Furlong.

I am a little boy and my best friend is dead.
We still play together in a land inside my head.
Then, there are the moments when I let tears flood.
Remembering the times when you were flesh and blood.

You were always gentle, so kind in every way.
Noble was your countenance and friendly was your eye.
You knew when I was sad, snuggling close to take the pain.
Sometimes nudging at an elbow with your nose or pawing me again.

To other men you were a dog, but none of them could see.
You are so much more than that. You are still my best friend to me.
You have moved on.  I’d like to follow soon, but for a while that cannot be.
We shall see each other by and by. Until then we’ll keep our memories.

SAR.

You met me deep in the grasp of night.
Together we stood below the neon arc.
We trembled in fear of the blue-coated demons of the dark.
We walked, hand in hand, on the cotton-wool grass.
Stumbled on fairy rings, and other things we never knew existed.
Though we always hoped they did.
Exchanging glances with the shadowy figures.
They are like us in need of love and so afraid to ask,
So, they sink into loneliness behind a paper mask.
They spend the night wide awake, yet in a trance.
They’re hypnotised by the fateful Tarot Card's dance.
Many are sad people who sit, afraid of shades and stars.
They cower in rooms illuminated by the lights of motor cars.
They feel safe, in bed, behind their bolted doors.
Unaware that danger comes from deep inside them-selves,
Not from the locked out life and poison jars on chemists shelves.
On we walk in the lonely streets.
We cross our hearts as their coffins are borne away.

The Stealer of Minds.

"Come away, come away with me.
Come, ride with the Stealer of Minds.
Leave your room. Come to the fields.
Follow the winding ranks of silver spoons.
Roam through the land of sugar trees.
Go to the land of cocoa rivers and hills of marzipan.
Come, ride with the Stealer of Minds.

If all that you find appears unreal to your eyes…
Remember, it's safe in your maniac mind.
So the spiders are larger here, than at home.
Their webs fill the canyons and cracks in the walls.
But, if you concentrate hard, they'll soon distort.
They’ll be vampire shapes. That's fear the conventional way.
On you ride, through your fright.
You’re on a steed of bright running laughter.
Away to the dawn! Away with the hills!
It's the Stealer of Minds you chase after!"

Sad Tale.

Imagine the wide sky over windless downs.
Eyes following clear water chasing through an empty land.

Sense the growing wind. See startled birds flying.
Grass trampled by warrior clans.

Great wains are pulled by proud horses.
Households and Lords, encamped by rivers edge.

Trees felled. Ground harrowed.
Cattle herded. Yellow grain harvested.

Passing years yield high mounds and fences raised.
Commerce thrives. King’s Hall is up-builded.

Carved pillars support arched roof.
Guards stand at gilded doors.

Many years pass. Great kings depart.
New kings come with treasures safe in store.

Soft crawls deep mist, white cloaking river.
Guards at gate 'round fire huddled.

Long-ships grounded on banks of shingle.
Horns blow, calling men to battle.

Gate overthrown! Warriors flee before red swords falling.
Smell the High Hall burning. Smoke blackened children calling.

Useless treasures are gone now. Free folk enslaved.
Tears stain black bones of houses. No mounds over slain folk raised.

Sky filled with smoke. Carrion flocks massing under hail.
Old hag calls forth the grey wolves. Sad is my tale.


The Muroc.

It’s writhing in the grass for years beyond recall.
There you find the Muroc.
Sometimes it hides in the dung-heaps far from home.
It lurks beneath the rotting roses.
It’s under the star-flowers of the Purple Night-Shadow.
Deep in caverns, jewelled fair.
Even on the sandy shores of subterranean streams.
There, the sunlight drives the Muroc.
They’re skulking far away from daytime breezes.
Many go to the night washed lands.
That’s where these Shadow Demons stray.
They’re clubbing down the flowers with teasel mace.
It’s there that the Muroc are found.
These are the Muroc of your thoughts from long ago.
This is the one that you created.
The Muroc destroys us all.

Marothgarm.

