Golden Road

There is a golden road afore you,
Afore us all,
It’s a track to virtue,
Gilt stone after gilt stone,
A journey to be a good soul,
It is no easy road,
Feeling like a savage incline even on the flat,

It takes temperance to reach the zenith,
A conscience,
There will be temptations off the road,
Jackals built of greed,
Landmines of notoriety in the dirt,
Enticing sculptures of carnal flesh,
Vice beside the aurum,

Don’t get turned around,
Keep plugging away,
Foot after foot,
Year after year,
Your sweat shall keep you true,
Few perceive the golden road,
Fewer still remain good.

The Abomination

As I sit here,
Reclined in my own squalor,
The good townsfolk pass by,
They call me an abomination,
A troll under the bridge,
An insult to decorum,

They call me mutant,
It is true I’m misbegotten,
Birth was not kind to me,
Inflicting this contorted form upon me,
Certainly no gift,
This repugnant chimera of a body,

I linger only in the dark places,
Mother nature,
I know that she loves me not,
The flower petals said so,
This story has no happy ending,
I was never meant to be.

Wellspring

Every book is a wellspring,
Dripping with the exertions of an artist,
An acolyte of the quill,
Each and every tome,
It is a font,
A primordial soup upon parchment,
Birthing life on every page,
Bursting forth galaxies in mental geysers,

It draws stories in your minds eye,
Worlds that never were,
Fantasy and science fiction,
Horror and romance,
It is succour to a soul in this grey land,
A taste of aqua for a dying man,
An escape,
Until the book covers meet.

Headstone

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.

The Ghoul

This night feels off,
The moon wears a foggy veil,
As if hiding from the bogeyman,
And I sympathise,
A macabre creature does indeed stir,

There’s something in the graveyard,
And though it resembles a cadaver,
It is very much not a corpse,
Pale and emaciated,
Hunched over with unhinged motion,

It’s chewing on something,
Lawn,
Grave dirt,
Old pine,
Meat?

The sounds are vile,
The slurp of viscera and crack of bone,
The lowlight offers a horrific silhouette,
I gasp and hold back a retch,
Twin hungry orbs lock with my eyes.

I Long For Fantasy

As I sip this lukewarm cider,
I’d rather be high on fantasy,
I long for it,
To elope to another world,
A land of swords and escapist sorcery,

I’d change class for sure,
I could be a magus,
A shifty rogue or a spellsword,
Away on my own hero’s journey,
Against this dark lord or that giant,

I could be a questing knight,
The likes of Lancelot and Galahad,
Saving innocents and putting villains to the blade,
A symbol of gallantry in silver plate,
Foil to the me in this mundane world,

In that land of magic and marvels,
I’d rather brave dragons and liches,
And abscond from me,
Anything to escape this purgatory,
This grey world,

This unremarkable me.

Jester King

All hail the Jester King,
We blow raspberries in his honour,
And who put that whoopie cushion on his throne,
Long laugh the King,
That’s what we cheer,
A rather gangly clown of a man,
He sits cross-legged in his fools regalia,
His cap and marotte the equal of any Emperor,
Cracking quips in his state address,
Mocking those stuffy clergy,
Putting pies in the faces of diplomats,
His only mandate is for all to be full of joy,
Belly laughs for a national anthem,

They said a jester couldn’t rule,
But how is any lord more suited?
So we continue our cheers,
Long laugh the King.

Returning Hero

After an arduous quest,
She finally returned,
With nary a parade or fanfare,
Not an inkling of celebration,
Quietly gracing our fair township,
Armour sundered and blade shattered,
She had slain the minotaur,
Its labyrinth and reign of bloodshed,
She took no trophy though,
The deed was reward enough,

Exhausted she meandered the streets,
An unknown,
No citizen paid her any mind,
No accolades graced her hands,
Not a single coin as reparation,
No recognition for the gift she’d imparted,
The blood she’d spent,
But alas,
That’s what being a true hero is,
Altruism in plate armour.

Thalassophobia

Gazing into the abyss,
Losing your grasp upon direction,
Up may or may not be down,
From the murky brine,
You know many eyes glare back,
Black and unfeeling orbs,
The unknown hunger of a predator,

Gazing into the abyss,
Losing feeling as the temperature plunges,
Making out shapes in the dark,
They encroach upon the iron scent of your fear,
Fin and tentacle and tooth,
Rollicking eagerly just out of sight,
A predatory unknown just past the periphery,

Gazing into the abyss,
Feeling the pressure close upon you,
It’s like a deadly gallery of art,
You’re regarding a blue opaque,
Though it’s not admiration you offer,
But deep-seated dread,
The unknown is a predator.

Elvish Rhyme

So human,
You intrude within our sylvan lands,
To take with hatchet and brutish man hands,
Your kind are not welcome here,
So out of our wood should you steer,
Err into our glade,
And there’ll be more than green for shade,
Arrows will come,
Thorns and poison on some,
There will be no end to your pain,
In comparison hell will feel tame,
Your wives will wail in their beds,
And once you’re all pierced and dead,
We elves will descend from our tree,
And dance upon your corpse with glee.