mouseofcards89
11-24-2010, 08:12 PM
*This is a double sestina, in case anyone hasn't seen the format before.
Waves whisper in our wake, baptising the insane
Our congregation is the wind, fire, earth, and rain.
We are a constellation of yesterday’s tomorrow,
Elements bear witness to our euphoria and sorrow.
Some know we are pilgrims in a bloodless pantomime,
Others call us heroes of a generation lost upon tides of time.
Our brothers were begotten upon a bygone and desolate shore,
Sentenced to wander the foothills of an anonymous land forevermore.
So bid farewell to this haven of refuse that we once called home,
As we turn our sights to the beckoning horizon, and prepare to roam.
There is nothing more to be had for us here,
For we wish to remain strangers to footholds of fear.
Our adversity to the whim of nature breeds a new incarnation of fear,
We behold mighty kingdoms reduced to dust upon shore after shore.
Denizens of the dust journey onward to their reward, yet we remain here.
The salty spray of the deeps is our only communion as we wander forevermore.
Two ships sail abreast ‘twixt the cove and the lantern as we continue to roam,
The other vessel’s colours are reduced to tatters, for it knows no home.
These are Vanderdecken’s lads, who remain uncompelled by time.
Liberty and death are one and the same when celebrated by the insane,
The wasteland in our wake is devoid of that which engulfs us in our tortured pantomime.
The yoke of our masters hangs heavy upon us still as we march through the rain,
As the road ahead opens to swallow us, we lament our folly, and still sorrow,
For former suffering is not what it once was as we labour onward to tomorrow.
A quiet shoreline echoes our promise of the bounties of tomorrow.
We halt in our odyssey to observe an incarnation of time,
Our vigil serves to extinguish the oppression of our sorrow.
For there, disseminated across the heavens to the delight of the insane,
Is a diaspora of dancing dreams which heightens the imagination like gentle rain.
The Valkyrior weave upon the ribbon of winding flame in celestial pantomime,
A soft light, reconciled with ravenous darkness, welcomes us home.
The gilded observatory, high above the tree that was, pacifies our fear.
We witness the serene majesty of our Queen of the Sands, destined to Roam,
Queen of Kings, our allegiance is to you, and the deliverance is yours upon this shore,
You in your peerless beauty and wisdom shall rule the hearts and minds of matter forevermore.
This Dance of the Spirits is for you, and know that We never forgot the There of Here.
Onward toward the Tower, for we may do little more in your service here,
Famine plagues our emaciated ranks as our legion of exiles pursues a makeshift home.
Though your memory inspires us always, vacant havens of wilderness are ours forevermore.
Our hushed intimacy with every grain of wasted eternity suffocates our fear,
Heaven’s harvest moves us still further as we stand upon the opposite shore.
Soft suggestions of the sands seem to spur us onward as we roam.
Though this metropolis of days innumerable shifts around us in pantomime,
We will live with no regret when facing the tremulous conscience of tomorrow.
As our hosts move along at the whim of the current with our backs to the rain,
The tears of fallen angels are vindicated as our minstrels subdue time.
The verdict of history will make us whole, though we remain incorrigibly insane.
The sole birthright of our kind is the perpetual pursuit of an insidious sorrow.
The Child slumbers (!and the heavens burn!) while mothers wail in sorrow,
The kaddish is whispered through dry lips as shadows dance in pantomime.
We stand grimly by, beholding the decree of the insane.
This martyred child’s whispers of revolution will fall upon the deaf ears of tomorrow.
Twilight does not touch the great Leviathan in the depths as it slumbers through time.
Nemo’s brethren imagine a great star from the depths, though it is just the rain.
Children of the Cave, tell me of those who go beyond this place and roam.
Though they struggle yet through the wasteland, surely, it must be better than here.
Will our pilgrims return to perdition upon reaching the shore,
Or do they find a greater calling in the high slums of a new home?
We imbibe fastidious fantasy, but, among the bottles, find only fear.
Among (ambitions?) such as these, we will run the gauntlet forevermore.
