Liselt's Sonnets

 LISELT'S SONNETS from SUMMER; #0-75

I once heard that the accumulation of many days is what is important.

I dedicate these poems to fellows dear,

Whose names not here are etched and safe inside;

As beauty, pain; despair, and love: this year

Those facets from my life come here applied.

début

“Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears…”

of Marc Antony, JULIUS CAESAR

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Sonnet 0

In dreams and waking world, my path is clear;

A phrase repeats: In lak'ech ala k'in;

It greets the me and them— the us and we’re,

And ev’ryone who I and thou have been.

Our mind is fickle in the time of night,

It cannot truthful be the self it wants;

On night eternal; eating those in sight,

From here the echo of the person haunts.

That thou art I, and I art thou— the end,

Make bond and heed the virtues of the heart;

Thy colours wear them well: as spoke, as penned,

Reflect true selves through actions, thus in art.

Four simple words inside my soul are signed,

Face words of one and all: be your true mind.

————

Sonnet 1

Would there be beauty com’prable to thine,

In cases where all class forgets its place,

That vain insane deciding gloom or shine,

Yet broken bits if one then sees thy face.

Ne’er ‘cation to the codice hold thee there,

Thus limits onset for thou might not cede,

Make doubtful minds avoid a play in scare,

And make not gestures logic cannot read.

So as because thy beauty is thy strength,

That not of treetops but the deeper glade,

Quite so is thine attract no quest of length,

As deeper bonds are lastly there to fade.

Respect comes less to reason told in brief,

As no brief word can less this held belief.

————

Sonnet 2

The verdant of thy grace yet thinly veiled,

Midst wicker’s residue and lurching crass,

So powerful comes such that yet unfailed,

On clearer light thou shin’st my bonnie lass.

For no expanse so pallid holds thy count,

If not the spanse of mountains, trees, and sprout,

So no one hue presents thee full in bount’,

But artist’s eyes which know no rainbow’s drought. 

As firma blue and grass is greener still,

When golden rays, their gold upon a white,

The crowning piece is thou, as dressed in frill,

So yet as bright the scene thou art the light.

If heavensake the God gave equal vive,

How is it fair thou mak'st all look the eve?

————

Sonnet 3

By way that happened to a misty dole,

Where not a path or sign revealed their font,

A siren song tugged leashes on a soul,

So lurched did a weak morsel to a haunt.

Carillon bells and fatal spells by which,

The smitten ones their greatest hells come of,

Like necromances to a fell voiced witch,

And potion medicines wring faux-made love.

Yet nevermind these facts of evil works,

Divided been thy careful present mirth,

In masques a day force liars give not smirks,

Lest be recused thy vile abetting worth.

No enchant does thee well but to decline,

How gossamer’s thy heart without brucine.

————

Sonnet 4

Come whistling wind that blusters on a tree,

Hear thorny rustles and the hanging vines,

Almighty tempest shocking, wild, and free

On skies the barren, hope seeps out in lines.

What does hide behind the grimmest heavens?

If not expanses far more than this pale,

Or ahead should winds belie some sevens,

Tween daemon or the vaunted holy grail…

Yet sky’s alight and there the morning moon,

With edict raised, their sword of blacken mist,

Swung down upon so forth came a monsoon,

On there belied the nature true to wist.

When stokes a cascade of a hyaline flux,

So sows a bloody curse who masques a crux.

————

Sonnet 5

Of rolling fields, great chivalry, and steel,

Of warfare true, through rivalry’s romance,

On nobles, knights, and peasants and their zeal,

On matter’s tales where cravens fail advance.

Where idle hands rise up then hold a sword,

Where frailty’s chance is cornered by the grim,

When damsels, traitors, allies, make the board,

When deeds so great are made the epic hymn.

Tis there I find thy likeness come to score,

Tis where thy belle in bellum flourish through,

Thou hero’st proof and spirit learned to yore,

Thou art the present, past, and future true.

By romance thou art truly palatine,

By thy Excalibur— my Galatine. 

————

Sonnet 6

Should analogues be made to fit the truth,

Or only to reflect the poet’s thought?

If say, I say thy smile’s a Judas sooth,

That does betray the real but not my ought.

But to create comes to the subject’s eye,

And rather things which matter brings are quite,

So better when the reason does not fly,

Respective to the truth but to one's sight.

Still if I shall compare thee summer’s day,

And cloudy is my sight of season make,

Is it not right to think that some might say,

That my poetic proud is built the fake?

Well I affirm the truths of rhymery,

Through subject does romance gain alary.

————

Sonnet 7

He of three, his conflagration rallies,

So great a being, as praised and thus as feared,

The Deva who the cyclic life, its tallies,

He ends the bodies, minds, when false revered.

The power of the beasts are weaker still,

Should ever that Great Lord, his fury vest,

Made to frustrate through evil and its will,

Thus ran his trident through that bestial chest.

Yet he herds and loves all of conception,

So great and most divine his fertile mirth,

He, benign, his consort, the inception,

The healer with the wisdom of all birth.

As rapids run the cosmos through his head,

The good is kept and evil knows to dread.

 ————

Sonnet 8

By claw and teeth I’ll steal the sun’s attent,

As I have watched it snub me since its rise,

The dark repeats as washed hues of torment,

And in those black nights strangers become wise.

When stranger does life stray from fictionals,

Estranged yet still telltale does one’s heart bleed,

Thus far within the brutal strictionals,

Such so far off that fiction it will read.

But on the sun whose paradise restrict,

Brings sight for those it chose not those who ought,

Then strangers to that paradise convict,

The only paths to see the sun are fought.

