Lamenting Fallen Muses. (Long since dead.)

Lamenting Fallen Muses.
( Long Since Dead.)
__________________________

I tear out another half-filled
page, and wad it up to feed
the trash can; shouting bitter
curses in my head that I hope
the wretched muses hear.

Then I find myself once again
left to the sad statements of unc-
ommon man. ( that flock of
heartless critics shouting protests
in my ear.)

Art for the Sake of Art seems
senseless; similar to Life for
the sake of Life, with no comp-
arisons rightly made between
living and the Void.

One serves no Master but
itself. (The Other is a mere
Slave to some inner Faith
Destroyed.)

And here I am again!
A Citizen of some strange
world that does not exist
beyond fantasies in my Head!
Lost in the obscurity of
Myself.
(Lamenting Fallen Muses
long since Dead.)

Yet still, I should be a Grateful
Man! For I now have a full page
of useless thoughts to feed my
hungry trash-can.

J.Stephen.H.

A Song of Madness Kissed by Angels.

A Song of Madness Kissed by Angels.
____________________________

For years my heart 
has been asleep; 
from the moment her 
cruel mouth made a 
promise those dead 
eyes could never keep! 

Imagine being frozen
in the possibility of
a moment, chained by the
weight of an adverse
destiny; and wondering
daily where the time has
went.
(while knowing logically
 it shall never be.)

Her laughter is the Song
of Madness kissed by Angels,
dipped hatefully in a well
of inhuman mystery;
yet for all of this, she
couldn't be more beautiful!!
(or less a plague upon lost
men who have loved throughout
all history.)

I remain within my weary
Soul convinced, that I must
be asleep and trapped in
memories; still wondering
where the time has went,
and waiting for that defining
moment.

(which I know shall never be.)

J.s.H.

A Poet in His Own Time

A Poet in His Own Time.
__________________

A Poet In His Own Time, 
is a Pauper wandering 
Desolate streets, 
or through a Wilderness of 
Constant Rhymes,..
seeking Mastery over 
Beasts. 


(while consequently
feeding them his
Greatest Lines.)
_

A Novel more is often
said with Less, and
stated Best;
leaving many critics
to implore the Nature
of it's Jest!;.
which in truth is
a greater Tragedy than
any told before,
since it puts unfounded
hope to rest!

(leaving Death a 
Thing to be Adored.)
__

Neither Beauty, nor Love
are small matters; but they
have been done, and redone
so often that they seem less like
"Happily ever After", and
more The Foolish Maidens 
Crutch!

(worthy of a Realist's
Tears, rather than Joy
or Laughter.)

A Poet in his own 
Time knows how 
to draw the line 
Between Two Extremes; 
(but crosses it anyway.) 
and well recalls the
Infant Devils of His 
Sordid Midnight  Dreams!

(who were once The
Angels of Yesterday.)
_

Yet a Poet in his own
time, shall seldomly surpass
this Worldy Grit, and Grime;
or find a suitable audience in 
that Flock of Beasts who eat his
Greatest Rhymes!

For He is a mere pauper of
his own Dark Street..

( Lost in a Wilderness of
Mind.)

J.Stephen.H.

Break the Mirror of Yesterday.

Break the Mirror of Yesterday. 
_________________________________________ 

What good are 
Dreams anyway? 
When they're often 
little more  than 
shattered Memories 
Replayed! 

I would choose 
The Nothing  if 
I could. 

(or forever Stay 
Awake.) 
__

Today is a 
Reflection of 
The Past;...
and The Day 
Before was 
much The Same. 

A Door to Hell
made out of 
Glass! 

(where Nothing 
but  Shadows 
and Fog remain, 
to Haunt with 
A Love which
Never Lasts.)
__

My Tortured 
Head can still 
recall a Time 
when Life Had 
Meaning;.. until 
chaos came 
(devouring it all) 
and Robbed Me 
of All Feeling!

Yet what good 
are Feelings 
anyway? 

When most 
End in Pain or 
Senseless 
Rage! 

Oh, I would 
choose The 
Nothing if I 
could! 

(and Break 
The Mirror Of 
Yesterday.) 

J.Stephen.H.