The Island

Blossoming over virgin waters,

Isolated from piercing eyes,

The toxic touch of mortal monsters,

And their vile, ignorant lies,

Meadows of countless colors

Flow with the cerulean skies.

Blessed with eternal spring,

Bulbs of every size and shade

Explode with life, sparkling,

Filling every vacant glade,

The memories reawakening.

Lives in the mind replayed.

Eternally lit by the bright Olympian,

Darkness lives as mere shadows:

Escorting the trees and the mountain

And the resting busy swallows

Searching for the seafaring man

Who dare search for these meadows.

For tis not a place for discovery,
Rather, it is an island of privilege,

Of honor and of sympathy.

The warrior of virtue, the ruler of knowledge,

Those who righteously seize opportunity

Can endure the posthumous voyage,

Pass ethereal gates of serenity

And live in this image.

Dreaming

I left a Dream in the purgatory of my mind

To fester and rot where none can find.

But there, the corpse is enshrined,

Nursed by the final evil of Pandora,

Secured by the unwelcome aura.

I cannot be saved by the death of the Dream

No matter how I try and scheme:

Buried and forgotten – a faint scream.

Drowned and discarded – a stubborn breath.

They only truly expire with my death.

Part 2: Life

Dropped without intention,

The soulless outcast creation

Left alone – naked and cold –

Luno, with hair of gold,

Skin of bronze and strength of steel,

The one made ideal,

Floats quietly in isolated sea

Watching an eagle fly free,

Admiring the freedom

Swirling like a mocking maelstrom.

The joy of a successful catch,

The anger when talons unlatch,

The love felt for collective kin,

Luno knows he should feel chagrin

As he witnesses true life:

The mixture of mirth and strife.

Waves transport him to shore

From within comes a roar,

The trumpet of a crusade –

Critical of the defect made.

An innate indefinite feeling

Leads to enter the forest burning,

One foot in front of the other,

Compelled toward his father.

This connection unknown

From stitches he had sewn,

Pieces he fit

To the spark he lit –

The father and the son

Long to be one.

And so, Luno searches,

Through forests and marshes,

Over sharp snowy peaks,

To anyone, he speaks:

Following every frivolous lead

With great zeal and speed,

Always to no avail,

Eternally doomed to fail.

Cities expire as years pass,

People break and shatter like glass,

But Luno stays solid.

Death outlasted.

His search had never ceased

Until one day in the east,

Under a strong oak,

A man in a dark cloak,

Accompanied by an eagle bold

With feathers of majestic gold,

Offers a misty solution:

A magnificent talisman –

The Avian Amulet.

A trinket he would not forfeit

Barring a trade.

For his creator, Luno paid,

Perpetual servitude.

Darkness imbued.

Part 1: Birth

Slaving away – crafting and molding –

The old creator sits silently sculpting,

A skilled master of his craft.

But in flows a cold draft:

A memory that haunts,

Together, with the fire, it taunts.

He knows the justice will come

For he lies within the atrium

Between guilt and innocence,

His hands he cannot rinse.

The deed was sound,

But he knows he will be bound:

Theft of that which ought to be shared,

For valiance he will be marred.

The craftsman breathes in the omen,

Awaits retribution for altruistic sin,

And returns to his project,

Searching for any defect,

Any mistake or element forgotten.

Before completion he is taken –

He fights – not in opposition,

But in support of his creation,

For it is not yet whole:

The figure contains no soul.

This animate empty shell

To an adverse earth it fell,

Knocked over in the arrest

As the creator screams his best.

Shot from the sky, as if fired from a gun –

A crash – and it slams into the ocean.

The man with no soul, the heart with no voice

This is Luno – life is now his choice.

Black Velvet

A shroud over a body torn

Disguising in the dark ditch –

A sin of living rags –

The quick fix of velvet stitch.

A hood of the dark fabric

Hiding the identity of deceit –

The murderous demon –

The abyssal father calls down to meet.

A blanket of black velvet

Patted with holes of light

Shrouds the death taken,

Robs the innocence of sight.

This dark masquerade

Evil evolved into art,

A ballad to black velvet,

Each player played the part.

Drown

A stream of silver quietly breathes,

Soft touch caressing the shoreline,

Cradling my feet in the shallows,

Securing a starlit shrine.

The water – cold and calm –

Rippling with the slightest shift,

Suffocating me with fluid cushions,

Watch an ashen aviator slowly drift.

The river speaks and calls:

An invitation to go down,

To which I accept –

And happily drown…

The Belfry

Repeating visions in my mind:

Are they dreams?

Or are they deadly premonitions,

A future tearing my reality at the seams.

The blinded sight of the dark belfry:

Hidden by stars and surrounding blackness,

An ominous tower of midnight stone,

Waiting to strike from the darkness.

Bells ring a soundless noise,

Heard only by those who cannot,

Calling them forth,

Answers these wanderers sought.

And so forever they roam,

Hearing what cannot be seen,

The mischievous elusive Tempter

Commanding the night over land unclean.

The hooded torturer inside the belfry

Pulls hard on the chains of the bell

Denying seekers permission to see

Living in a personalized hell

But the man in the cloak,

The evil spirit and belfry master,

Is the aged reflection of my mirror

Turned a deadly jester.

Is this the end of my path?

Is the right-hand safer than the left?

Is this a simple nightmare

Or will my soul become victim to theft?