Ritual by Rote – a (longer) poem

Disturbance of the aether mayst spell doom

In the temple hall where breed thick and viscous

Smokes and mingled blood of a century

And more besides, priests with hassled robes,

Vestments of sordid rituals held as example.


Questions go unheard, ideally, at best, lest

The Watchers hear what a hierarchy wishes for

None to speak of, voicers of dissent stormed

Upon for beliefs, singular ideas surprisingly shared

Amongst a populace afraid to opinions voice.


In the smoky halls where dusty throngs gather,

Of silken robes and wizened faces, hidden lives

Lived inside of coverings, there arrives another,

Ruiner was their secret moniker, known by malice

Maleficent with inside eyes long darkened.



Body Cage – a poem

For those processes necessary to life

We are held enslaved, confined in time

Like puppets consigned to fates inexorable,

Inevitable, their nature illimitable, unchanging

Apart from the dire and disastrous, drowning

In our own excesses to be free from breathing,

Processing all that which keeps us alive,

Free to be bound in chemical chains; survive.


In the Middle Met – a poem

In tribulations of misunderstood times lie drying

The intentions of sorry souls, confused for meaning

Inferred though not always felt, a split across

Bridges held either side, the middle swaying

At the behest of a wind howling wild and free

Through the sere planks, whistling as either side

Stand strong, gazes meeting in the middle; flash.