Cryptids

The world is far more bizarre,
More populated with oddities,
Than we tend to believe,
There may yet be things out there,
Creatures unknown to science,

Things in the mountains,
Beasts leaving fur in pine trunks,
Things in the woods,
Hiding in plain sight within blurry photos,
Things under the waves,
Prehistory in Celtic lochs,
Perhaps even in the sewers,
Cold-blooded jaws laying amidst the grime,

These things were myths,
Figments of frightened minds,
Mere pareidolia,
But who knows?
Man is not omniscient.

Repairs

I once was flying so high,
Outstripping my design parameters,
Too close to too many stars,
But like any Icarus,
I burned up and fell apart,
And now in need of some repairs,
Welding and riveting and sheet metal,
No more rust from past trysts,
A tougher yet more flexile shell,
New polymers and moral fibres fitted,
Bettering the ticking power core,
A new and improved self,

There may be some industrial accidents,
Some bumps along the way,
But I have faith in the undertaking,
I’m not full repaired yet,
But the processes are underway,
Expedited.

Catalyst

The world has its aches and pains,
A hell to some,
But there’s a gentle side,
A rather singular beauty,
The landscapes and flora,
Emotions and struggles,
The saints and the creatures,
What is the Earth but an inspiration?
It gives rise to colour and art,
A catalyst for creative enterprise,
Amplifying the chemistry of artistry,
Succour to the painter or poet,

You see,
When looking through the lens of the world,
Even a neophyte can create a masterpiece.

Mitosis

I tend to find,
After suffering tremendous torments,
We store them like relics,
Scars kept within on murals,
Crystallised in horrific form,
Preserved in countless exhibits,
A vault of upset,
Against our better judgement,
Our mind wanders these halls,
A lost child in tears,

To these voyagers I would suggest,
Speak softly,
And mind your step,
For trauma can undergo mitosis,
Multiplying en masse,
Filling your brain with fresh catastrophes,
Every past horror rent twofold,
A host of monsters agitated,
Masses of closet skeletons,
Shrieking as they split.

Virtual Reality

Are we not living a virtual reality?
Are we living in binary?
Chrome-filled goggles over our eyes,
Flashing every shade of ruby,
Screens of ones and zeroes,
Winners and losers,

It’s a life within a life,
Unreal,
Fake,
As if nature were moved to the recycle bin,
It’s all apps and numbers on screens,
And media that is less than social,

This VR world,
It’s a misery machine,
It’s not living,
And when it gets too much,
When our eyes are straining,
Can we even take the headset off?

Kerosene

My worldly colleagues,
Fill me up with kerosene,
Give me paraffin,
Provide me that chemical incitement,
I want to fly,

The dirt never suited me,
Neither did the cold,
So allow me the skies,
To flit between sun rays,
And skip along currents,

Despite my fiery wings,
It’s not that I want to burn,
But to feel that ignition,
To chase the sunset,
And be applauded by the star-studded firmament,

With that glorious kerosene,
I’ll be a phoenix,
Salvation through immolation,
Finally burning up,
Finally being free.

Knowing

Why does a mind cursed with insight,
Seek to destroy itself?
You see it all the time,
Sorrow seems to haunt them,
A lingering state of deep misery,
Does the minds eye see something?
A truth unknown to the masses,
A tragedy only they can see,
Some desolate concept of the universe,
Something so terrible,

Great understanding seems to be a burden,
To know things,
A screw under the fingernail,
A torture,
Something only insanity quells,
They say no genius exists without madness,
And it appears true,
But I do wonder why.

Starspawn

We were spawned of stardust,
Brought forth as stellar entities,
All of us,
You and I,
You are both deity and vassal,
Creator and created,
The heavens and every atom on Earth,
Everything,

When you blink,
Suns die and are born,
When you think,
You propel comets out into the cosmos,
When you breathe,
Nebulae pulse and unfurl,
And when you expire,
It is as matter to a black hole,

The void holds you,
Never succumb to despair,
Never give up,
For you child,
You are one with the universe,
You are starspawn.

Wordsmiths

Writers are like blacksmiths,
Craftsmen of tools and symbols,
An understated vocation of creation,
Fashioning words into blades of warfare,
Moulding beauty in the form of iron,
Coffin nails for a corrupt world,

The bourbon essence of a writers desk,
Just like the charcoal stink of a forge,
It’s a place of sweat and heat,
Thoughts smelted into priceless ore,
Material is wrought into cutting art,
A trial by fire upon the page,

In place of a furnace,
Your work is shaped with a different heat,
The zeal of your message,
The ardour behind your stanzas,
Just as torrid as any flame,
Equally as divine,

Poetry is a steel all its own,
Keen-edged and unbreakable.

Polonium

Even in the healthiest of situations,
The closest of coteries,
You may yet find radioactive material,
Bitterness hidden in silence,
Toxic opinions,
Malignant arguments,
Polonium isn’t always obvious,
Despite its cool blue glow,
But its effects can be,

Like a cancer,
The radiation can seep out,
Unseen even by a Geiger meter,
Blighting the joy,
Poisoning the friendship,
Poisoning the well,
The host will inevitably grow unwell,
And unless decontaminated,
The crew will perish.