under the distant rumbles of its tread,
I could still hear the wailing.
When you lay your head,
Best pray the moon is vigilant,
As the sun can’t help you now,
And the night is treacherous,
There are things in the dark,
Colourless eyes in the dark,
Watching from the stairwell,
A pale form shrouded in sable,
The sound of bats and deceased choirs,
Immortal thirst in the dark,
A craving from ancient Romania,
Fangs in the dark,
Held in a maw of aristocracy,
A dead lord of the night,
Fear personified,
Your night made lethal,
A single name,
Nosferatu.
Part of the same ‘universe’ as “Blackguard“.
Under these foreboding clouds,
And under ravens vigil,
Dark deeds are to be done,
The war is over,
And now retribution must be rendered,
So the Headsman is called,
And his companion of steel thirst,
A silent and bulky man,
In a sullen hood that emulates night,
Arriving to tight-lipped spectators,
The damned takes his mark,
The labrys is held aloft,
The bystanders’ awe grows to crescendo,
Eons seem to pass,
But the edge does fall,
A tirade of stories ended with a grim whack,
A smirk almost audible under the hood,
But before the day is done,
Many more heads shall roll,
Of that all can be certain.
Does a headstone speak to you too?
Do you hear their voices?
Friends and family from beyond?
You’re not imagining it,
There is an energy among the resting,
A family reunion through cemetery gates,
A last chance at reconciliation,
Or chastisement,
Life lessons,
Spiritual advice,
Placations too late
And loving words missed,
It’s meditative,
The feeling behind you,
That is your ancestors behind you,
And they are your allies.
Heed it.
We met upon the face of the moon,
And yet we felt far from alien,
Talk flowed like cider,
And affection persisted like cigar smoke,
A dose of gorgeous hot chocolate,
An ochre beauty,
Piercings and lightning bolts,
Something of a novel experience for this clown,
A royal flush of nightlife fate,
I didn’t expect to meet you,
A new empress,
Or the closest a serf could expect,
That night.
Let me tell you a story,
A yarn of spies and the spied upon,
Of a world under our own,
A world of shadow and masks,
A world we are not privy to,
For the better,
She is a woman,
But also an agent,
A clandestine weapon with fake lashes,
All false wigs and suppressors,
A dame of deception,
She had slain tyrants while wearing unfamiliar faces,
She once had a lover,
But the flag stole him under its yolk,
He is a man,
But also a tool,
An extension of his nations left hand,
All handguns and sabotage,
An artist of wetwork,
No foreign dossier is safe from his gloves,
He longed for a normal life once,
But the flag kept drawing him back,
It’s a tale of two nations,
A love story spelled out in gunshots and dead drops,
Of two souls under opposing masters,
Once brought together by their humanity,
But rent asunder by the flags inhumanity,
Forced in future to kiss via crosshairs.
Atop a statue once depicting liberty,
Perches a foul creature,
An avian actor,
Decaying piece by ruinous piece,
A scavenger feigning regality,
A vulture wearing the feathers of an eagle,
Mould and droppings falling upon a flag,
Nonetheless this animal is loved and reviled both,
Regarded in both sycophantic and tyrannical aviaries,
It wants not for fodder,
The carcass of a republic lies below,
So it rends at putrid meat no longer protected,
Picking at the scraps of the citizenry,
The flesh of a populace with potential,
Each wing of this beast is dyed an opposing shade,
One crimson,
The other a dull blue,
Battling over which part to gnaw at,
Even as they rot and fester,
But make no mistake,
Both factions are wings of the same rotten vulture.
The waves are the embodiment of mystery,
An oblivion of crushing weight and shadow,
More unknown than the dark side of the moon,
Though its wane and wax has a rhythmic aria to it,
The abyss has a song all its own,
A dread tune,
Like tentacles licking at your eardrums,
Distorted static of whalesong,
The crunch of crabshell underfoot,
Its lyrics manifest as thalassophobia,
A warning in the mind,
Sharks teeth and squid beaks upon your nape,
Salt and brine on your tongue,
The knowledge that man is not welcome.
I know that monitor is not just a device,
I know what it means to you,
It’s your social safe space,
The real world was always too bitter,
You met these souls without seeing their faces,
Side by side exploring myriad galaxies,
Across battlefields rendered in digital space,
Amicable rivalries upon podiums that never were,
They were and are real,
They are not mere pixels and handles,
They are friends,
Past and present,
And perhaps future also,
People not profiles,
Place a hand upon the screen,
You can feel their palms against yours.
WorldofHarley 