Many are they who long
for those who are no more
Deprived of all which might have been
one perpetual night of grief shall be
the backdrop to their litany
– For brave hearts of the fallen.
Oh, that words might pledge
Posterity unto moments
Which do so fleetingly live
before passing into the void.
Now, therefore I beg thee, hear me,
veritable echo of my soul.
That these words should indeed live
and render me whole
is the virtue of truth
that my spirit would extol.
And in like fashion, lead all
toward that place beyond the waters.
To read more like this: Oddities of Intuition
When we try to define the essence of poetry we may start from a place of negation such as ‘not prose’.
Alternatively, we may think of ‘not literal’ or ‘non-factual’. We may associate it with the inspirational side of life, or the mystical or hard to express, ‘ineffable’. Poetry maybe all of those things or none of those things. Whichever way we seek to understand or approach it, it always tells a story. This is why I call it storied verse.
There is no right way to tell a story. Yet sometimes, we cannot tell ours, unless we do so poetically. Every poem ever produced is a story of some moment that was born and which aspired to live forever, beyond the decay of the utterance of its words.
Here, in my poetic writings, I seek to give eternity space within which to witness itself, reflected in one of its children’s frame of experience. Here is your opportunity to overhear eternity’s song to itself, through one of its vessels of clay.
My hope is that eternity will meet with you on the way and show you a story that you had never imagined existed. A place called home, beyond the decay of each earthly moment.
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