The Wrunged Man
The Wrunged Man
I am ready for sleep in this rare deep black hour
I am ready but she calls out… my white tower.
So I tap the one source for the power to wield.
I ask for the words that shall steal a heal.
I have already seen the story of Christ, was there at first view.
I heard all the angels singing for what would soon be brand new.
I wandered the lands of the great Babylonian king
And wept when the serpent first learned how to sing.
I know of dreamers and task masters and the promises of the morn
I have already heard the distant call of Arch angel Gabriel’s horn.
The battle’s unfolding, warriors in many disguises
Only lifting up rocks for more golden surprises.
There have been kings and fools and magicians on this stage.
Jesters, poets and temptresses that role through the age.
There have been soldiers and mystics and masters with out of sight treats
And an encyclopedia of myth born creatures schooled in unfathomable feats.
Moon Maidens and black widow witches each too have their clones.
I may not know their full story but they all end in bones.
Yes each new illustrious evolution weaves in the mix.
Some new distant glimmering to enlighten life’s fix.
I have felt the free reign of nothing holding me down
And came back to find rich treasures littering the ground.
The gift is this life, the moment is now.
God is silver spoon, wooden fork and good old brown cow.
That which you yearn for is an eternal quest, time but a blink.
If you stand far too high even the clouds seem to sink.
It is just a play, choose your own role be it guy or be it gal.
What I know is there has never before been an AL.
I like what I’ve seen, that I hard struggle my fight.
I like that few could stand up to such plight.
I am free will; I am love and a thread of black hate.
I am given the right to choose my own fate.
Yes it hurts and it drags and it seems timely drudge
But looking for short cuts seems to summon the judge.
If no outcome is willed no outcome is built
With no commitment to bear what flowers will wilt.
I am mercy and lust and finest wrought rage.
I am the will of the ancients that bends the bars of this cage.
I like the contradictions, hypocrisies and puzzle paradoxes
A counter balance to keep great things from small boxes.
I like not knowing what will happen by noon.
I like when my heart gets turned by the moon.
I am pure fire thrice over and maybe a tad more there than here.
A wild card in a deck of absolutes that isn’t always clear.
I may be a Gollum or an Aragorn King.
Perhaps simply a steadfast Sam who has already passed back the ring.
But these are told tales some elements we share.
Yet unwritten remain rich chapters to dare.
If you are waiting for a divine guidance from realms above.
You will miss all the laughter that you’ve been dreaming of.
You are all that you haply free forged of low beast and high god.
Its both chaos and order that are plainly even and odd.
I feel your confusion as new choices prevail,
Afraid of rusty anchors, hard winds but no sails.
But the moon turns and the tides are new stirred.
But in the face of long struggle comes the shape of the cure.
Couldn’t a journey to somewhere begin at the dawn
Knowing the universe will catch us, or our wits be the brawn.
We are free spirits being fed man’s ghostly folk stories.
Addicted to old myths as we lose our own glories.
Hurry away to your wondrous tomorrow
Hurry away from the hardship and sorrow
My heart and my soul may take a strange shape in your head.
Respect has long fallen as you already figure me dead.
So my dreams are mist that have touched not a soul
My dreams are no gift but an empty black hole
No evidence of my passing as I am painted a fool
Find you no proof of a soul that is cooler than cool.
You were always a light shower, with storm and pizzazz
Trust me by now you are still all that jazz.
We were horizon’s mating of a universe to come,
But the virtue of patience comes quickly undone.
So Dreams are born from the craft Alchemy
An insane fate-filled choice with no written guaranty
I have all the keys and you all the locks.
Do we open the heavens or scatter the flocks.
Tide to shore is but a very old war of two armies in silent violent reunion. Man paints in the armor and swords and judges the winds of rushing hate, but it is merely a single wave accompanied by the sound of sighing snake as fire meets wood.
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