Unreal the farce that cracks the slight’s facade,

When real the anguish stemmed from light’s abroad.

————

Sonnet 9

The threads which hold the seams of sanity,

They run and halter to the very end,

And thus the fabrics of reality,

To each one’s world tip past the point to mend.

That rage to sorrow, others things which man,

From joy and fear, all factors t’ward the act,

Incense the mind, compel all flames to fan,

As sharper points divorce much more from tact.

Who stands the edge if not the living eyes,

To see the rise and fall of greats on high,

Such schadenfreude then hypocritic lies,

Or selfish yearns before they praise the sky.

The ripping seam does irritate my ears,

And too the threat of years do fuel my fears.

————

Sonnet 10

I sight upon thy waves the sacred rays,

Like fire divine made pale upon the main,

A light that signs the east and west of bays,

To witness it brings but its sacred pain.

On firma does the cotton make obscure,

Lest brighter days that up high flaunts its jewel,

But still thy sheen and jade a sky’s azure,

Makes seafare’s path the romance for a fool.

Yet does the wind not blow my passions on,

And do thy mirrors not reflect my face,

Or does that sacred light dead end anon,

That I do not appear in ev’ry trace?

Thou art my love from river and the sea,

Thy main the only perfect place for me.

————

Sonnet 11

The moon’s a witch that wrings me out of sense,

She brings eternal night to cloud what’s seen,

Thus I did make a vow through decadence,

And in the night so long stay where I’ve been.

She baffles such that one must holdfast strong,

Some wickedness that masques behind a smile,

Please harken to my words and know her wrong,

‘Fore get thee gone then scorn to stay awhile.

The sun’s not brighter for the moon’s disgrace,

Within these scales are both one rotten group,

And neither stars come celebrate this space,

Such them aswell are lackeys for their troupe.

This trap shows craven as the wicked land,

That first allowed this trap to come at hand.

————

Sonnet 12

From there I see the pale horizon comes,

Such that no heroes will again through rise,

That petrified and sonorous the drums,

Played perilous and just as chaos flies.

Of steel and blood to fire on the trails,

The soldiers march towards a fatal call,

A desp’rate ploy to balance bloody scales,

One futile act which leads death to us all.

The anguished shimmer of the crimson full,

And rivers of the rotting and the bled,

Would Styx find itself ‘namored by its pull,

Or jealous for its mountains of the dead?

The colder hell is truer to the pain,

As where else could the devil rightly reign?

————

Sonnet 13

One cannot count the folds upon young time,

Which looks toward to pass his precious part.

Jumped this to that and back just like a dime,

Haste gone from all intent makes loss of heart.

Wind such far-flung flying freedom certain,

A thought about the mode but gone astray,

Like actors line forgot, thus draw the curtain,

Upon loose mind compel their ends betray.

When it gets done the movement of the blue,

Erodes one thing a day with fade and wear,

Sought in the mirrors, calendars, and dew,

Those days before the grayness of thy hair.

If our own time shows capable of age,

On life, death, and itself, time is a cage.

————

Sonnet 14

Of ancient spires in reverie’s expanse,

The laws of logic, time, and space will fail,

Where fact and fiction their thin lines askance,

Thus force those earthly known to break their veil.

For none were here but now they all appear,

Both phantasms then Morgana’s mirage,

Lacked lies nor hologram yet insincere,

As to all sense incense a fae barrage.

Like prisms and the crystal color scope,

To hyaline walls who deign their weak to brace,

Then one behold through mind wrest end of rope,

Naught but such faux that harlequin’s jeweled face.

Peaks and bounds of what humans intuit,

Images too real past points gratuit.

————

Sonnet 15

Uncounted seasons passed on since the bane,

Which disrespected law and border lines,

Dost thou recount the hubris of that reign,

When decadence hued parties and served wines?

On nobles their nobilitas showed false,

Church bells rang sinful vanity their halls,

Upon the palace hills deceitful waltz,

And highway robberies among the stalls.

It was the best— it was the worst of times,

Thought burgeoned then it fell to painful notch,

Where justice toward crime knew sweet to dimes,

There we the masses could do naught but watch.

Directionless like babes cast out to breeze,

The tyrant dead but kingdom left to seize.

————

Sonnet 16

Come all of us aboard the final train,

Departure time is quarter past the nine,

Do disembark before the cosmic rain,

Our destination promises the shine.

Halt to cast thyself out to the mordant,

Where vestiges of murk and flooding tide,

Yet upon the train to be concordant,

Away from eldritch evils we will ride.

As ever moving to the waited place,

The cycling sound and smoking engine roar,

Like natural design deterring chase,

Our only chance to dodge and leave the pour.

It chases with an endless appetite,

As dark it pierces it moves like the light.

————

Sonnet 17

Amidst these fleurs my fervent songs will play,

That no one else might sing them but my voice,

And all these verses here will bloom the day,

Or burn the virtue’s ears who hate the choice.

What makes vile sinner of those foreign looks?

Why does one pref’rence have to trump them all?

Where comes the basis outside of those books?

Who then decides that others take the fall?

No matter how I wandered down these quests,

Clear answers were the only thing I missed,

What I observed were moving posts and tests,

Like efforts to conceal their minds with mist.

That here now I lament the coming march,

Where fools leave all respect and sense to parch.

————

Sonnet 18

Bloody of hand who run in the meadows,

Shadows contrast to a romance of just,

Noblesse intents and grand rebel logos,

Varied through colors and fantasy’s lust.

Searching for honor upon one dark road,

Bathing in crimson, the muck, dirt, and smoke,

Tunneling eyes like as freedom the owed,

Rather the poison solution to choke.

