Tag: spilled ink

Deadly Sin #2


Wrath, as defined by the poets dictionary.

Definition: What happens when mortals confuse themselves as Gods and allow themselves rage undiluted by servitude to a sovereign.

Other definitions include: Red pumping so violently that it lashes out with unkind words and unkind hands.

Tempestuous resolve to cause suffering and destruction.

Antonyms include: Kindness, Peace, Justice, righteous indignation.

Wrath only seeks to tip the scales and in that plunging down land with heavy fists on whatever it may.

– Vagabond Prophet

I have wept for losses kept, begrudgingly unlatched from this breast more appropriately called “slumber”. I’m no tractor I’m no horse I don’t have enough torque to pull this baggage. Leave them behind like expired spices, no longer seasoning or giving flavour, only turning more to dust with each passing year.

Vagabond Prophet

– Another sprint, hope somebody enjoys it.

4.5 Hours

4.5 hours sleep

Is not enough to support

Corporate expectations.

I’ll just hope that

I get all my stumbling out

Into this journal.

Oh that my sleeplessness

Transformed to black ink

Would take forms

Unthought of in wakefulness.

So I’ll bleed ink

Until the prolonged blink

Where they begin to

Carve my headstone

With keen edged tools

And heavy blows.

They’ll lower to the grave

Luckily shaped like bed

Then and then only will I rest.

– Vagabond Prophet

Remnant

Oh son with limber ligaments,

Elastic mind and sinew,

Let what remains of your youth

Stretch much further than mine has,

Let your vigour for adventure

Weather many winters.

Let your glittering eyes

Shine through every storm.

Spend your days in innocence

Picking flowers for your mother

And learn nothing of

The treachery of lechery.

Clothe yourself in all things joyful

And arm yourself with skills uncommon

Building bridges to others

Not walls to keep them out.

The flame that burns so brightly

If reduced to embers can survive,

Being blown into action days later

By desperate measures

From desperate lungs.

My lungs.

I’ll be your bellows

To forge within you

Strength I only heard of in age.

You’ll be better than me,

An anchor, a muster point

A lighthouse.

For those surviving the blight

Of those spectres in the night

And for all of them you’ll point

To the rising son.

– Vagabond Prophet

Thanks @josy57 for the prompt “what remains of your youth”

Deprived

Not enough hours in the day

So I carve into the night

With shrewd ambition

And blades waved blindly,

Forgetting its importance.

So many words in my brain

Rushing to get out

I see a splash and can’t tell

If it’s a jumping fish

Or just my foot at the other end

Of the bath.

Things in my mind stumble out

With little to no coaxing

Found strolling in cursive.

I’ve got battlecries pouring out fingers

And when the muse courses through

I’m it’s slave.

Take my sleep,

Let me eat not but toast

Allow me no reprieve

From the onslaught.

I can’t go back to drought

Not again.

Protect me from the rivers streams

Becoming desert floors,

I can’t bare to see the current

Turn to dust.

– Vagabond Prophet

Virgin Forests


Through virgin forests

And unplucked gems

Twisted vines

Thoughts do stem.

Stroll through winding trails

And I’m nearly planted

By the weight of glory

Pressing me into the earth.

Almost sprouting roots

And taking up residence

In the innocence of things green.

Step back, run home

Think about this maybe forever,

Famous last words.

In my comfort zone,

Where nothing satisfies

And nothing is better than me

Lenses only blur

And spinning the reel

Only lengthens distance between

Me and dreams of late.

Where my appetite can consume,

Crunching through anything

To enjoy a fleeting taste

Of something not even real.

Next time I’ll do it

I will spread roots deep

Shoot my everything

Into the richness of the soil

The only true kingdom on earth.

Keep my ideals high

So I can’t taint or splinter

Keep my foundation low

So I can stand upon it.

Finally find somewhere

For my teeth to be defeated

Turned to dust by a truth

So much harder than themselves.

– Vagabond Prophet

 Thank you @josy57 for the prompt “Virgin Forests”

Chattering

Sails flick while chattering

To the wind deciding

How to best throw itself

Into its arms.

Port rocks to starboard

And back again

While I’m throwing my insides

Over the rail into the sea.

Mainsail catches and off we go

Pushed along by nothing

Except the breath of the sea

My stomach as a sacrifice.

The water decides most things

And today to swell and fall

Bucking like a horse.

It’s just the risk you take

When you let her be herself.

– Vagabond Prophet

Deadly Sin #1

Lust: To be enamoured with rust.

The way that the seasons stand

Upon the shoulders of those

That came before.

In the end always toppling into winter,

As anything found in death

Must to death return.

Vagabond Prophet

Such a passionate love

As to spill past covers front and back

And into my veins.

So if I must bleed I bleed for love

Your sacrifice surging forth

From my languid vessels

And into plain sight.

Where devils and angels

Fly unseen by those of us with skin.

Vagabond Prophet