It was in Marothgarm the cold.
In caverns deep below precipitous holds.
That there dwelt a king with enchanted gold.
A myriad of lights enhanced his halls.
It was thought that never, there, would the evening fall.

Dark night fell without his doors.
The Moon was horned in the Sky-Lands.
Like children's eyes the stars were twinkling.
Death on a breeze swept across the moors.
Softly, fell the sentinels at Maroth's doors.

Through the stony tunnels battles raged.
Bold warriors died or fled.
On flesh the Muroc feasted in the darkness.
Until the True Dawn dark shall be those halls.
That’s where the Muroc are the keepers of cursed gold.

The Wardens and their fall.

It was throughout the silent land.
They stood on each hills’ grassy crest.
They were the lone sentinels of the Wardens of the March.
Slowly and coolly they passed the night.
Soon, the red-eyed dawn awoke the Northern Lands.
Great peril and adventure lay waiting with grasping hands.

The entourage of the Wardens of the March was on the move.
They were urged forward by the cry of horn and open pride.
With armour burnished and valour untarnished.
With thrice forged steel and carved shaft.
They came on, and low the Muroc laughed.

Darkness fell. Sky was over-clouded.
Fear arisen, left valour shaken.
Wise men fled from the Muroc's face.
With humbled pride the Wardens of March fell from grace.

The Fall of Yesteryear.

It was far away on Yester Isle.
It was in the hidden Castle of the Moon.
There lived the King of Yesteryear.

He was clothed in gold and silver browed.
He sat in a gabled hall.
At his comings and goings, low, his vassals bowed.

Once came a dragon of Tersir to his hold.
The dragon was spawned of Darkness.
It had come from far away in search of gold.

He came with fire terrible.
He was evil in his proud intent.
The King of Yesteryear smote the dragon’s wing.

The monster’s blood gushed upon the paved floor.
Could none defy the King once past his door?
The dragon fell writhing on the cold stone.

Thus, the Dark One found the King.
He was enthroned in blood.
His sword by hands a-trembling held.

It was by sorcerer’s blast and fire wand.
That’s how the Dark One laid low the King.
Red robed He stood. His head crowned with lightning.

To the throne He went and sat there long.
He gloated in silent halls, emptied of Elven song.
Drowsiness took Him. His eyes closed, heavy lidded.

In His dreams a warrior crept.
He came with dagger sharp and shining helm.
Closer he stole as the Dark One slept.

The dagger plunged, burying deep in flesh.
It splintered bone and sliced sinew old.
The Dark One fell in the grey stone hold.

His corpse was laid in a carven tomb.
There He would stay, below dark-watered Erethron.
He was doomed until a maiden came at night from Klun.

The Pale Lady.

It was in the darkness and the drear.
It was long before the Moon shone clear.
Ii was in the hills below the starlit skies of night.
There stood the pool of Erethron.
Filled by water so murky black with uncharted depths.
Down in which the Dark One slept.

Magic called out from the pool’s edge, long ago.
There came a maiden with skin as pale as snow.
Her eyes were as bright as dew on the grass.
She was drawn there by the water’s secret song.
There she bathed while the nights were long.

He was in his tomb of carven stone.
That was deep in the murk of Erethron
The Dark One rose and came by secret ways.
He crept to the edge of the water dark.
The sun rose above the hills.

The maiden saw the Dark One there.
There was water streaming from her hair.
Long she gazed at His reddened cloak.
He turned away. No word He spoke.
He left the lands to the east of Klun.
Then, He came at last to the Clared Dun.

To the Clared Dun!
That land where the rusty sun flees to the cloudless sky.
The maiden still stands in Erethron.
The light’s gone from her eyes.
Folk hurry along the hill-land fosse.
They speak never a word as they pass her by.

The Dark One.

Tall against the sky the Dark One stood.
He was blacker than the Dimlight with its windows closed.
Wandering in thought. Shrouded in the past.
Alone, ever musing over His long forgotten name.

Searching along the squared paths which run
past the strange trees of the Clared Dun.
Remembering the waking glow, caught among the boughs,
in the yellow land of the Dying Shadows.