Water to manic and shook of free will,

Raging against one machine or the prince,

Dastard that one blade of romancing thrill,

Falling apart from their goals and still since.

How wayward has that revolution pitched?

How many scars that fester to be stitched?

————

Sonnet 19

The meadow’s golden tousles by the gale,

Upon the kingdom built on romance spring,

Where rose’s ‘vince the prince’s rosey tale,

Of Garrelie— their land where epic’s sing.

And whence that time a land like libertine,

Speaks matters intimate through revenue,

Of children’s toil as folks quote philistine,

Whereon all scams and bandits ballyhoo.

As it is wont such land knew deathly throes,

Where it to its own weight fell weak of worth,

Ere came a son who draped in royal rose,

With charming wrath he purified the earth.

O Prince of Rose thy works art marching on,

As for thy works grand Garrelie finds dawn.

————

Sonnet 20

The chronicle of saints recounts a pray’r,

Which thorned the very logos of our faith,

Who spoke accounts of one stigmatic glare,

Before an abigail through slay’r of wraith.

Where vampires clouded on a quiet town,

And curses flew alight through pious glade,

So she the simple maiden threw her gown,

Within its stead she took up one cruel blade.

As knights aghast took witness to her haste,

Of grace who masques her lethal with a rag,

For unto death she shows half-cut in taste,

Against her foes cut red on their white flag.

We praise to her, the saint of hunter’s creed,

Recall her edict: midnights all must bleed.

————

Sonnet 21

I really want to carve my own heart out,

To see it for its true unbothered shape,

But are the truths of heart not up to scout,

If viciously the thing comes chest agape?

O agony plays strong to force my want,

As chest locks do encroach upon to choke,

With no relent of pain her pulsing taunt,

Makes all composure mirror upon smoke. 

For as all lifeforce beats out by my heart,

Such liquid hate erodes that gentle thing,

So life seems put on to make pain an art,

The brush hairs just enough to pull its string.

I brandish sharp relief to carve my chest,

To from its rend the air makes pain arrest.

————

Sonnet 22

Somehow, I might see thou there beaten low,

Bruised, bloodied, half past to exit our coil,

Hands lain in cold water, free to that flow,

Head dug in rocks, thy clothes dirtied by soil.

Blood stain the flowers; the rivers run high,

Eyes sunk so deep that I doubt they are there,

Strewn to a field, and none can quite say why,

Only a day breaks since thou wert the fair.

Blame murder, will of heaven, or the psych,

Death tends to happen many times as one,

On regret, pain, the sadness, and all like,

Time will decide, from us, whose pain is done.

For by that second’s hand is death the path,

Assigned to us by mercy or some wrath.

————

Sonnet 23

I’ll always look upon thy work with pride,

My fellow pen and dreamer of the grand,

Thy nocturne’s piece, that requiem, a stride,

Much greater than what anyone had planned.

So beautiful thy voice comes to my mind,

With great remarks to loud applause, the eve,

And though this night, as final show is signed,

I’ll ne’er forget those melodies thy’d weave.

One royal song, the moon and stars sing true,

Such flash, high inspiration gave thee rise,

Do not regret, for this stage saw thee through,

And thou, to this stage, gave but only highs.

Lord quill, thy sons and daughters love thee so,

Lord strain, much more than thou may ever know. 

————

Sonnet 24

In an era bygone where the tales spoke,

As was scripture unknown or the false ways,

In the legends of man did the world stoke,

As all paths rose by that ancient of days.

Was it reigns who came up with the land’s red,

That which flows through the seas and the grand’s fields?

Was it sooths all their vigil that wove thread,

That gave men and good life all the land’s yields?

On those epics sang loud through a town’s square,

And as the greatness that did inspire claims,

On those valors that rallied the mind’s flair,

And thus those bravest of us earn their names.

Those best flames of our lives true of kindling,

From the voice and the act if not dwindling.

————

Sonnet 25

Would thee rebuke if I had to rebel,

Or follow me through fire and then the fall?

Dost thou think Satan spends his time in hell,

Alone to weep without a friend at all?

Can I count thou to be my hellish prince,

That thou to me a numeral of sin?

Together we will strike to then convince,

Good Eve to fell good Adam and their kin.

As I am better crowned Gehenna’s lord,

For it is forged that nonary of ring,

And thee, my muse, as one of seven ward,

That all of thee are blazoned by thy king.

As Pandæmonium knows better cheer,

Than up on high, where freedom comes with fear.

————

Sonnet 26

The looping mad, the crazy marching coat,

Its mind is gone a long long time ago,

May find the way, may be all that they wrote,

Who might it be when without its ego?

The walker strong, the promise of one path,

And crumbling byways that will lead to pain,

Where is the shield, the ward against the wrath,

Which found them there and led them off the strain?

Divergence foul, the sane before the mad,

As crumbling is the world that it once knew,

Dystopia, where smiles know endless fad,

Who was that coat with boundless mental glue?

The choice, the thing, the movement which it lauds,

The them, the coat, the it who reached the gods.

————

Sonnet 27

I most adore to see thy dreams run free,

To see thou bask upon our native green,

As fingers lock to facing fantasy,

Eyes steal a glance of love, her telling sheen.

Like idyll’s promise warm upon the air,

Affects the stature of a once cold heart,

From weak to strong, she cannot her wiles spare,

That blossoms to all life: her painful art.

From heartstring’s tug to daggers in the chest,

Or warmth in winter; freezing in the sun,

Must fears to wonder; tears so pain is blessed,

When earthly pledge transforms the two to one.

