Ashlar

Sitting on a bench, among these modern grids,

It feels as if love and nature are caryatids.

The passing crowd lost in their apps,

My mind congregates within its own apse.

Withdrawn, trapped in an oubliette,

A heart imprisoned by lonely regret.

Eyes notice rays reflecting on lintel, truss, and vault;

And the time in reflection seems  to slow to a halt.

The light cast upon each modern frieze

Causes all sorrow, and remiss, to freeze.

Existence - the contraposition is so odd;

Odd how life, and death, fill each facade.

The architecture of the city is a sacred library, 

And each structure is a book.

The bricks and their course - the vocabulary;

To understand one need only read and look.

Artists, authors, and architects gone and unknown;

But their lives - alive on canvas, page and stone.

Each projecting ideas from their own dais;

Each various choice and each artistic bias.

No longer alone, my senses and thoughts peregrinate;

But on one conception I continue to ruminate:

Although we may no longer have the creator's rivers and streams,

We are surrounded by contemporary creators visions and dreams.

Composed by: A.D.

A Stalk Of Fennel

Strength and violence,

Their words deride;

But this vicious expense

My heart must abide.

Drive the wedge into this breast!

For love of mankind

God placed in a bind,

With scourge and isolation blest.

Adamant binds hands and legs,

Bonds were forged by Vulcan's fire.

In the cask of hope naught but dregs;

Outcast, downcast, an inverse spire.

Adrift, aloof, in this barren sea.

Alone - no love, no sympathy.

Only debris, each new degree

Of acceptance. Hope is empty.

The ocean's and river's daughters,

Serenade me while in these quarters.

In this torrid tempest, this undertow,

Sorrowful waves never cede, only grow.

This lonesome spell continues to swell,

A sea of solace betwixt paradise and hell.

I'm able to see, due to my gift of sight,

That: just like the artisan of the stolen light

This deep love of love, within this mold,

Will leave more than the mark of a cuckold;

Unseen scars of pain, though anticipated,

Hardly bearable when generated.

Fuck it! I took the spark knowing full well,

What awaited... This torment, this cell.

For had I not know my brother's case,

To bear the foundations of our mother and space?

Though now the wounds are borne 

With a heavy heart,

And at present the weight of the scorn 

Constricts joy's art;

In the future the Thunder's storms will clear,

So here I languish till that day draws near;

Bearing the incessant stress on the mind and the spine,

Till it's replaced by ambrosia and blood of the vine.

Composed By: A.D.

Por Que

The choices in diction

The voices - restriction

Each decision a battle

To clarify or to baffle

And what's the motivation

Point of poetic equivocation 

When creating a verbal enigma

Gives birth to a social stigma 

Accessibility - dammed by intellectual

Abstruse leaves the mass obtuse 

Love - then purported homosexual 

Hate profuse - exposed to equal abuse

In a play without any audience 

The acting makes little difference 

Symbols left in the dark, are hard to find;

And even with a spark, are missed by the blind.

Composed by: A.D.