In the mists of years ago,
before the cold winds stirred from slumber,
proud and great the Dark One was.
A lord above the wiles of Men.

Deeper than a corpses thoughts
was Goblin Combe which lies in the Southward West.
In evil steeped since Time began.
There His shadow stooped and lingered.

Beyond the blue water His hatred stabbed,
piercing the calm of the Tideless Sea.
Seeking masts and figureheads.
Despising the spears and dreams of His ancient enemies.

In His hall of flowing marble
below the roots of mountains planted deep
far from the white light and cracking trees.
He strove with Death to become black in wizardry.

Now the Dark One gathers all Eoval to His fold.
Stronger than the Great of old He broods.
Planning great revenge. He 'bides His time.
Watching for the night when His shadow bestrides the sky.

Nine.

Nine by nine is only nine.

Nine plus nine, in numeric lore,
when summed together gives nine once more.

Nine times lost.
Nine times found.
Nine times a lord will the Dark One be.

Nine times 'round and nine times down
swirl the noisome waters of the Fire Pools.
Nine in number, they stand below the nine halls
in which His nine lives slumber.

Nine dying suns set in the walls
light the nine fires of the crimson pools.
Nine are the dead trees, with nine silvered boughs,
in which nine times are croaked the waking calls
of the nine, hook-clawed, scheming choughs.

Nine are the guardians of the nine broken graves
and nine times nine have each enslaved
of the nine lost breeds of the nine cold realms.
Nine times nine hundred years they shall stand.
Each a ninth of the nine cold fears.
Weaving the nine sandy ropes with nine fold strands.

Nine stones stand in a ring at Devils Moot.
Nine are the shattered helms on maggot-riddled skulls.
Nine are the rusty swords.
Nine, the red cloaks.
Nine, the broken words.
Nine, the deaths before the dawn.
Nine of the Twelve are roaming across the hills.

Nine are the stars over the Crystal Mines.
Nine are the dry lakes in the salty wastes.
Nine are the crowns that were lost of yore.
Nine are His islands in the sea.
Nine, his staves of wizardry.
Nine towers are on his castle hold.
Nine beacons burn with threat of war.
Nine are his gates and iron doors.

The armies ranged against him number nine.
Nine eagles fly and nine carrion fall.
Nine swords kindle with cunning gleam.
The axes hew nine times
splintering the dead trees rotted hearts.
Nine are the tremors in the ground
as the crumbling towers slide.
Nine times crows the cock while the Sun is cool.
Nine are the dark hours before His fall.

Grock.

Far away in distant lands,
of spoiled earth and desert sands,
lived the Grockels long ago
when cold was our land under ice and snow.

Upon our shores their camps were seen.
Their armies clad in cloaks of green.
They seized the land where farmers ploughed
and to this day their warlords reap but never sow.
Ever to Grock our tributes go.

The Birth of Gron.

Beyond the rivers of the Western Realms.
Below the setting sun.
In windless caverns found of yore
the mines of Gron were begun.
Deep they delved, and deeper still.
Oppressed by tyrant kings.
Chained and whipped. Like dogs they were.
Forgetful of the Moon and stars.
Caged below, behind iron bars.

Now the tyrant kings are gone.
The people of Gron are free.
A country of fear no longer stands
between the high ranges and the sea.

The Exiles.

Long are the tales of the frozen North
as told 'round the glowing embers of the fires of Men.
Deep into the night float the tunes the harper plays.
The tune they string is a merry one of glorious kings.
A song now saddened with wars fought in red stained days.
The sound of battle fading as the memories change
to the thoughts of a peaceful past.
Sad faces lost deep in hope.
This is the exiles pain.

Hermitswood.

The seagulls in the morning sky
have changed to darksome bat-like things.
The houses are all gloomy now
filled with prying eyes and hatred.
The wind has changed and blows against me
seeking me out with ice-tipped spears of vengeance.
On I walk. My head held high and proud.
In fear I draw my coat close about me.
Secretive are my inner thoughts, but They perceive my fear.
Past ancient images, in an even older land, I wander
searching still for Hermitswood, or Snarewood to other Men.
Hermitswood..............

