lithedark » poetry

Lights So Bright

Josiah — Mon, 03 May 2010 06:17:13 +0000

I lay awake and stare upon the backs of eyelids
Curtains drawn, the bright lights pierce the sombre dark
And yet fierce, the biting brights that haunt my nights
They creep the walls like slender spikes, climbing
Vining, snaking, twining, reaching nightmare heights
Somewhere the din of soft voices, rumbles laughter
Perhaps, yet torn asunder, my dark world dark after
Pierced by callous motions ever hereafter

Finding myself lost after some time being found. Whether here, or not here, or depressed, or elated; whether active or inactive, reactive or proactive; whether yearning and begging, pleading, or turning, treading; making a place to lie or a place to lay, to sleep, to dwell. Here I am now, here.

Sight of Sea

Josiah — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 06:10:00 +0000

A purple haze engulfed my ache,
A mistress so in-tune,
My lady bore my weight and wake,
Guided by fluorescent moon.

A shift and stir, from side to side,
And rolling underneath,
Her sweet embrace is gentle tide
Her whispers, just beneath.

Washed upon the solid ground,
I feel a calming breeze,
Despite the earth to which I’m bound,
She puts my mind to ease.

Thrown from ship, I’ve seen the sea,
And she has seen no less of me.

Eye of the Storm

Josiah — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 05:17:00 +0000

Upon the waves I’m rocked to sleep,
Battered in the tempest wake,
I turn my gaze upon the deep,
And grimace, rubbing bones that ache.

The dark grey skies refused to rest,
The sea would not abate,
Frothy caps creeped up on crest,
I bowed my head, accepting fate.

On she came, oh once again,
Snapping beams asunder,
Thrown was I, to ocean den,
Blue mountains forcing under.

Heroic Self

Josiah — Sat, 21 Jun 2008 06:27:00 +0000

Forget the first and last you’ve seen of life,
White-washed canvas hides the horror of strife,
Jaded visions cloud the mind, blind the eyes,
Beget the anguish, the darkest lies.

Use the eyes to look outside, view the curse,
Avoid hostile, selfish, and the perverse,
For they are out to kill the ones who stand,
Tall above the rest, heads above the sand.

Within the mind your hidden conscience dwells,
Seek it, lift it, delivered from the hells.

Rebirth

Josiah — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 04:48:00 +0000

Black peaks devour
First rays of fragile sunlight
Reborn in blue skies

Friend or Foe

Josiah — Thu, 19 Jun 2008 03:22:00 +0000

Now that I have left my place,
Ventured into distant lands,
Disappeared without a trace,
Swallowed by the empty sands.

I find myself quite happy here,
A here so far from there,
But when old ghosts begin to near,
I find myself quite short of air.

Friends of old are foes reborn,
And so they have their place,
Ever hidden, scorn and thorn,
And yet they seem to know my face.

Giants

Josiah — Wed, 18 Jun 2008 02:31:00 +0000

Giants cut the world in half,
Cold, wet sheets of crystal,
Immune to poison and to gaff,
Eluding men so distal.

Their mournful moans, heart-wrenching,
Play softly in the azure,
Upon their thrones, most quenching,
Singing psalms of adjure.

Their place beneath the crest is holy,
A place devoid of men, so lowly.

Sunrise

Josiah — Mon, 16 Jun 2008 20:56:00 +0000

This morning as I rose from bed,
recovered from my rest,
I turned my gaze to distant hills,
The sun upon their crest.

An orange glow pervaded space,
Brought forth a humming muse,
I peeked into the outside world,
Guiding eyes by brilliant hues.

As she rose into the sky,
And greens returned to green,
She eased my mind into a lull,
And lifted orange sheen.

Pallid blue became azure,
Dull grey shimmered white,
The muddy palette vivified,
Bathing life in golden light.

Sun Kissed

Josiah — Sun, 15 Jun 2008 17:56:00 +0000

With opened eyes for break of dawn,
I rise from bed and stifle yawn,
To step outdoors and feel the wind,
I step outside my home, to tend.

Aching hands push spinning blades,
That kick up dirt beneath the shade,
Reduce the world to itching mist,
I wipe my brow and breathe, sun-kissed.

Half-truths

Josiah — Sun, 15 Jun 2008 06:47:00 +0000

Line after line that mock the old art,
Thrusting, ripping, and tearing apart,
Beautiful words that flow with such ease,
Sweet, savored phrases that come from the heart.

Word after word appears only a tease,
Defiling meanings, shown only to please,
Not written with love, they pour down the page,
Stifle the poet and drip with disease.

Letters, oh letters, from such an old age,
Gracing the poet, transform him to sage,
Yet meaning so less when they lack proper feel,
They condemn his actions, becoming his cage.

This poet has learned not to write, but to kneel,
Received in the bosom of only things real.