Our defiled dreams desecrate the Kingdom of Hell forevermore,
A great council of the damned advises us, and among them we will roam.
Our very own eternity inspires fear,
So abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
Denizens of dust and a wilderness of lust call us home.
The macabre boatman awaits upon Styx’s forgotten shore,
Pig to man, man to pig, paradise lost is recognized through the rain.
Today’s wrath is yesterday’s deliverance, and Fates know our sorrow.
Dante’s pilgrimage is lost upon this slave of time.
Spirits wander empty hallways in apparitional pantomime,
Knowing that they shall be bound to come hither tomorrow,
Though a plea for clemency would be the ruination of the insane.
The low children of a doomed god stand upon time’s celestial shore,
Their ethereal whispers motivate a blind prophet forevermore.
Searching, searching feverishly about an empty throne for a new home,
Only fools play with fire, children, and it is your task to roam.
Teach the blind one that ignorance is the only virtue here.
This place is the true Light of the World, and billions toil under misguided enlightenment forevermore
He stands upon the sun, and is no god, but is fortunately insane.
Amun-Re’s glorious countenance may only be lost upon the arrival of the rain,
Witness the heavens from this precipice of the passions as they rally for tomorrow,
And know that the only constructive, cleansing passion is that of sorrow.
This quest is in vain, for you are blinded by the avarice of this celestial pantomime,
But remain here for the interim, writing accolades upon the twilight of time.
We seek refuge as the storm draws closer still, waiting upon the verdict of time,
The sea parts forth to acknowledge our return, and we join the hosts of the insane.
Our number holds a vigil as our ranks behold the great creatures of the depths moving in pantomime.
The Leviathan approaches the portal between the worlds as we stand silently in the rain,
Though the conclusion of all things is fast drawing upon us, there is no time for sorrow.
The denizens of the Dixie Pig also fight for the right to tomorrow,
Though the Father will fall to the onslaught, the presence of a universal truth forestalls his fear.
Faith placates howling eternity as another soul departs for the opposite shore.
His parting words are scattered upon dawn’s first light, and so are but partly tainted here,
For the good intentions of a sweet morning compel you to reach for the top of your tower forevermore.
We have turned our backs upon the martyrdom of a morning, and continue to roam,
For the great fish has perished in the dust of a brave new world, and we must return home.
Forever we shall be pilgrims, though our hearts have found a home,
As worlds fall, and idle minds dream, we engender a new fear.
Conflict is the catalyst which condones our minds to roam,
For every journey results in our arrival upon a new shore.
Falling snow returns us to our senses as we behold manifest destiny forevermore,
No combatants were we, though the death of avarice ignites our passions here.
Should a still greater evil than this former Christian inferno rise tomorrow,
The means which achieved this end will rise with a vengeance in time.
This Lake of Fire consumed nothing; we sail down Styx with sorrow,
For the elimination of evil was the dream of the insane.
No world of finite absolutes may persevere through this holy rain,
Though there may be greater truth, this apocalypse was a farcical pantomime.
As the sun beneath my soles consumed the world in a gradual pantomime,
So I witnessed the embrace of a merged self in the wake of a forbidden tomorrow.
A more worthy Holy Trinity shall rise from the ashes and serve as a beacon in the rain,
For my brothers, sisters, and ancestors march now for a reborn Jericho past a pyre for time.
They said in bygone days that this procession was a devising of the insane,
But witness the purpose in their movements now, and tell me of the death of sorrow.
Now that the one true Sun and Earth are one, there is the potential for a triumvirate here,
As in the old, two shall be corporeal, and the (last?) brings with it the promise of a new home.
There is no more Self, for the once mutually opposed eternities are one forevermore.
Though bastard truth may once have been conceived in the silhouette of darkness and fear,
Wisdom is coveted no longer, as ignorance is celebrated upon this fair shore.
Our fair goal is within sight, and no longer shall we roam.
Behold the Golden City, where the arches once stood, and know that while we roam,
Our odyssey for penance does not acquit the sins of our fathers, and we remember them here.