Should life desist the echo will remain,

As blood does spill, all love does grief to stain.

————

Sonnet 28

My hatred burns more brightly than a star,

And so too is its lifetime much the same,

Offenses thou hath onus raise the bar,

With equal measures sin and sordid shame.

As life’s continue halts as thou doth breathe,

So peace is broken as thy speech is brooked,

Most garish on the ear and played to seethe,

Thy dirt comes matchless vile and I hath looked.

That my grand spear hath pierced the evil lands,

I flew past rotting plains and sulfur skies,

Lo’ even voids their godless blackened sands,

Canst not compare thy craven acts and lies.

Now get thee gone and bring the apple too,

Eve knew temptation for it came with you.

————

Sonnet 29

I am alone except that ruin looms,

Lord to this time whom wed to tyranny,

A creeping poison poised in action grooms,

To stage the audience in heresy.

Woe to the other for they are not us,

The sirens blare from dusk until the dawn,

A talking head drones in thine own and thus,

Their canine frequency makes move a pawn.

Recall do I the days where greater men,

Scorned all the radical and crazed extreme,

Alas these days I fear to dip my pen,

To end up like those men by the regime.

Those words that normal make an acid rain,

Are liable but easy to thy pain.

————

Sonnet 30

Death might be his armor and his shroud,

Damnation is his blade, sharp as is shame,

Do not once gaze upon his visage proud,

Desist all thoughts of him, speak not his name.

Ride forth upon the moon and billow day,

Revere the cruelty, drive the pain through bone,

Remember all the wounds as dues to pay,

Recall naught else, holdfast a heart of stone.

Wear only rage as paradise is lost,

Worthless the modesty, keep hope as dead,

Without remorse know wants are worth the cost,

Wrest everything for praise inside the head.

Perceiving only what one can do wrong,

Perfecting playing weak when he is strong.

————

Sonnet 31

Within the city of corroding dreams,

As where a sky of broken jagged lines,

So day-to-day feels nothing in the streams,

And plastic are the hearts preset to pines.

Somehow I parse that love did pin me there,

Where cheaper only are an iron six,

Like sharpened wires stuck to a flesh in snare,

Or methods for some problem chasing fix.

Copper that emits a lightning’s beat,

To hues so vibrant pairing up with case,

Glass sparks and poison glitter line the street,

That what we had was wrong owed to this place.

Frigid steel put to calculations speak,

A time far bleak so warmth is valued weak.

————

Sonnet 32

Towers high of brick and wrought of darkness,

And wicked if not old from noblesse courts,

Ebon through then ivory shows starkness,

Where pseudo-intellect abides like quartz.

How cloth about a neck to silk brocades,

Fails days repeat to suffer their pretense,

Austerity drowns out the good in spades,

As forced to wade myself past the intense.

Matchless yet however art thy proving,

Quite higher than those baser intellect,

That as tallies score thou art the moving,

Thou marchst that muses gaze stat pluperfect.

Thine elegance enough drunk I would fain,

Whence enough boys within my pique do wane.

————

Sonnet 33

Electric runs inside his rotten veins,

With iron in the blood it mayhem makes,

Invincible or tighter in the chains,

Of higher capability and stakes.

Survival is the only game he plays,

That farther still and higher will he shoot,

Dead mercantile to rights so killing weighs,

As good as gold and pays as much to boot.

Corrosion and the melding of the soul,

Wraths of the synthesizing human strife,

The smoking steel extension of the whole,

And what is left can it then be called life?

Consumption runs the earth of dignity,

While struggle fuels its nigh malignity.

————

Sonnet 34

As far as eyes can see there barren lies,

So fair as pure and untouched is that land,

Where life is reaped and with them all their lies,

No more will their attacks be true to land.

Like clay that eden is free for the shape,

Of greater minds whose template zeniths reach,

That from these hands a wine squeezed from the grape,

And tasteful is that red upon the bleach.

Oh beauty thou fade not in mayhem’s wrath,

Apocalypse but only highlights more,

The grandeur of the world faced with new path,

When laxity has breached the worldly lore.

Have reason and no doubt to make this earth,

As gods before us had their folly dearth.

————

Sonnet 35

A fool is he who passes on the chance,

To strike the enemy with cruel destruct,

When advantageous is thy combat’s stance,

Do not once look the win with hands reluct.

The piercing throw to land the deadly strike,

Through momentary lapse of one’s attent,

En garde and run it through; fail not to psyche,

Let that fell enemy know thy intent.

For what is more the miss if closing act,

Be as forewent as doubts upon the lip,

They say the only miss comes if the backed,

By means the shot was never meant to zip.

Let not it pass, I mean the opportune,

For on the other tis a silver spoon.

————

Sonnet 36

My hands do shake with vitriol and fear,

And sweat does gather on my strictured chest,

Like agony replaces sanguine dear,

So make my heart a pump that peace is wrest.

The taste of iron carries in my lungs,

As legs are turned to cowardice and flight,

One ringing sound upon my ears in tongues,

Taste only on my buds a curseful spite.

With grander bouts of knots inside my brain,

That makes all reason senseless to the eye,

Now locked in arms surrendered to the strain,

More painful than the human thought to die.

I fall apart when thinking of thy grace,

And yet I cannot bring myself to face.

————

Sonnet 37

Besides the basest kind of lies and tricks,

I specialize in harlequins and cheats,

My greatest call to act is just for kicks,

Think unpredictable and edge of seats.

I gamble with the lives of gull made folk,

And take the risks with all their splendor sworn,

I like it best when morals fell and broke,

Find reason to look at me with great scorn.