Once there was an ancient man.
A mariner he'd been in youth or so some folk said.
He lived alone in a forest dale
where sunlight escaped the beechen shade.
Wise he was deemed to be and thus, he thought himself.
The forest where he kept his wisdom wrapped was Hermitswood.

In search of him came a maiden, fair and tall,
who'd heard of him in nursery legends and through them came
to love him long before.
Upon a grey arched bridge which spanned the Mirror Stream
she found him.
There she wove her webs and ensnared him. To his lair he
took her who had enchanted him.
Then away at the break of dawn to live in castle halls
commanded by his lady tall he went.
And his land became known as Snarewood.   

Firalarin.

I walked through the meads of Firalarin.
The sun was warm upon my brow.
Over bridge and under hills shadow wound my road.
Silent, in the red-flushed dusk I waited.
A wind blew from the West,
salt scented by the sea.
Into the river I strode and lay upon my back,
floating swiftly, to be lost in the grey river’s mouth.
On into the crystal clearness I was carried
above the forests of weed and mountains of sunken realms.
I was lifeless flotsam drifting over sandy roads and forgotten walls.

I walk again in Firalarin where I have walked before
and listened long to the eerie songs of trees in the wind.
The hills are green and the grass still long.
The great ocean gulls still fly up the river from the sea.
Lights are lit and ale is poured. All is warm within.
But, out in the cold and calm beneath silvered stars
I walk with phantom footsteps through the meads of Firalarin.

My Lady.

Yonder, is the sleeping valley where my lady lived.
Her cottage, brick built, waiting glinting in the starlight
amongst the high and darkened hedges of thorny May.

As fair as any Elf-Land Queen from far across the sea.
She sat in patient expectance in the quiet of the evening
watching the stony road for her knight on errantry.

Upon the snuffling night-breeze she heard of horses hooves,
of evil cries and the clashing iron of sword and shield.
In the darkness she heard a cry she'd always feared to hear.

A vision came upon my lady of her knight at grips with Death
She passed into the night with a broken heart some said.
Yonder, is the sleeping valley where they found my lady.., Dead.

R.I.P. Soldiers All.

Only brave men go to war to play their glory tunes.
See how they play.
They are the "salvation army" saving souls before Death's door.
Come! Come! Don't be mean! Give to the poor.
We'll give them money and treat them well,
improve their lives and abolish prison cells."
("We must do this to save ourselves.")

The band has gone now.
You gave your money and hid your hopes and fears
from prying minds and your own searching eyes.
Climbing the stairs, humming some forgotten song
once shared between exciting friends who've gone away,
you go to bed to begin a night of dreams.
You are mounted on a white charger, hunting Fantasy.
Riding, below blue skies and castle walls,
over bridges and crystal falls,
in search of Elvish halls filled with minstrels songs
and haunting calls of distant times.
To gather cobwebs from the air
and weave each silver strand
into clothes for friends you turned away
one snowy night many wars ago.
And at the point when the phantom knight
decapitates you, your wounded body reawakens,
sweating, saying it's not true, and then regretting,
as you remember, tomorrow you do battle
with the keeper of your grave.
R.I.P. Soldiers All.

Death.

Ageless it glides.
Sunless hides.
Weightless floats.
Evil it gloats.
Vain, it prates.
Long it waits.
Always hates.
Hides behind the garden-gate.
Noiseless surrounds.
Knows few bounds.
When unleashed it brings great grief.
Pale cloaked it rides.
Heedless of the changing tides.
Blots out lies, as ephemeral we wait.
Feeds on the fear behind our eyes.
Travels in disguise.
Never throws aside its mask,
until it has us trapped at last.

The Wild Lands.

Deep lands carved from wind lashed rocks
dressed with a robe of green,
garlanded with the colours of every hue.
Changing with the seasons and the passage of the birds.
A distant world. As deep in tangled briars as deserted castle walls.
Soft-misted fens embracing meandering waters
which spread about in mirror pools,
reflecting the yellow lights of Will O' The Wisp near the hither shore.