We lay their legacies to rest, and set their remains out to sea from the banks of this shore,
So at last we have no compunctions about devising a shining sanctuary in our new home.
The idols of the past are behind us now, and, in the Land of Milk and Honey, no slavery do we fear,
But neither shall we emulate the erstwhile pursuit of freedom forevermore.
The spindle of existence is the crux upon which our covenant is consummated without sorrow,
For all uncertainty has been vanquished by the reconciliation of lovers divine in graceful pantomime.
The ancient and wise Son conditions the minds of the young, and rehabilitates the insane,
His celestial heat emboldens the meek, enlightens the scholar, and eliminates the need for tomorrow.
Graceful indulgences deliver forth new life from the Earth for all time,
So we shall rest here, and dance among the devil in the consoling rain.
But One yet remains upon the brow of the Son, and his tears will be celebrated as rain,
Youth is a celebration of the prospect of tomorrow, but a second chance does not disperse his sorrow.
So too does he abhor age, the stinking damnation transposed upon a presumed infallibility of time,
It was unwise to ever leave the moon, and his thoughts now oppress him in desolate pantomime.
This author of worlds bygone assumes full accountability for the culmination of pernicious tomorrow,
But onward still he nurtures the vision of the insane.
For so long as he might recognize the flower of his dreams forevermore,
Universes shall be generated from obscurity, and his mind will continue to roam.
Bashful musings of a youth unseen and still steeper foundations bring him no fear,
For he knows that there is everything to be had for us here.
So, as the column approaches Jericho by the sands of eternity searching for a new home,
The triumvirate is complete, as love anew compels him to swim for the final shore.
They arrive in the torrential rain as torches dance in gentle pantomime,
The white flower blossoms forevermore as they enjoy a brief respite here.
An eternal quest is both their joy and simultaneous sorrow, so their hearts shall wander on tomorrow,
Seeking all which is pure as they roam, so fates bless them as they are compelled towards a new home.
The one above all time expresses his all encompassing love to the delight of the insane,
Fear is no more as the Northern Lights play upon a parallel shore.
Waves whisper in our wake, baptising the insane
Our congregation is the wind, fire, earth, and rain.
We are a constellation of yesterday’s tomorrow,
Elements bear witness to our euphoria and sorrow.
Some know we are pilgrims in a bloodless pantomime,
Others call us heroes of a generation lost upon tides of time.
Our brothers were begotten upon a bygone and desolate shore,
Sentenced to wander the foothills of an anonymous land forevermore.
So bid farewell to this haven of refuse that we once called home,
As we turn our sights to the beckoning horizon, and prepare to roam.
There is nothing more to be had for us here,
For we wish to remain strangers to footholds of fear.
Our adversity to the whim of nature breeds a new incarnation of fear,
We behold mighty kingdoms reduced to dust upon shore after shore.
Denizens of the dust journey onward to their reward, yet we remain here.
The salty spray of the deeps is our only communion as we wander forevermore.
Two ships sail abreast ‘twixt the cove and the lantern as we continue to roam,
The other vessel’s colours are reduced to tatters, for it knows no home.
These are Vanderdecken’s lads, who remain uncompelled by time.
Liberty and death are one and the same when celebrated by the insane,
The wasteland in our wake is devoid of that which engulfs us in our tortured pantomime.
The yoke of our masters hangs heavy upon us still as we march through the rain,
As the road ahead opens to swallow us, we lament our folly, and still sorrow,
For former suffering is not what it once was as we labour onward to tomorrow.
A quiet shoreline echoes our promise of the bounties of tomorrow.
We halt in our odyssey to observe an incarnation of time,
Our vigil serves to extinguish the oppression of our sorrow.
For there, disseminated across the heavens to the delight of the insane,
Is a diaspora of dancing dreams which heightens the imagination like gentle rain.
The Valkyrior weave upon the ribbon of winding flame in celestial pantomime,
A soft light, reconciled with ravenous darkness, welcomes us home.
The gilded observatory, high above the tree that was, pacifies our fear.
