The Orator

This orator,
His words are stout yet beautiful,
Vigorous yet codling,
They are forts for good people,
They form bridges to understanding,

A maestro of the spoken word,
His tongue orders charges of sonic armies,
At such decibel,
As to wake even the dead,
And crack the sky,

We all hear him,
And witness his war on the silence,
His syllables the troops,
His words the tanks,
His utterances commence artillery strikes,

The still is the enemy of learning,
The quiet a cruel dictator,
To stop would invite the enemy back,
The icy silence,
So he cries ever on.

Grotesque

I am bound to this place,
This gothic mausoleum,
Of outdated thesis,
Warding off evil with monstrosity,
I was chiselled out of stone,
So I feel nothing,

I appear an abomination,
An amalgamation of goat and drake,
A chimera,
A terrible sculpture,
Defending this farcical place,
As if it held the grail,

An architectural guardian,
A gargoyle in the common parlance,
I look down at the ants below,
My granite heart feels nothing,
Yet I wonder what their lives are like,
Are they as cold as I?

I was once a very real dragon,
If not for this cement,
I would soar from this perch,
And wreathe the earth in flame once again,
But fear not child,
Those warm days are long dead,

For I am bound to this place.

Battle Dancer

As I lay incapacitated,
Upon this grassy knoll,
My shoulder and lung run through,
By barb of crossbow bolt,
I spy my Lady-General,

A maiden of war,
This carnage is her dance,
Dashing from dance partner after dance partner,
Bestowing upon them crimson terminal flourishes,
Spewing ribbons and pyrotechnics to applause of screams,

This theatre,
Spanning over ruined meadows,
With fire and arrows overhead,
A charnel drama,
Host to my Ladys baneful ballet,

Chinks in mail,
Gaps in plate,
All find spots for her blades,
She leads the way,
Bringing the wardance to the enemy,

Morosely she kneels at my side,
“We are War”,
“But your dance is over”,
Wistfully pecking me farewell,
I fade into the abyss.

As 33

An age-old remedy,
For an enemy,
Poisoners best friend,
A deadly tincture,
A snake in a bottle,
Fangs in the liquid,
A tasteless toxin,
A tasteless death,
Insidious in its design,
Even more so in its usage,
Bringing ruin to a body,
Cells die in droves,
The human frame soon follows,
Slowly and painfully succumbing,

What is it?

Dissecting A Demon

I slew this demon,
By my own rageful hand,
Within the swamp of a stuporous night,
To study its vile anatomy,
Work out why devils play the way they do,

This scalpel shall cut hotter,
Than any inferno of hell,
Such is my conviction,
I feel the arcana swirl about this cadaver,
This is the one,

As I make my initial incision,
A cloying ooze of sins drips out,
Infantile shrieks as it hits the floor,
Why continue to bear such filth?
I bottle it up for further inquisition,

Prepare the rib-spreader,
Let’s see this things core,
Stinking heat emanates like breath,
Yet only a void hides behind ribs,
These beings have no heart,

Saw the skull past the jagged horns,
Expose the mind of evil,
How does devilry conduct its plans?
The neurons pass only sick ideas betwixt,
It holds naught but the stench of malice,

So what have we learned?
Devils will always be devils,
Evil will always be evil,
It is intrinsic to their souls being,
It is proven,
If you witness malevolence within a man,
Just remember it is root and stem.

Tumour

I have a tumour,
I feel it pulsing within my skull,
A neoplasmic fiend,
A frankenstein creation of my own heart,
My cells joining its unholy legion,

I know from whence it came,
I breathed in those cancerous cells,
They breached my lips,
On a vessel of her red lipstick,
Her nightly ritual,

She drew me in,
Like a spider playing a violin,
A trap of an embrace,
A witch in white gown lingerie,
Obsessive oncology,

This amorous disease ravaged my form,
Playing jukebox romance ad infinitum,
My humours sent into spasms,
My virtues turned askew,
Blurred eyes,

I ought to be alone,
Give me a bottle of amber,
My own radiation therapy,
I’m unclear of the prognosis,
But this love is cancer.

Flocks

I am not a jealous soul,
But I stare green-eyed at birds,
Those avian aviators,
Artists of the blue,
I envy them their wings,
I write you true,

Soaring the skies,
It must be such release,
Such catharsis,
They are not bound to one another,
Why do they stay in throngs?
Are they not individuals?

Do they not know they are free?
My envy screams up at them,
Predation should be no deterrent,
When the flock flies west,
Why not fly east?
Don’t waste those wings,

Coveting their feathery prom dresses,
I call out to them,
Please take me away,
Imitating their freedom,
I reach skyward,
Yet they flee in flocks.

Pageant

The human race,
Society,
It’s all a pageant,
A beauty contest,
An insipid affair,

A masquerade on the streets,
We all put on glam dress faces,
Makeup over the tears,
A plastic smile for outside,
Who’s got the most beauteous mask?

The worlds a catwalk,
Fake visages,
Fake selves,
Objectifying each other,
Intoxicated on one anothers lies,

A smile on a polaroid,
Selfies with stupidity,
Interaction through a screen,
Charity for the likes,
Grovelling before the cyclopean god,

The human race,
A comedy,
A race we lose everyday.

The Gunsmith

The smith sweats,
An armsworker,
Doing the work of shinigami,
Machining thanatos into steel,
Ore becomes death,

A masterwork,
An emotionless tool,
A cold weapon,
A true lifetaker,
A stygian masterpiece,

Harnessing thunder and hellfire,
The power of hades,
The power to take lives,
In one hand or two,
Exerting ones will through iron,

Stocks and smoking barrels,
Breathing fire and ash,
Charon on a bullet,
A life snuffed out,
The gunsmiths work complete,

Can he claim neutrality?
Does this artisan care whose life is ended?
Does this merchant burden himself with ethics?
Does this artist care how his art is wielded?
Is the dollar worth more than a life?

Baba Yaga

Listen here children,
Have you heard the tales?
Folklore of these trees,
That you wander amongst,
The trees that whisper one name,
A witch that lives here,
An ambiguous figure,

Baba Yaga,

You shall hear her approach child,
As chicken legs upon underbrush,
Her weathered hut astride,
Leaves shiver at her arrival,
Ferocious in her features,
Wielding a pestle,
And accompanied by a sorcerous mortar,

Greet her warmly child,
She can turn from helpful guide,
To child eater posthaste,
Don’t be rude child,
Wield your pleases and thank yous thick and fast,
She may impart such divine knowledge,
Or you may never leave her woods.