My eyes are like the scales of justice sharp,

I judge the decadence within a heart,

Besides only the damned find room to harp,

To act in might before the cruelest part.

My words come clearer than my sordid act,

I speak of falsehoods which are based in fact.

————

Sonnet 38

Canst thou attempt to call the ego true,

When transitory is its current state?

From boundless in the ether then made glue,

To intertwine the soul to human fate.

Where does the vaunted self establish home,

Are morsels like a cage so too shall pass?

Or better does this essence simply roam,

Like freedom water’s flow or formless gas?

Shall our perspective rue finite and lax,

So nothing in a world is object case?

That boundless is the mind and full of cracks,

Stuck subject in the throes of time and space.

Frustrate the complex of our human gauge,

Alone to seek the secrets of this stage.

————

Sonnet 39

I’m leaving home behind inside my dreams,

As there is precious little left for me,

I’ve walked its halls and picked up on their themes,

And sought out what they mean from land to sea.

Will ever I return to this old place,

Should something in my heart call me to peek,

Well as the human struggle loves to chase,

Such manners like the vibrant and the bleak.

Of course the time will come to chart for home,

For nothing truly lands to choose in poles,

On that there is no fear to leave and roam,

Fair is the action that lands on our souls.

Now fare thee well awhile this dearest town,

New hope abound for better poems writ down.

————

Sonnet 40

There always was a secret book of play,

As music was our primal arcane mean,

Once practiced weaved in lyrics of a lay,

Its mystic essence shall affect a scene.

The maestro slaved his hands the glow til gloom,

A symphony born from painful compose,

His dreams to capture that by mana’s bloom,

Entwine in music what deals best in prose.

Hence stratagems of war did grim ensue,

Inhuman were that fervor they produced,

Emblazoned by the instrument’s voodoo,

Or rallied by the choir’s voice; seduced.

Allegro is the sanguine and the call,

Adagio only plays when our foes fall.

————

Sonnet 41

I feel that I am chasing after shades,

But evidently I have no good case,

As optimisms wax and wane in grades,

And in a rather hurried type of pace.

My hands I scorn as both fall short of par,

To craft the genuine of my own like,

Skills all within my heart are stuck in tar,

So all my work is lesser in my psych.

The ghosts of greatness taunt me cruel and crass,

In chase am I the fool without a goal,

And chase through just for promised greener grass,

As the one thing I think I lack is soul.

Oh great frustration and his damned designs,

On course without correct in his confines.

————

Sonnet 42

Come trembling with a mighty blend of rage,

Crusading before all the dreams at hand,

Unsatisfied am I with this dark age,

I even to minutiae cannot stand.

Why do my hands but falter when I need,

To craft and bring about a needed please,

And in my brain corruption in its feed,

That nothing I might do will bring me ease.

So fallen and so fell is my own style,

As wicked like a witch divest of joy,

Right gloomy is my world and so the while,

With my own hopes and dreams fate loves to toy.

The weariness inside my damnéd soul,

Affects conduction to creative goal.

————

Sonnet 43

Marvel of the world tell me thy advice,

Am I to roam this world without a muse?

For this world like food, bland without a spice,

Or rather as a light, dark without a fuse.

Thwarted is my way whom once shew brightly,

And oft waylaid am I by heartful doubt,

Iron is the grasp and thus as tightly,

Is wicked horror causing my heart’s draught.

Marvel of the world am I the lonestar,

Who up upon the world shines blue and grim?

Does this then mean my dearest earth is far,

And all my efforts to shine light show dim?

Horror to my mind is slow decaying,

Wanting something true yet fail conveying.

————

Sonnet 44

Our freedom never tastes as good they say,

Until the times where light is covet gold,

As inlaid brick too cold shuts out the day,

Where days together meld into one mold.

Silence might be the foe of confidence,

Because the lack of noise is weathering,

And darkness is no place for penitence,

For our remorse requires one tethering.

On frigid winds which pull upon the base,

As nuclear fire burns all senses of thought,

Belie the humdrum of black mirror’s face,

Reminds by hatred what in dark is sought.

Rivers that run quick to life’s dear nexus,

Forests grow belief that make life’s lexis.

————

Sonnet 45

Thy order marches under sainted eyes,

Whose vision sees but only saving grace,

That faithful to the king, his angels rise,

Where all of living good are given brace.

O King in perpetuity, thy wings,

That spread to ward the lands of humankind,

O to thy greatest acts the Mother sings,

Thy Halo’s peace or warfare’s mastermind.

Like atom fire that dances on thy brand,

Or as thy sermons to the laic spell,

Let never die the Fundamental hand,

Of Heaven higher still to stygic Hell.

Her wills shall follow through their scion’s fate,

Lest once again the Sun fall through its weight.

————

Sonnet 46

I need to dream about cleaning my room,

Because only in dreams do I act quick,

I’ll wonder just how good I’d use a broom,

Amaze on flow and in it merry click.

Alas my time is spent dawdling a drool,

In wanderlust for better things to come,

Better inside my head than in the cruel,

The failing spires and numbing coffin’s hum.

I’ll see the greatest things and do my best,

Within a world unchecked by worldly laws,

Where things as simple as a hero’s quest,

Ever goes onwards without reason’s cause.

Inside a dream the spotlight’s never past,

But life inside a dream gets old too fast.

————

Sonnet 47

Red walls of brick who fetid wood makes sag,

A thick black mist as doldrum damp it seeps,

This house has fallen shredded like their flag,

Whose oaths of courage havers thus in weeps.

Thou must recall that house once regal built,

Up yond the moors then overlooks with vain,

Now far askew with sorrow pierced by guilt,

And festers there much dread and sordid pain.