We witness the serene majesty of our Queen of the Sands, destined to Roam,
Queen of Kings, our allegiance is to you, and the deliverance is yours upon this shore,
You in your peerless beauty and wisdom shall rule the hearts and minds of matter forevermore.
This Dance of the Spirits is for you, and know that We never forgot the There of Here.
Onward toward the Tower, for we may do little more in your service here,
Famine plagues our emaciated ranks as our legion of exiles pursues a makeshift home.
Though your memory inspires us always, vacant havens of wilderness are ours forevermore.
Our hushed intimacy with every grain of wasted eternity suffocates our fear,
Heaven’s harvest moves us still further as we stand upon the opposite shore.
Soft suggestions of the sands seem to spur us onward as we roam.
Though this metropolis of days innumerable shifts around us in pantomime,
We will live with no regret when facing the tremulous conscience of tomorrow.
As our hosts move along at the whim of the current with our backs to the rain,
The tears of fallen angels are vindicated as our minstrels subdue time.
The verdict of history will make us whole, though we remain incorrigibly insane.
The sole birthright of our kind is the perpetual pursuit of an insidious sorrow.
The Child slumbers (!and the heavens burn!) while mothers wail in sorrow,
The kaddish is whispered through dry lips as shadows dance in pantomime.
We stand grimly by, beholding the decree of the insane.
This martyred child’s whispers of revolution will fall upon the deaf ears of tomorrow.
Twilight does not touch the great Leviathan in the depths as it slumbers through time.
Nemo’s brethren imagine a great star from the depths, though it is just the rain.
Children of the Cave, tell me of those who go beyond this place and roam.
Though they struggle yet through the wasteland, surely, it must be better than here.
Will our pilgrims return to perdition upon reaching the shore,
Or do they find a greater calling in the high slums of a new home?
We imbibe fastidious fantasy, but, among the bottles, find only fear.
Among (ambitions?) such as these, we will run the gauntlet forevermore.
Our defiled dreams desecrate the Kingdom of Hell forevermore,
A great council of the damned advises us, and among them we will roam.
Our very own eternity inspires fear,
So abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
Denizens of dust and a wilderness of lust call us home.
The macabre boatman awaits upon Styx’s forgotten shore,
Pig to man, man to pig, paradise lost is recognized through the rain.
Today’s wrath is yesterday’s deliverance, and Fates know our sorrow.
Dante’s pilgrimage is lost upon this slave of time.
Spirits wander empty hallways in apparitional pantomime,
Knowing that they shall be bound to come hither tomorrow,
Though a plea for clemency would be the ruination of the insane.
The low children of a doomed god stand upon time’s celestial shore,
Their ethereal whispers motivate a blind prophet forevermore.
Searching, searching feverishly about an empty throne for a new home,
Only fools play with fire, children, and it is your task to roam.
Teach the blind one that ignorance is the only virtue here.
This place is the true Light of the World, and billions toil under misguided enlightenment forevermore
He stands upon the sun, and is no god, but is fortunately insane.
Amun-Re’s glorious countenance may only be lost upon the arrival of the rain,
Witness the heavens from this precipice of the passions as they rally for tomorrow,
And know that the only constructive, cleansing passion is that of sorrow.
This quest is in vain, for you are blinded by the avarice of this celestial pantomime,
But remain here for the interim, writing accolades upon the twilight of time.
We seek refuge as the storm draws closer still, waiting upon the verdict of time,
The sea parts forth to acknowledge our return, and we join the hosts of the insane.
Our number holds a vigil as our ranks behold the great creatures of the depths moving in pantomime.
The Leviathan approaches the portal between the worlds as we stand silently in the rain,
Though the conclusion of all things is fast drawing upon us, there is no time for sorrow.
The denizens of the Dixie Pig also fight for the right to tomorrow,
Though the Father will fall to the onslaught, the presence of a universal truth forestalls his fear.
Faith placates howling eternity as another soul departs for the opposite shore.
