The Fell Fiend

He takes up his sword, he takes up his bow,
And travels the acres of frost and snow.
Through woods, o'er rivers, 'cross fields, hills, and vales,
He seeks the creature spake in dread tales.
By fires he rests; he sets foot at dawn,
Quickly to slay the rampaging hellspawn.
The monster, he's told, has slain of mankind
Ten thousand and more, devoured Adam's line.
Warnings he heeds not, nor words of his doom,
No sense of foreboding o'er his soul looms.
His right hand is mighty; his feet set firm;
His strength and courage will weather the storm.
Nights and days pass by; 'til finally he
Approaches the cave that houses the fiend.
Blood covers the entry; gore and entrails
Portend the fate of he who tries and fails.
With no hesitation, he marches in,
To conquer and kill this creature of sin.
The air becomes dark; he feels out his way
Along the cold damp walls of ancient clay.
He stifles and chokes; he can hardly breathe
Amongst the rank stench of putridity.
A voice whispers now, in language unknown;
It beckons him, calls him into the stone.
Whether 'tis man, beast, or only the wind,
He follows the voice and plunges within.
The voice ceases suddenly; with no sound
To hear, he shakes as a corner he rounds.
There, to first comfort, then dread of his eyes,
A faint glow comes forth; the cavern wall shines
With splatters of blood; the room is dark red,
Painted with ink of innum'rable dead.
The man steps forward, and finds at his feet
A pool of still water; he stoops to see
His own face stare back; there's nothing except
His own visage, into which fear has crept.
He swivels, expects the foul creature near,
He shouts: "Come and face me, I do not fear!"
His words bring nothing; there is no reply
Except his own words, come back to his mind.
Nothing is there; for this cave holds no life,
Mere death, and death only, the wage of strife.
Once more into the still pool the man stares,
And in it he sees his own wants and cares.
Now he knows fully; he knows what dread heart
Can topple empires and rip kings apart.
There is a monster that devastates lands;
It sleeps here with us; that creature is man.

Brotherhood

A smoky scent still lingers on my sleeve,
Joining the sound and sight of autumn leaves.
The laughs and voices echo in my head,
Absurd jokes, retold stories; all were said.
A frisbee tossed, a burger grilled, and soon
The revelry and fellowship will bloom.
We men of music belt out joyful song,
Sung night before; again to sing 'fore long.
The old and new both partake of the feast,
No man is cast aside; none counted least.
Our time is short, for studies fill our days,
Commitments split apart our merry ways.
But much is gained, none lost 'neath ancient wood.
Such is the pow'r of honest brotherhood.

The Folly

To capture thoughts in words, lifeless and cold,
Presents a wall to scale, my courage daunts.
Do I expect to make my heart a font,
Flowing into letters, so easy told?
To say what fills my soul would be too bold,
As if my words come from a holy mont.
The tongues of men, they are too free, too wont
To babble on and think no story old.
Upon the backs of greatest men I stand,
They do inspire my mind to write anew,
Knowing full well their wit I cannot match.
So authors great, lend me a helping hand,
Give me your power, so that I may do
What you have done: words to my soul attach.

Companion

If you should think I shy from your sad heart,
Be still, and know I could not turn away.
I seek to make your tears and cries depart,
And waken you to see the light of day.
Your quiv'ring lips and shaking pale cold hands
Do make such pity rise up in my soul.
The love I feel from high in me demands
I try my best to make your wounds feel whole.
As thoughts are spilled and secrets rise from dust,
Your downcast frame within my arm is clutched.
When humble words turn doubt to lasting trust,
Minutes turn to days; two hearts become touched.
Let sorrow run; let unhappiness flee,
For I am here with you; and you with me.

In Glass

The picture in the window frame
Reflects my frame of mind
Branches jagged, desolate
On trees weary and worn
Leafless, flowerless, powerless
Beaten down by winter's chill
So too a tired soul wishes to become
Producing nothing, expecting no one
No more than a tragic backdrop
Yet more is seen through smudgy panes
The sky both clear and blue
Birds flitting from branch to branch
Giving purpose to the deadened wood
The sun shines through, the storms long gone
No cloud can cast a shadow
Spring is coming, its fanfare is heard
Its banners in the distance, gleaming
Soon the trees will bloom again
The soul will rise again
And the new picture will be that of a smile

What if

I can't shake it.
The nagging, itching, burning feelings.
Questions and uncertainties.
Doubts and second thoughts.
Pushing it all aside, sliding it right back.
Mind never at rest.
Some odd, unending inclination,
That some failure lies unseen.
That catastrophe is on the horizon,
That there's something I've done wrong.
A missed opportunity,
A misinterpreted word,
Actions and reactions recalled.
Regretted.
Reevaluated.
What did he think?
What did she mean?
What am I thinking?
Why does it matter?
Am I just making too much of it all?
Torn between shallow and overzealous,
Twisting in the winds of interpretation.
I wonder.
The only remedy,
To see the past as stone,
The present as fluid,
The future as wispy air.
Ignore the if, if, ifs,
And trust in tomorrow's chances.

If I can.

Good?

What is good in life?

Is it good to seek a lover's embrace,
To fall into someone's arms again and again,
Whispering the meaningless lyrics of love?
Is it good to strive for fame and fortune,
Look to success for succor?
Should man improve the self, or others?
Is it good to care about nothing,
To ignore all precepts and free one's will,
Chiding all who would point to law?
Would it be the best course
To devote one's self to a cause,
A path, a religion,
Though he might never see his labor's fruits?
Can one even be truly selfless,
If giving begets satisfaction?
Is it good to create, forge, write,
To push the arts beyond their norms,
And be misunderstood by a generation?
What is good? Who decides?
Does it even matter?

I see a world of people.
Individuals think, act, live.
Are they ants in a laboratory?
Or are they a pantheon?
When I sit here in my chair,
Staring at a digital screen,
Can I take any pride in myself
While a child takes his last sickly breath
In a land I'll never deign to visit?

What is good?
Is anything good?
Is good anything?

I'll never find the answers
If I only ask myself.