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Here I place my words
Aching to my bones And No Matter how I push All they do is moan. Moan as shuddering wood Bending; warped by the strain Too many thoughts in the attic Flinching under the pain The pain of loss without gain. Swords of Symphony Cut a Feverish Fantasy A hereditary, primordial Soup Inherent altruism wrapping A tap, tap, trapping An epithet to a recluse.
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 Be still. Be quiet. My little child. Rest your weary mind. Be still. And see. What will be, shall be. Watch my Lily, Watch my Clan, Feel my Stone, Moss and Fan. Shield the Sun, Its rays come through. A morning rain patters true. Somewhere a tree groans, And here it rests. Its branches new trunks, Its old trunks a new nest. I was born here, Eons before. Not this flesh, not this bone, But the soul it bore. Here. Remnants of the Old World The stories they once told, The threads they once wove, A torrent of rain now opening. As it unloads upon you To wash the dredge of humanity from your skin As I wax poetic, Faulty to the resounding roar. Deafening and silent, it is True. The First Law. The Only Law. I am here, long before and long after. I. Am. Here. Whispers from the Old Gods Before our constructs and our hubris. They will outlast us. As they should. As they will. And those that remain, Will return home. Their First Home. We are all Children Of The Wood. My nation is sick,
My brothers are dying, My student lies prone, Drowning. And instead I'm factoring your worth At a measure of six feet at a time, I warrant your voice, your name, your claim, If you thought to wear a mask in kind. No ma'am. You cannot approach me. Yes sir. I can hear you from here. To wander the trails Of the deep night, To visit my ents and my fairies, Then instinctively, immediately Pull my guard up from my neck Upon hearing others from long. Mask on and measure. Take note. And wait. Their gait. Their gaze. The indifferent haze. And I mark a stark Label. Vector. Infector. Enemy. Strongest I've Ever
But silent to the Pressure To perform, to side, To Stand, collide. A curious Genesis, A Sliver of Spine Behind keystrokes, yet no Pine. In the flesh to face, A self-righteous rat race. Wandering still Unable to kill His doubt, his line Without divine. Imperium calls Tear down these walls And look each other in the eye. It is here that I ponder,
Among quill and nail, The failings of our tribe, Erecting a crooked veil. They came, you see, Not in troves or waves, They came from basements, Their own personal caves. They came shouting hate, Clawed and vain, And we drove them back From whence they came. And for a time, The Enlightened did rule, But our tolerance, I fear, Has painted us fool. For in the caves and the swamps, Each troll we sent, Found a tribe of their own, Views crooked and bent. So when a bulbous fop, Appeared godsent, He was their rally, their king, their echo, They met. And our tolerance bred, An army of poison, Allowed their echoes without percussion, A miasma of what we thought long dead. A necromancy; horrid and true. And my pain is found in history's sake, When all I did was make. I cleaned it up, I tidied my room, And I didn't feed the troll, But I didn't spell his doom. And this acquiescence, In the name of Enlightenment, I fear has helped breed, The very nightmare we told would never succeed. When they were few, We were tolerant and clean, But now they are many, Views divisive and obscene. And so this Bard, At only the start of his journey, Hangs up his lute in favor of sword, And armor, and shield, And wades into the comment section. And in case the metaphor Has fallen unheard, There is no side but our fellow people, And the necromancers raising ideas that only hurt are no longer tolerated. The time for tolerance has ended. Ignorance and inaction has led us here. The war for the soul of the nation has begun. Time to crush hate where it stands. And maybe then, from the ashes, this Bard will finally be proud to be a part of it. |
Portugal. The Bard.I shout to the void, Archives
January 2022
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