His parting words are scattered upon dawn’s first light, and so are but partly tainted here,
For the good intentions of a sweet morning compel you to reach for the top of your tower forevermore.
We have turned our backs upon the martyrdom of a morning, and continue to roam,
For the great fish has perished in the dust of a brave new world, and we must return home.
Forever we shall be pilgrims, though our hearts have found a home,
As worlds fall, and idle minds dream, we engender a new fear.
Conflict is the catalyst which condones our minds to roam,
For every journey results in our arrival upon a new shore.
Falling snow returns us to our senses as we behold manifest destiny forevermore,
No combatants were we, though the death of avarice ignites our passions here.
Should a still greater evil than this former Christian inferno rise tomorrow,
The means which achieved this end will rise with a vengeance in time.
This Lake of Fire consumed nothing; we sail down Styx with sorrow,
For the elimination of evil was the dream of the insane.
No world of finite absolutes may persevere through this holy rain,
Though there may be greater truth, this apocalypse was a farcical pantomime.
As the sun beneath my soles consumed the world in a gradual pantomime,
So I witnessed the embrace of a merged self in the wake of a forbidden tomorrow.
A more worthy Holy Trinity shall rise from the ashes and serve as a beacon in the rain,
For my brothers, sisters, and ancestors march now for a reborn Jericho past a pyre for time.
They said in bygone days that this procession was a devising of the insane,
But witness the purpose in their movements now, and tell me of the death of sorrow.
Now that the one true Sun and Earth are one, there is the potential for a triumvirate here,
As in the old, two shall be corporeal, and the (last?) brings with it the promise of a new home.
There is no more Self, for the once mutually opposed eternities are one forevermore.
Though bastard truth may once have been conceived in the silhouette of darkness and fear,
Wisdom is coveted no longer, as ignorance is celebrated upon this fair shore.
Our fair goal is within sight, and no longer shall we roam.
Behold the Golden City, where the arches once stood, and know that while we roam,
Our odyssey for penance does not acquit the sins of our fathers, and we remember them here.
We lay their legacies to rest, and set their remains out to sea from the banks of this shore,
So at last we have no compunctions about devising a shining sanctuary in our new home.
The idols of the past are behind us now, and, in the Land of Milk and Honey, no slavery do we fear,
But neither shall we emulate the erstwhile pursuit of freedom forevermore.
The spindle of existence is the crux upon which our covenant is consummated without sorrow,
For all uncertainty has been vanquished by the reconciliation of lovers divine in graceful pantomime.
The ancient and wise Son conditions the minds of the young, and rehabilitates the insane,
His celestial heat emboldens the meek, enlightens the scholar, and eliminates the need for tomorrow.
Graceful indulgences deliver forth new life from the Earth for all time,
So we shall rest here, and dance among the devil in the consoling rain.
But One yet remains upon the brow of the Son, and his tears will be celebrated as rain,
Youth is a celebration of the prospect of tomorrow, but a second chance does not disperse his sorrow.
So too does he abhor age, the stinking damnation transposed upon a presumed infallibility of time,
It was unwise to ever leave the moon, and his thoughts now oppress him in desolate pantomime.
This author of worlds bygone assumes full accountability for the culmination of pernicious tomorrow,
But onward still he nurtures the vision of the insane.
For so long as he might recognize the flower of his dreams forevermore,
Universes shall be generated from obscurity, and his mind will continue to roam.
Bashful musings of a youth unseen and still steeper foundations bring him no fear,
For he knows that there is everything to be had for us here.
So, as the column approaches Jericho by the sands of eternity searching for a new home,
The triumvirate is complete, as love anew compels him to swim for the final shore.
They arrive in the torrential rain as torches dance in gentle pantomime,
The white flower blossoms forevermore as they enjoy a brief respite here.
An eternal quest is both their joy and simultaneous sorrow, so their hearts shall wander on tomorrow,
Seeking all which is pure as they roam, so fates bless them as they are compelled towards a new home.
The one above all time expresses his all encompassing love to the delight of the insane,
Fear is no more as the Northern Lights play upon a parallel shore.