Up the river the rafts are forced, braving the lazy flood,
carrying the hopes of merchants from beyond the wild moors,
to trade for Winter furs and woven cloth.
Then, down the rivers, again the rafts are set,
floating into the cool horizon, racing the golden sun.
Back to marbled pillars and peaceful kingdoms old.

The sun falls and the howling wolves call the moon
forth to set its helm across the shadowed sky.
The shutters are drawn and doors are bolted
to keep at bay the silent winds on which dark arrows stray.
The watch is set and the land abandoned
until the tresses of waking dawn drive the shadows down.

Changelings.

Through every nook and cranny
'round houses with gabled eaves and leafy trees,
they dance the Dance of Flowers in the Dingle.
Down the dell, past Water Well,
weaving over Silver Bridge
singing of the trout stream, and wolves upon the ridge.
Of fens, and lakes, and seas, they speak,
as the tune winds on amongst the Hare-bell fields,
below the skeins of flocking geese.
On and on they dance in ever swelling numbers
until they are lost deep in the night. Off far away.
They are the Changeling Children raised from slumber.

The Last Tale.

The hard stone is cold.
The sun is cooled.
The land is old.
Dark blemished sky
looks blindly for the lonely.
Lost now are the sold.
Slaves and slavers.
Wars and wonders.
All are losers.
Hidden now by soil and gold.
So the Last Tale recalls,
and now that tale is told.

Long Ago.

I dreamed a dream of long ago and lands beyond the sea.
Of silver stars and sandy shores. There were rounded hills of green.
I saw upon the hills stood megaliths of grey and weary stone.
They cast shadows over forests and deep water in the fens.

In my dream of long ago there were tall warriors beneath the trees.
They were proud and sad. In armour clad. They just brooded in the night.
Silently, so silently, the world passed them by.
Yet, in the morning none could I see.

I strode quickly, below the sun, along a winding road.
I passed statues tall and wild tangles.
I walked until; again, I saw the sea.

I dreamed I'd heard the seagulls’ cries echoing through masts upon the sea.
There were water-filled footprints in the sand, and freshness in the air.
Only the dune grass and seashells could understand my dream.

The Hour of the Wolf.

Who will be at home when the Wolf pays His call?
Only One knows who will be the host when His hour falls.
He crawls into each hovel where the sick lie.
Between eleven and twelve they will die.
The Hour of the Wolf comes soon to some,
and late to others, but all cower when Vargtimmen comes.

Time.

The rolling river of Time
flows past the darkened shores,
sweeping over mountains, like the surf on distant sand.
Past the quiet backwaters of old, and settled, age.
Swirling broken bodies on the swifter current of careless years.
Riding with the black thoughts,
below a fall of stardust.
The river will not miss us.
It will drag us on towards our doom.
To Oblivion, or Fame for the twinkling of an eye.

Alchemy.

Think of me as the sun sets in the West.
By then I shall be far away
beyond the light of Moon or Sun.
Cut free from the clutching hand of Weird
by the same knife which cleaves the silver thread of life.

In the morning with the dawn, I may return
to sweep away the mist, and paint my colours on the land.
You look about, admire the day, and then forget me.
The artist with the alchemist’s hand.

On the last day.

The birds hear the laughter of approaching dawn.
A multitude of cooing, feathered, meat.
Their voices punctuated only by the regular dull tones of the city' bells.
Halo arcs of neon, flicker and then expire.
Sweating darkness into the empty streets
bounded only by a cage of noise.
The sky parts before regular wing beats.
Eyes turn upwards into the gloom.
Our fate is sealed.
On the last day nobody worries.

Wanderings.

Who would be a wanderer running westward with the Sun?
A native of the hither shore who sleeps stretched out upon  the ground.
Who would be a stick in the mere
remaining at home in front of a fiery hearth
recalling all your plans? Your half-remembered imaginings.
Pancakes with old friends, winding clocks,
waiting to catch the first sight or sound of Cuckoo-John.
Will you take the road with me?
The road that leads a crooked way
between the straight and narrow path
and the broad rost beyond the Devils' Gate.
Take that road most perilous. The greatest of the three.

