The day and his hunger filled son, feast on the night's decay. Dark rituals are spun as famine comes to play. The night and her valiant daughter, stand facing dimmer light. O' sweet moon lit slaughter may the morn end day's rite.
Just when early fear arrives, famished: feasting on abundant insecurity, hope whispers loudly to break free! Destroy the doubt.
Howling wild in thick forest trees ready to fade to ash and dust. Burn out bright flame.
One step, my love. One more step. Oblivion waits impatiently for your caress.
Bent toes cling to the surface that might fall. Do I stand upon the ground or the wall? Swaying in gentle breeze I brace to plummet fast, but land with grace if this dream deems me unworthy. Clouds stream with torrential echoes of doubt that nourish my inner progressions drought. The grip of untrodden steps fails - I wait to land upon the shales But fall upward into the stars. Free floating among the weightless moonlight, I look below with more pleasant hindsight. I was bound in scared appeasement - Now fear suffers a bereavement as I cross into my own light.
Evening sea washed aboard a tired man and his sword. I didn't ask his name. He didn't ask the same. He just stared blank at me then fell back to the sea.
Lift me up if I fall drunk on life's alcohol. I stumble, maybe trip, mentally lose my grip. Happy smile; blinding grin between fast sips of gin. Swallowed whole; empty cup. Love, my life: Lift me up.
nature n u r t u r e s man
man f e a r s death
death c h a s e s life
man e x p l o i t s nature
life k i l l s man
nature r e c e i v e s man
death l o v e s nature
Student b e l i e v e s teacher
Student q u e s t i o n s teacher
Student c h a l l e n g e s teacher
Am I to be poured of cold glass and dance with death in soft pink gin? We'll spin upon a tailor's pin wearing the tarnish of brass. Bewitched in gaze, sunk in morass, I tread both lines in mortal skin. Am I to be poured of smashed glass and dance soft with death in pink gin? Reaper smiles sickeningly crass rapping bone on pondering chin with a heavy sigh of chagrin. This moment of visit must pass. I am poured out of cold smashed glass while death dances soft in pink gin.
The Poet Armistead 