Nocturnal
09-14-2005, 08:49 PM
I hardly ever dare to share my poetry but...here goes nothing:
Dreamless Crusade
-by Maria Ana de Castro
My life is a dreamless crusade
I mistook this summer for all the receding tribulations
Spaced with outbursts of scalding nights
And high days for drowning, in conscience, delayed slumbers
Reasoning hopes into a clouded hearse
That so far has traced me to a falling silence
Unto which I drain the vagrant silver-sliver of my nebulous nakedness
From a hurtful distance beneath leagues of sleet and skin
I am removed from thinly edged memories
Now that through gestures I read backwards the zealous times
That paced my deaths
It becomes (me) to slant down the disease
If only as a declaration of war against shame
Or to carry my beauty to where it won’t taunt me any further
Into an abject exhaustion razing me to flat sweat, preciously numb
As warm wine goldening the haze under my relapsing pulse
A formulaic monotone that has me cornered into a pattern
Locked within its droning agony
Round about flesh starved of words
I limp along stripped of ballads.
Petal after petal the diamond-glaze shatters
And I weave my heart to tatters for the sake of staying awake
A sober acquital incensed in slow flames
The rule of blood, paramount to letting go of tomorrow
Sifting through the burden of my grace
Another charm is washed ashored...another treason bespeaks
The tepid undertow of this battle ground
Inchoate pleasures disturb wounds upon which they pour
Uncertain oblivion
Lasting up to the ghost-era measured worlds apart
Where I am exempt of candour on a first-frost tucked bed
My whole soul spread to an aching voice
And the race of conquests drows its dreary toll
Within my veins so inspired to pound lettersm sinews entwined
The nightside of empires is ever fluent in telling me from virtue
Kind, quiet, still as sorrow:
I reach the stage of ships setting sail to plunder the wake
Of m steps on soothing sand
And pore all over the fires laying me bare on ashes
As always, I am a mute witness to dishonour
My own gospel marred, distracted into superstion
Spelling out the wholesome delicacy of my despaired peace.
Dreamless Crusade
-by Maria Ana de Castro
My life is a dreamless crusade
I mistook this summer for all the receding tribulations
Spaced with outbursts of scalding nights
And high days for drowning, in conscience, delayed slumbers
Reasoning hopes into a clouded hearse
That so far has traced me to a falling silence
Unto which I drain the vagrant silver-sliver of my nebulous nakedness
From a hurtful distance beneath leagues of sleet and skin
I am removed from thinly edged memories
Now that through gestures I read backwards the zealous times
That paced my deaths
It becomes (me) to slant down the disease
If only as a declaration of war against shame
Or to carry my beauty to where it won’t taunt me any further
Into an abject exhaustion razing me to flat sweat, preciously numb
As warm wine goldening the haze under my relapsing pulse
A formulaic monotone that has me cornered into a pattern
Locked within its droning agony
Round about flesh starved of words
I limp along stripped of ballads.
Petal after petal the diamond-glaze shatters
And I weave my heart to tatters for the sake of staying awake
A sober acquital incensed in slow flames
The rule of blood, paramount to letting go of tomorrow
Sifting through the burden of my grace
Another charm is washed ashored...another treason bespeaks
The tepid undertow of this battle ground
Inchoate pleasures disturb wounds upon which they pour
Uncertain oblivion
Lasting up to the ghost-era measured worlds apart
Where I am exempt of candour on a first-frost tucked bed
My whole soul spread to an aching voice
And the race of conquests drows its dreary toll
Within my veins so inspired to pound lettersm sinews entwined
The nightside of empires is ever fluent in telling me from virtue
Kind, quiet, still as sorrow:
I reach the stage of ships setting sail to plunder the wake
Of m steps on soothing sand
And pore all over the fires laying me bare on ashes
As always, I am a mute witness to dishonour
My own gospel marred, distracted into superstion
Spelling out the wholesome delicacy of my despaired peace.