Questions for an Obscure Moon

Within the realms of tangent moon,
 
 Out of sync and lost too soon,
 
 Resides a man, a myth, a place,
 
 Who seeks to find a touch of grace,
 
 Who hopes beneath that obscure shard
 
 To quest for peace, it shouldn’t be hard.
 
 And though the world is oh so still,
 
 The night becalmed upon his sill,
 
 The dream, his wish, his holy grail
 
 Does look like it is set to fail.
 
 But whilst that strip of silver shines,
 
 Then onwards he shall seek to climb.
 
 And though the moon may one day rise
 
 No more obscure, no more surprise,
 
 It still shall rest in same dark sky
 
 And he’ll no longer question, why?
 

 

In Pools of Black, I Sleep

Within the depths of darkest sleep
 
 Lie oceans black, my soul they seek.
 
 Submerge and quench, but not for me,
 
 I am but sustenance, you see.
 
 For those that dwell in onyx dream
 
 Will not relinquish me, it seems.
 
 So flail about until I wake,
 
 This is my truth, this is my fate.
 
 
 
 

Sentinels of Past yet to Come



 How can those of such ancient grace
 
 Hide their great mass within intangible mists?
 
 Yet they do, their sudden, ethereal appearance making me gasp.
 
 They are the guardians of a secret and would have me know it.
 
 Within the tangle of arms made wood
 
 And roughened skins that have seen so much,
 
 Rest the memories of seasons past.
 
 These sentinels of a forest that once covered all
 
 Still stand guard to realms now forgotten.
 
 Do they know something that I do not?
 
 Perhaps, perhaps not, but I truly hope they do.
 

He, Or I, Or Me



 
 Beneath free flowing smiles,
 Darker depths do lurk.
 Where still waters pool
 And others fear to swim,
 A scowl of self-loathing does slowly manifest
 Secreting itself, inveigling,
 Waiting, always waiting.
 You cannot see it,
 Neither can he, or I, or me,
 But the ebony ripples
 Of dropped moments
 Ripple outwards in continuous motion.
 There is no sponge,
 No absorbent memory
 To eagerly soak up that which gloats.
 There is no escape within written word,
 Although, at times, he, or I, or me,
 Does think it.
 It is the difference between knowing and ignoring oneself,
 The realisation that all is unwell
 And striving not to prove it.
 No, the surge of something darker just awaits a slip,
 And he, or I, or me only postpones its surfacing.
 

 (Image courtesy of Kancano on deviantart.com)