Dead rot perverse does run its halls in flood,

With beasts before all manner of good lord,

To think its ruin rivers through with blood,

Pray rally there a fierce and reap that horde.

Dark magics which possess a once high pride,

Let light and valour through it be thy guide.

————

Sonnet 48

The greatest lives are legends sans intent,

Where grand designs are floating heaven’s stream,

As no concept to suffer thus relent,

Thus guises not their lives to guide a theme.

So long those days where civil life in flow,

Like land that opens up with breaths of life,

On that the quest is never as they know,

Still on the path their quest shows legend rife.

All boots that walk the legend’s path leave trails,

But maps that guide the way are born alone,

It says there clearly that to follow pales,

As stuff so grand enjoys to stay unknown.

Normal life goes great with no solution,

Life confronts a constant revolution.

————

Sonnet 49

If imagery could justice ever do

The worth and weight of sacred hope for thee,

My scribing hands would already have drew…

Alas, no image, like that, might I see;

For grand designs might never fall on us,

As servants and protectors of His will,

Alas, not on the arms of Heaven thus

A shame but never would I rebel still.

My brothers; sisters, line in perfect form,

Executor through Heaven’s absolute,

To fastly hold against the coming storm:

O baneful Morningstar made destitute…

Alas, this quill of Lilies stays in wait:

The carrier whose hands interpret Fate.

————

Sonnet 50

Where rulers had their fill of gold and wine,

Where law hinged on an inclinations rust,

Where years pass on the morals would decline:

A faceless man arose mirage and dust.

He sought a knowledge hidden yet still sent,

He lowered his own ego just to gleam,

He travelled lands beyond all life’s intent:

In time he found the dreamer and the dream.

Of high designs which doubted even doubt,

Of answers that need not complex a web,

Of things a lesser man would cry and shout:

Yet he in wisdom never once did ebb.

The teaching learned on high now taught down low,

The land turned gold through will to learn and know.

————

Sonnet 51

In blood I swear upon the next we meet,

My dagger will find home inside thy chest;

Where cold and dead, a rare event to beat,

None changes with the cold steel I will nest.

How poisonous the proof must I endure?

To show the court: a wanton snake amok!

As slow it takes, s’another kill’s ensure,

I’ll not be sitting— waiting to be struck.

So wrongful death and vengeance justify:

My vicious vi’lence, cruelty’s rhapsody.

Hence ne’er will thou delude to dignify,

Those sobbing tales betraying strategy…

Through blood I swear to right assid’usly

Those baneful wrongs unseen officially.

————

Sonnet 52

To this here day I look with grievous fear…

As words fall short and action fails to break:

My deep malaise and trappings of my cheer;

Pain so entwined with what I want to make…!

This sordid head does not wish to let ease,

It steeped in madness words claw my morale;

Fall to my legs and beg a rasping please!

Hew through my senses shred its foul locale!

Must I beg thee with all that I am worth?

Weak like dust as blown and free to blast,

At moments thus my feet lost of this earth,

To find my works despaired thus not to last!

May peace dispense alas by hours the end,

Or else regret takes what I have yet penned.

————

Sonnet 53

What beauty does exist in my own hand?

I cannot seem to find an echo of,

Like one’s attempts to keep a clump of sand,

I fear that running through my hands is love.

With slack my jaw is magnet to the floor,

As limbs are doleful pitied rather weak,

I look upon my life and ask what for,

As brittle is my mind and pen so meek.

What beauty can exist in my own thought?

I cannot dare to ask and find well out,

Like musing but the thing will always rot,

I see that all my days are full of doubt.

What curse do I find struck upon my life,

That guts me, drains my blood, then twists the knife.

————

Sonnet 54

My knight, oh as of yet I still thee wait,

In ebon doom this tower ever high…

I swear to thou, how long brings never hate;

Yet tarry not as time prolongs I lie-

-On laze a bed, so stained with my own fear,

And from the high walls; from my piteous cell:

The light does dwindle, fog makes hope look mere…

Abstain no more; no longer can I yell.

But I will fasten: hope and love for thee,

No matter blister, bruise, or illness hence;

My love sustains within a fantasy:

Should even all my words and thoughts lose sense.

I’ll wait, I’ll do forever, till thou’lt show;

Thou’lt come, thou saidst as such, my love, I know.

————

Sonnet 55

Upon a playhouse of all human souls:

Come pain or love, the sorrow and the freude;

Sign comedy to tragedy— the roles,

And block the stage as not to look devoid.

We’re puppets here; the Donna needs be sate!

So play thy parts and cry some reàl tears…

For not a chance, we’d have, escapes our fate;

This broadway shall be longer than all years.

She’d play a poet’s dearest kind of dance,

Or circle one bad day that stretches on.

She’d then enjoy a willful igno-rance;

That happiness is here but soon is gone.

Upon a nexus of all vicious cruel,

Where once they tricked, she’d ne’er alike a fool.

————

Sonnet 56

O cursèd land, o blood of steel and smoke,

The crown of thy affliction from the dark,

As glinting steel, as zipping lead thus spoke,

Bind chaos into madness masques and lark.

O veins that throb corrupt with tower’s tomb,

And pumping, beating like the heart of death,

They single file whom marches ember’s bloom,

Brings no man home, except their final breath.

O lady snake, how thee through pities snap,

Thy grand design speaks loud of cold steel’s edge,

Ail sweet and lethal, force a frown or clap,

Brusque madness so absurd stemmed from a pledge.

O land goetia brooked of lion’s pride,

Bereave thy souls, keep count the time and bide.

