What is Poetry to me?

It’s not something I’ve been able to contrive.

Neither is it something I can snare from the ocean of my heart.

It is something deeply profound that comes as an event.

Like a Leviathan that rises only when it wishes.

As is my soul, bound by this simple yet mysterious art.

Flowers outstretch and bloom in the green background. To the keen eye one can see the image gradually fade from time.

Faux though the flowers be.

Faux though the flowers wish they could be. . .

Bright and vivid, forever in their state

By the firebrick wall they remain

Without breath, without scent

Faux though they wish they might be

Outside where the sun rises and falls

Over in sleep under the summers moonlight

To feel the kneed of a bees loving care

Faux though the flowers they hope

Forevermore shall they last

In immortality, no such pleasure

but forever they are

but for such a pleasure,

Faux immortality a feeling be. . .

-Thompson

A pale dark haired beauty rests nude on the bed awaiting for her portrait to be finished.

Thine.

My love is the night

Cold and mysterious

That is endless as the twilight

Deep as the deepest blue

Where wandering souls

Are lost in her hues

That give Ra envy

And Osiris jealously alike

Woe to them

For a time

For in this present

My love is thine

-Odilin Dior

An old man approaches a visitor to his home inside an old Windmill. The Comet of the Century looms in the background among a faint lighted lamp in the background.

Through the Garden.

Through the Garden the children travel to and fro

Through the flowers, through the weeds.

The sins of the fathers that bind

The pains of matrons that cry

Falling through the murky dye

Of their fore bearers’ failures

Now hear the lesser angels cry, while lesser demons do not mind

In the precarious cradle do they sleep

And in their dreams do they weep

-Abal Armistead

In Silence

Round about the fading thoughts of spoiled men that dangle by a tiny thread licked with flame, smoldering their broken dreams while the setting girl of a burning twilight haunts their final aspiring visions.

Cry for me your blood sweat tears into a river that flows to Luna who awaits the council of the dying as their wicked hour is at hand as the bell tolls, and the Earth infant it cries as the shadow passes still, and in silence we cry.

-Thompson

Solilograph I

At gallows lined with shadow

Reeds blow in wind

Moon with open eye gazes

Upon the lost that wade

Through void

A void made of splendid

Of terrible

Of inconceivable

Marbled into a sphere

Of heartfelt blues

and tranquil spring dreams

Souls bow to dawn and are blown by wind

- Thompson

The lone hunter bends his bow towards the sun. . .

Kneeling amidst an orgy of oracles that scream with their tongues twisted in lustful lies while in their bedroom in shadow is disguised, a fawnling in a hidden meadow trapped in the paperweight, trapped in time breathing inward, as the hunters arrow pierces the veil, revealing the precious Iris of God that mourns the heavens, mourns for the end, and it’s beginning to come, that lies after the end, after the orgy, after the last convulsion, the last climax, sigh, breath and heartbeat still. . .

Stillborn, and then I breath. A breath to thee.