Night.

Knowing that I live in a world of death
I lie, all night, awake in my bed.
The night closes in and blots out all that I've said.
My mind turns in confusion, in dread.

The flowers bow low by the garden wall.
The moonbeams bathe a bottomless hole.
Trees stand tall in mourning, or maybe waking,
casting shadows past the vase and books of learning.
The candle of night burns low
as farther into Time the world goes.

Play of today.

The halo has slipped down
around the neck of the saint.
His neck is broken and stretched
by the noose and the knot,
much cheaper than shot
for killing the dying in one foul swoop.
The beginning has ended far too soon.
The Sun has not risen this side of the Moon.
The Fires of Heaven have extinguished their light,
appalled by the players who are acting the part,
of so many shattered lives and broken hearts,
in a manner which is so incredibly real
that the audience groans as if an ill
wind had blown the clouds away,
leaving broken images standing ablaze.
Freedom reels about in a drunken daze
as her murderer approaches through the haze.
Freedom dies from having her throat
force-fed with promises that make her choke
to death.
The roots at her feet soak up her blood.
Demons emerge from a hole in the ground
and Evil is Evil which ever way 'round
you decide you should see it.
Then comes the act, opened by the scene,
where devils are kings and Evils a dream
that came true engulfing in its hatred
all the things you once knew.
The end becomes a beginning again.
Evil is drowned, like a rat in a drain
which is wedged fast, fattened by the food
it stole from your larder when your back was turned.
You see the fate that it has earned
but, never the less, the others won't learn.
As Good chases Bad and Freedom returns
the pathway of life wends its way
to the beginning of night and the end of the day.

Sabbat.

Sixteen thousand devils dancing on the hay
turning cartwheels, like jesters in a play.
Chase the cat!
Beat the baby!
Boil its fat!
Inaugurate the new one, at this, her first Sabbat.
Cloven-hoofed He stands there,
curling horns protrude through shaggy hair.
They bring the maiden to satisfy His thirst for blood.
Upon the slab they lay the living.
"Raise the knife! Draw the line across her throat!"
They present her heart to the awesome Goat.
See, how his mouth belches fetid breath.
"See! Among the living the King of the Tortured Dead!"
Gilded cups are passed around,
they drink the frothy blood of the deceased.
A new howling frenzy is reached.
Then, as the Mandrake shrieks,
they melt away into the shadows,
as if they had never lusted beneath the grey-branched beech.
   
ALL IS WELL.

Around the shattered deck of the Ship of Stars,
Ebbing souls slip away from the salt lashed broken spars.
Howling winds rage with shrieks and maniacal squeals.
Here, the losing of life is offered as the only deal
for the frantic mariners unexpectedly invited to tea,
by their permanent foe that wild Old Man of the Sea.
Black skies and dark shores embrace the horror that unfolds
as the enraged ocean sweeps the flotsam and jetsam from the hold.

Behind fastened shutters the red-eyed widows pray in vain.
But their tears aren’t for those whom they won't see again.
They weep for the many children who sleep safe in bed.
Adults sobbing at the dread of how to say, "Your father's dead."

In the morning from a solemn tower the knell tolls forlornly
for a fleet of several gloomy craft that put out to scour the sea.
Emptiness invades the soul. Wreathed posies drop from trembling hands.
Simple tributes that are later recovered upon the sand.
These are the pointless halos of the lost and found.
The memory of a foundered vessel with all hands drowned.

The elder ones stand swathed in black watching the swell,
Ears straining hard as if hoping to hear the proud ship’s bell
ringing out again in the wind that once filled the sails
seductively and sonorously lying to them that all is well.

Through the looking glass.

Forgotten faces
return too soon.
Cast your mind
to thoughts of
things beyond the Moon.

In between the stars
broken images glide.
Floating by, as you fall
over the Edge, to the other side.
Your broken and battered form
will soon be washed away by the ebbing tide.

