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A stoic beacon bears it’s projecting light.
In haunted, ubiquitous, intersecting night.
Pledging to guide us from perplexed unsight.
Into sprawling vistas of untombed serenity.
On colourful canvass bloomed prosperity.
In shimmering shades and tinged tones;
yellow, purple, red, green, blue, black, white.

Cockcrow burns gloomed, mourning void.
Blanket silence sets alight, destroyed.
Smouldered quiet sizzles wisps recoiled.
Another hushed night is abruptly spoiled.

New day is capped with a beaming crown.
Seen on high for galaxies around.
Clouds muster the courage to undenounce.
An atmosphere bursting bubbles, proud.

What becomes of we cherished beacons?
As ravined routes to darkness dig and deepen.
When we close our eyes invoking lights depletion.
We open days, hearts, nights and dream’s Elysian.
Yes, when we open minds fight for the weakened.
We shine; bold, unblinkered, bright;

Earth to Elysium.

© poormansdreams

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Once. I paid,
the penultimate price,
of a life poorly led.
I left a scattered trail
of pale, poisoned coins;
that
never
did
suffice.

Lain on a floaty, cache-bought bed.
A specie, flipped, from; head to tail.
It landed, upon, my second eye, to join,
the reimbursement, for, the boatman. Twice.
I, then, entered, those; flickering doors, unever-after.
And. into, blind, eternal;
wax
and
waning
lights.

The third time,
I will close my eyes, and, have settled my debt to life.
To, Creation’s; dreamt-levy-fare, I’ll unbreak even,
with, bittersweet; harmonioustrife.

© poormansdreams

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The sky h-irony.
That, the Sage’s, priceless advice,
of which, we held;
unique.

Can, now, be grasped,
by, the handly masses,
at, naught shekels,
a piece.

Is. A travesty.
Depravity. The gravity.
Forces us humble and bangs us,
crashing, to the Earth.

But, in the blink,
of a, Universe’s, dream-lit eye,
we, won’t be, matter, at all.
We, won’t, even, matter in a flash.

We, will simply be;
bonely words, aflame, to ash,
dug and buried,
for the dirt.

© poormansdreams

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Listen; to, the Ancients, speak.
When you hold a conch,
to your ear.
Hearken, to their patience leak.
Their, sagely, fonts,
that make, the muddy; clear.

The Ancients, speak, but are, rarely, heard,
by herds of shepherds, unflocked, absurd.
Strewn, beleaguered; city, valley, plain and peak,
are pining, for; pricking lugs & sound alerts,
wet, flowy words, grass & rock can creek.
That follow; missed, ancestral, laked tracks, off-beat.

Listen; when, the Ancients, speak.
In night-visiting tongues,
of babbled dreams.
A messaged crypt, latent.
Secrets; passed and yond,
along; subconscious streams.

If, you, eavesdrop, inside of yourself & underneath,
within; your earholes & below soles under peat.
That’s where, souls and spirits, silently, conversate.
Listening, in peaced sanctity, knelt; at, Ancient’s, feet.

© poormansdreams

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Gambled legacies etched upon shifting sands
blame the Sun for lost stakes fading into gusts.
Sirocco’s, mouth is covered by, Her, dealing hand.
Spun, sabulous teeth grit, Her, laughter’s thrusts.

Whilst chuckling, Sirocco, the windswept croupier, whispers,
“They bid to parch the Earth
and after losing cry.
Over unwinning, desert turf
below a blackjack’s Saharan sky.
Gravel stuck betwixt sticky fingers, toes
wryly smiles at their slotted inner-soles.
Beaches raise when caught in throats and eyes
flush, spluttered coughs mock orbs undry.
They blame Godly Ra that shuffled and ran them life.
And, wonder why we laugh at their burnt demise.”

The ‘they’ is you and I, we fickle shards
who have already begun to drip and melt.

Like, a mountain-peak’s deck of cards
that a scorching Summer hotly dealt.

Remember, that, The House of the Rising Sun, will always win.
When humanity plays a bested ace after the bets are in.

For we’ll set and settle up long before the House’s reign
can fall to absorb our vain, mortal, soaked disdain.

© poormansdreams

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Chasing dreams
along the Milky Way
awestruck following those
pluming glittered trails
of astral kaleidoscopic tails.

High upon an intergalactic mezzanine
where spaces have no words to say
and lost breath shadows worlds aglow.
As asteroids ride the rockiest of rails
and lightyears pass at the pace of snails.

Chasing dreams
with the Woman in the Moon
whom cast Her light
with the back of my spoon.

I frogleaped Her with leggy wings a-flight
by jumping on a collapsing Black Hole’s monsoon.
The pelting icy rains from Saturn’s ringed delight
helped my surfing spirit shape-shift into a flume.

Chasing dreams of cosmic wonderment and vitality
that will become our cahooted extraterrestrial reality.

Chasing dreams of eternal inspiration
is as easy as breathing in and out
on an evermore, celestial vacation.

© poormansdreams

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“You’re like a nut without it’s shell.”
Lamented, the Tribesmen.
Looking down upon familial graves with affection.
And, regrettably, they are right.
For, what is left?
After bones have shed their enfleshed, rotten smell?
We ‘civilised’ skeletons are at a loss as to when,
our fruitful bloodlined connections,
were cut, picked off & devoured in the night.
Our memories of ancestors are like forests felled & burnt
to ashen tears that fall, too. Bereft.

“You’re like a nut without it’s shell.”
The protection of ancestral spirits,
has been peeled away by evil fingers,
of sorcerers making wands from our scythed branches.
Under a dark, greed-obsessed, magical spell.
Causing our clocks to unremember our minutes.
An echo of lost history in our ears, lingers.
Forgotten to the chasm caused by devilish avalanches.

As I lay here wet & weeping ensconced within a living Hell.
Crying out for answers to Sorrow’s questions unable to tell.
I try to douse flames with damp suffering from a kinly well.

Repeating cashew-shaped drips of a fallen, melancholy
mantra. That drop & crack open…
“I wish I was a nut that could feel at home in my shell.”

© poormansdreams

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