Feste's Lute

Epics

We toured the ages
writing as we went,
scribing out
incredulous events.
Carved dark mazes in our rage,
conjured minotaurs from sage.
But dreamers melted as
we turned away.
All innocence must fade.

Imperiled

A simple night by far.
A thoughtful sigh
at hates left on
your plate.
Aye, on your plate.

Fabric at your thigh
aligned too simply.
A risk among the strict,
starred eyes stray
for trysts, careening
fingers twist
and softly sigh.

Just Learned What Duck Soup Means

I pledge to refrain from using it in anything that’s punny. Though it drives me to despair…

Another Angle

These are the things
(you know) with wings,
that still get in the way.
The slattern brings
a higher means,
sets nobler laws in play.

These are.
These scenes.
These simple dreams
of maps as cabaret.
So sing and wait
for duller days,
as such, someone
must pay.

Ion

Crazed,
the hidden mass.
Dazed kids,
their hazel ids
an energetic blaze.
Self, a potent
maskerade.
The hazy maiden skips
unstable states.

Hydrophobia

I was thinking last night about how Old Yeller is such an extension of some of the vampire and zombie archetypes.

The corruption of trust and love; an insidious change in what we once thought was immutable. It follows the branching flow of the (in)sanity mentioned in that quote.

Sea Foam Remnants

The ground was scraped away.

It’s over.
It was wrought
in other timelines.

Particles and half-lives
belayed our fate.

Other times, unknown days,
the vague scent of memories
decayed.

Branching paths beneath the haze
and limbs the winds must break.