Features return,
but you'll never learn.
Who'll buy the next round?
It's not your turn.

Dream.

Rolling hills of black.
Under a lighter sky of grey
in which no there is no Moon or Sun.
No change. Neither night or day.
Walking on faster, trying to find
some light distantly behind
the edge of the planets surface.
Walking, faster and farther, but getting no nearer,
slipping back, falling from nothing to nowhere.
Instinctively grasping at airless space.
Scrambling back to where I began,
from darkness into darkness,
and ashes to ash.
Feeling alone.
Afraid of what is to come.
Knowing I must try, when I cannot succeed.
Trying to fulfil one final need.

Evening.

I feel so tired and old.
I feel as if the eyes of the world
are closing, slowly blinking in the sky.
All about me darkness falls.

The First of May.

All the dreamers that you wished to be
are sat, each upon his own green hill
beneath the requisite silhouetted tree,
watching the setting sun spread its light
over the valleys and rifts of Time
in a passionate attempt to forestall the fall of night.

Along the dusty roads you go,
invincible and yet afraid,
through fells where dreams are made.
In search of the Keeper of the Rainbows land
where dwarfish smiths hammer gold
to form the wine-cups for the Elf-Kings hall.

On, and still further on, you travel.
Searching. Ever searching, enchanted by a dream.
But, History is against you and Time has run away.
Mortal Men are left behind
after the feast has been cleared away.
The end of celebration on, this, the First of May.

Depression.

I can't see you right now.
I'm in my regular session
of deep and dark depression.

It doesn't last too long,
only the lifetime ahead.
Come back when I'm happier, say
in a few years when I'm dead.

Muse

In this world there are no cards, presents or bouquets.
Embarrassment is spared – pain grows in contrary fashion.
Tonight, I sail my broken heart across dark seas until it sinks and I drown.

In another universe you’ve had the card with a dozen red roses,
We’ve finished a candlelit supper with fine Champagne.
Now, we walk hand in hand along a beach of yellow sand.
Moonlight sets off the flanks of a unicorn, galloping over the dunes.
White foam stampedes to lose its power between our toes.
We’re off to hear mermaids sing under a sky filled with wishing stars.

The King.

Long live the King!
The King is dead. Or so they said…
That was before his shrieks had fled into the night.
The sky was a murderous black. The clouds drew back.
They fled from the peering face of the Moon.
Howling winds spread the tale abroad.
Fearsome skeletons ploughed the gullied moors.
The farm is dead.
The land is burnt and water's fouled.
The King is dead!
Long live the King.

The Passing of the Kings.

At the waxing of the Moon the Kings rode away, to war.
They battled in distant lands, against the Common Enemy.
The rising Sun bade them welcome.
The rising stars made danger pass them by.

It was in the Hemlock Fields where colder than ice the shadows are.
There, they fell beneath golden banners, by sword and arrows torn.
At the waning of the Moon we looked and saw of them no more.

The Dark One and Deeper Thoughts.

It’s when the autumn calls to tumble leaves.
It’s when the wind sings shrilly in the eaves.
It bends the blades of withered grass.
Then shall fall a doom linked with the past.

Goldenhair.

Where is the girl with the long golden hair?
Did she sail far away in search of her dreams?
Has she sailed to the islands where people are fair?
Or go to the dark lands where tall mountains die, and all rivers cease?
Did she find the Lost Caverns of which fables have told?
Did she follow the rainbow for a fortune in gold?
Where is the girl with the long golden hair?
Has she kissed the Four Winds which traverse the land?
Or did she ask of a true love lost on some distant strand?

She has sailed over the highways of long sunken realms.
She’s heard the songs of the Sea Folk as they tend mariner’s graves.
Far over waves and past icebergs she sailed.
She went on past the sunset until her light failed.
Now she is sleeping where all souls are blessed.
She’s at peace in a land where no mortal can be a Lord of the West.

Farewell to the girl with the long golden hair.
At the end of a long road, where the King is waiting,
I shall stand hoping to meet you there.


By - Steve Willis.