————

Sonnet 57

Descent marks paths to perilous ensnares,

Relentless dragging from a dark desire,

A beast unsettled by stigmatic pray’rs,

Allure of laws unchecked thus thrown to fire.

But wonderland is not a fantasy,

Can neither it be stolen for a kiss,

For otherworlds have but one guarantee,

They love to bring the partner worst for bliss.

Dissuade it will good paths with high pretence,

To act impune for sinistral might preach,

Allow thy dextral without knowledge hence,

As eyes will spy the lie instead to teach.

So those who learn will walk with chest abroad,

And those who fail shall settle for facade.

————

Sonnet 58

One might mark an abject fool of silence,

And grievous that mistake I must declaim,

For all the rhetors, purposes, intents:

Those who silence take avoid the blame.

It beggars no belief that one must hide,

Their mere beliefs and inner workings fast,

For this world is of liar and the lied…

And those who do harass and are harassed.

My fear reserves its ardour for the truth,

Ablaze that all my heart and mind will burn,

But in that danger I will stand as sleuth,

That en route danger’s way is to discern.

Lament not wings turned into ash at all,

As fires cleanse, to all must fire befall.

————

Sonnet 59

The lord of life has yet a visage still,

But as begin so do they make the end,

In audience not to enact their will,

No oaths to halt a break or ask to mend.

What cruelty we sustain to give a face,

Or build a god of which keeps hopes and dreams,

Like statues in the squares of sacred place,

As they look on the light of prayer gleams.

But this life is thus lorded by the mute,

A crown who does not see and cannot be,

Loom over us in birth and death in route,

Who meets us and in chase we cannot flee.

The world plays to the hands that make the mean,

The world plays in the lands that make the scene.

————

Sonnet 60

Primarily amending acts of sin,

The schism justifies itself as so:

One violation in the case of skin,

One error through intent made not to know.

The Bishop’s seat whos highest member erred,

By failure to abstain from carnal act,

And to a mistress sinful child was bared,

And then a failure to confess the fact.

Churchfathers in majority are split,

As paladins and priests await their call,

The schism thus informs itself in writ:

The sect who stands the last inherits all.

Know now this edict comes from scriptures proved,

Through Goddess high our wills with zeal are moved.

————

Sonnet 61

My heart shall know a never ending lore,

And gone will be my destiny to die,

My hands shall be the authors of a war,

Whose swords will cut salvation to the sky.

My body shall make paradise on earth,

And thus the castle of my council seat,

My feet shall saddle steeds of lightning’s worth,

Whose speed outclasses even evil’s fleet.

My eyes shall look upon the world with grace,

And spite the acts which threaten life and love,

My mind shall serve the person and their place,

Whose own designs create the world thereof.

My hair shall bind the world in lasting peace,

And thus myself divine shall never cease.

————

Sonnet 62

Lethargy delights to sow an anguish,

Nothing can march on through time unending,

Lightning of all youth shall come to languish,

Disregard a thought toward pretending.

Conflagrations rarely keep the blazing,

Rivers tend to dry through spells untimely,

People love to waste their time in gazing,

Entertain themselves but not sublimely.

Reaction looks quite the telling answer,

Before the greatest question’s reckoning,

Logic does dictate to cleave the cancer,

Aversions yet reflect the beckoning.

The world has many things to say untrue,

So is the mind stuck in its point-of-view.

————

Sonnet 63

Mendicants, the lords forlorn with knowledge,

They see what happens through the doors aclose,

Upon the vanished byways make a college,

A syllabus through streets and life’s morose.

A wisdom shared in bottle’s gleam and gloom,

Amazes prim and proper civil mind,

For struggle forces synapses illume,

To revelate and knell the left behind.

Trend memory and vicious conflagrate,

Acleansing through a trial by the nails,

Brings mendicants their wise to federate,

And force one chance to even out the scales.

Lark fervent in the streets, their Babylon,

With lords, like rogues, which mirror Avalon.

————

Sonnet 64

The piece is never finished to my like,

Or never finished in the least at all;

Frustration is a poison to my psyche,

And doubt entraps my legs into a crawl.

I look up at the mountain and despair,

My eyes can focus only on the flaws.

The golden king shines only to fanfare,

Which to the sun on me has not a cause.

What can I trust but my own artless mind?

That shadow makes and makes me jump afears.

Do shadows scare the most of humankind?

Inclined am I if but to mend my tears.

Again my eyes might only exequy,

To rip and tear my effort’s filigree.

————

Sonnet 65

A shadow of the dawn is torment’s magne,

Perfection in the playbook of the sty,

For closeness and specifics are the pain,

Exploited by the cruel and ever sly.

A sleight of hand pertains the best of trick,

That boring are the orneries of old,

In masquerades or fake ballades so sick,

Effuse the greatness of betrayal cold.

A blade comes better sunk by tangled roads,

Serrations hence are sweeter to a twist,

Because the wound is dealt with dearer modes,

Effectively it thrills quite like a tryst.

A dancing in the dark declares no cards,

Enjoying games of hearts with lowered guards.

————

Sonnet 66

That none shall come to realize this peace,

Upon a thousand wars and logic’s end,

The violence and blood neared never cease,

If not cruel taxes paid then hoped to mend.

Our grass is full but only by their stream,

Their fertilized returnal to the grounds,

For every hope and every leisure’s dream,

The scale is equalized by unmarked mounds.

This sky paints blue and domiciles to faiths,

As smiling hearths surrender warmth in eve,

That in the ether wailing are the wraiths,

Yet put to rest by those who live and grieve.

