Title art by Scott Naismith. Click image to visit his studio.

 

 

 

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The Beloved ” The Sun Rising (Instrumental)”

 

 

 

 

I am finally at peace
Disaffected by the cruelty that I see
So long as it’s directed towards me
Then I can just ignore each ghost that haunts me
For I can now take anything that’s thrown at me
Wish the very best to those disowning me
Unknowingly, despite their goals
They bolster my belief
Indeed, it is because of fools’ conspiracy the bit’s between my teeth

 

Know precisely that which lies beneath
Know the darkness to my eyes bequeathed
Advance without a single sword unsheathed as I deliver swift defeat to shadows indiscrete for each time that they bid to creep
Can see them a good country mile away as per the crow flies
See them bleeding twilight into sunrise
Thieving from the light inside, depriving it of burning bright
At least, it did until I learned a compromise

 

Fear is no mindkiller when economized
Need not solemnize, or else be sodomized
Nothing left to colonize as light shines incandescent all about me
Ever omnipresent as I stay the course and venture forth devoutly
Many would consider me dark artist
Feel obliged to come clean, it has always been cathartic
My way of setting scene to the most dearly of departed
Each verse sincerely bled from me true-hearted

 

Been stripped down to the bone, my epidermis overthrown
Made to choke with poison oak
My secret garden overgrown
This is where I found home, once I found myself alone
Tears of sorrow wept in silence
No tomorrow, nothing timeless

 

At my lowest ebb, bereft of flow
Suddenly, impressed upon by distant lights of glow
Candlewax betwixt my toes
Discerned these candleabras
Leading me to harbour
In the name of my forefathers
Had to be prepared to play the martyr for my cause
To be adored bereft of all condition

 

No time left for cryptic clues
Nothing left, at least that I can lose
All suffering was inconclusive, buffering a rite of passage
There was pain and it was massive
All the while, remained impassive

 

Seemed to be no hope for me
Wind chill chiming my demise and groping me
Let low tide wash over me
Exhaled a breath and wept
Set sail in the moment to the one place where the only secret left in me was kept

 

Seeked the key
I found it on the top shelf, in the pantry
Turned it in the rusted lock
And now I truly get to see what happens
Learned how to roll eyes back each time they blacken
Learned how we slacken off the chains that bind us in our own domains
Blind us to our second brains
Estrange us from the soul

 

Every canvas wears our essence
Once we lift the curses, dress the blessings
Perhaps not be so quick at quoting others’ literature, when we can just as easy make our very own
Nothing veiled, no virtues shadowed
Daggers cloaked
Or undertones in whisper
Simply, something authentic and born of open vista
Thread the needle through its eye
Open wings beyond span
Paint the skies

 

 

 

 

Richard Charles Stevens

 

Keeper of the Crimson Quill

 

 

 

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