A waste is war and nothing might be gained,

Except that hope for peace to war is chained.

————

Sonnet 67

Roses are trampled on ever so brazen,

It hurts the heart to see their beauty fade,

Roses, pity, their with’rings emblazon,

A fury fueled revenger; their parade.

My hand is never idled by these times,

Nor ever in the state without a stain,

The blade I brandish not for petty dimes,

Where lecher, bandit, craven find their bane.

No idylls to my mind can be attained,

Like idols no mere man can ever clutch,

Yet peace and love are things to be maintained,

Defended from the moral failings’ touch.

I’ll bathe in iron streams and crimson mist,

To certify what’s loved is never missed.

————

Sonnet 68

Delight to paramore a charming prince,

To dream of lazing in a garden roy’l,

As boyish sweet attention will he ‘vince,

On my design, my finger, will he toil.

Each strand of string constrains our hearts a mess,

A noose, garrote, or gyve that hangs too snug,

Where one decision cuts the skin and dress,

Coerces will; a desp’rate, forceful tug.

I’ll fashion leashes from those strings of life,

My soul, tweren’t arbitrary to be led,

For none will liberate me from the strife,

If not the only thing I trust: my head.

Judge not the selfish wiles for leisure’s days,

Judge not my selfish styles for pleasure’s ways.

————

Sonnet 69

A slither from the depths, a cosmic growl,

The terrifier through infinity,

Once buried deep in trenches, slow to prowl,

Yet worshipped is that wrong divinity.

Of shifting planes, distortions physical,

In ancient epics older than can know,

An anticthon, God’s anti-physical,

Who reckons when the tides are creeping low.

No lexicon defines, no image clears,

Such labyrinths of pure insanity,

The icon of the psyche, the sum of fears,

What recourse comes to doomed humanity?

Eyes bloodshot, strained, defiled, and churning shred,

Two eyes outside and more inside the head.

————

Sonnet 70

Arise O fallen lords to claim thy crowns,

Upon these shattered lands, upon the edge,

Where worlds to other worlds are grinded down,

Thy vows, O fallen lords, do not renege.

Apocalypses are that flaring spark,

Which resurrects the legends with their rage,

In times of low, upon the sky, cry hark,

The lords return to mend this broken age.

Reclaimers through the promises of old,

Whose powers deify the martyr’s pain

Belief is but the blood of stories told,

And this one is a world which blood will stain.

Arise, through pray’r thou lauded lords, arise,

Arise, and bring this shadowed time’s demise.

————

Sonnet 71

A worser fate exists than just to die,

To suffer mortal wounds that echo loud,

That filths when even mark and blood go dry,

A wound that even soldiers are not proud.

Where healing is not hinged on do no harm,

As even to the bandage and the stitch,

Yet all the roads ahead will cost an arm,

That even those with wealth are not the rich.

No rush or timeline can the patience earn,

For to accept might be the only way,

To feel the rain and regulate the burn,

The only way ahead is day by day.

To hurt at all is not a point of shame,

For suffering is not a weighted game.

————

Sonnet 72

Across the boundless fields of gleaming glass,

That break from time to time in cobblestone,

Where green is plentiful but not from grass,

Yet seedy things look ever overgrown.

Within the very soil there plays a beat,

The metal estimations of a heart,

Of phantoms that appear around the street,

Presenting things that almost look like art.

As hollow trees reach out to block the skies,

Or paint them just a slightly urgent shade,

To prove the worst is best through a disguise,

Before they recognize the best decayed.

Where eyes might look remember to evince,

That this here just might be the lowest since.

————

Sonnet 73

Let not the scar upon his face betray,

The softness that his heart has yet to show,

As mercy’s fleeting favour casts away,

And sympathy amongst lies in the throe.

Steep regret the pools that gather sapid,

In iron and corrosions by the touch,

That opposite from want with woe as rapid,

To claim deserves looks nothing but a crutch.

For absolutes are masquerade extremes,

And constant dogma fast degrades the mind,

He did once love or wanderlust daydreams,

Have faith that his humanity will bind.

Whilst his might not be one to revel on,

Twere not our play to judge nor liaison.

————

Sonnet 74

I shall compare thee to a summer’s day:

For each and ev’ry one was childish lark;

By warmth and pour, my sorrows did allay,

Thus dipp’d my pen, the inkwelt’s wit and snark;

That never did the hush make living dimm’d,

For friends in paper places stay’d my ire;

Traversing bloom and shade my piques untrimm’d,

Made way for silly exploits in desire.

As seasons pass their colours gently fade,

Yet not through death, they only travel on;

Upon the ev’ning— down in dear Lune’s shade,

I promis’d them my love though they are gone.

Don’t wait for me, my friends, I won't be long,

To make immortal us through books and song.

————

Sonnet 75

To capture is the goal of any piece,

I mean the passions, idylls, thoughts, and time,

From Europe’s finest and from ancient Greece,

My heart of art was captured by the rhyme.

From listless days, the troubled ways of man,

When legends rose and epics still were sung,

The sum of thought, which writ shows greater than,

Its simple writer or their scribbling tongue.

But from the rivers of King Arthur’s land,

The streams of life and light did ink and write,

From tales of old; romance or sorrow’s grand,

Or summer’s day and thus midsummer’s knight.

I kneel before the feat of greater men,

As I attempt this lauded playwright’s pen.

————

To honor this here final summer young,

And of the things within that youth’s milieu;

Bring change, complacence or what-else be brung,

With that decreed I bid thee all adieu.

fin.

“Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?”

of Richard, Duke Gloucester, HENRY VI

 ————

But also that you must take your time to go through this one life.