Immortal Musings Read online

  Immmortal Musings

  Immmortal Musings

  Midpoint

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Immortal Musings

  Bard Constantine

  Copyright © 2013 Bard Constantine

  All rights reserved.

  Dedicated to the loving memory of my grandfather, in whose mighty shadow I gratefully stand.

  Lightning flickers in the dark…

  Be still, the beast within my heart.

  The Immortal

  If I could die, I would die

  to your laughter, fly to your

  polestar, float on your fingertips

  to the edge of the cosmos where

  stars burst like fireworks, and

  flames roil like waves across the

  silver-chased sky; where

  molten gold and crimson-colored

  suns set in the eye of a

  basilisk, the inferno steaming in

  the waters of an amethyst ocean.

  If I could see, I’d see fathoms

  of suspended moments, petrified

  happenstance, and unrealized

  intentions fall

  like diamond dust across

  skies of frozen amber, glowing

  fireflies that drift slowly

  into darkness, wings whispering

  softly as they expire in

  eternity’s cavern.

  While the sky rumbles louder, and

  the storm meets the sea in

  a clash of elemental fury, the

  sun softly kisses the faded

  scars on your skin.

  Your eyes speak of pain and joy and

  sorrow and triumph, the

  ghosts of dead dreams sparkle in

  the scorn of your gaze, and

  if I could change I would

  change for your smile; and

  if I could die I would

  die to your laughter…

  Reign Fall

  Outside my window clouds are weeping;

  their tears slide down the dirty glass.

  On the concrete drive they shatter;

  like crystal droplets of my past.

  I open up my door to witness

  how the world gets washed away;

  how the colors become muted,

  dimmed into these shades of gray.

  I let the torrent carry me

  into the sea of fools and kings;

  into the fathoms of the ocean,

  where I can hear the sirens sing.

  These are things that I dream of

  in the night when I am sleeping;

  when my ears capture the sounds

  of clouds outside my window weeping.

  The Dirge

  Upon a rock amid a stream;

  the lass sat down, her face serene.

  The wind toned down, the birds fell silent;

  the wildwoods waited, voices quiet.

  Her hair rippled and flowed like fire

  as she sang sweetly of desire.

  Her voice like razors, slicing deep,

  so that the sky began to weep.

  Her song was thunder in the rain

  as words of sorrow she then sang.

  Her fingers bled upon her lyre,

  and swiftly set the world on fire.

  Then at the last note of defiance,

  the sky sagged in relief of silence.

  And as the distant fires died,

  the sun shined on a girl who cried.

  City Heights

  They wash the streets.

  Disinfectant foam carries the scum,

  the blood, the filth

  down to the underbelly

  where the rats and disadvantaged

  lay their weary heads.

  But the guilt, the

  menacing intentions, the

  apathetic, misinformed zombies

  stay afloat, supernatant.

  I tire of the city streets

  where cowards run in packs

  like dogs;

  but seeing a wolf, they cringe aside with

  tails between their legs.

  Graffiti-ridden buildings

  are marked with faded runes,

  warning of a destruction

  that falls upon deaf ears.

  Where children once skipped carefree,

  the phantoms stand on corners

  bartering their poisons

  to those whose only wish is to

  float to their extinction.

  I am but a ghost,

  a refugee from madness,

  looking at the city heights

  from the sea of bodies

  unable to escape…

  City Heights II: Uptown

  The train is packed with sardines

  in business suits and crisply ironed blouses.

  Styles differ, but the faces remain

  analogous,

  cloned at the source

  of conformity.

  The Inner City beckons, whispers

  assurances of wealth and fortune if you

  circumnavigate

  the industries that collapse while the

  architects drift away under golden

  parachutes, sipping on martinis.

  Towers of glass and concrete loom like

  surrogates for the grandeur

  of mountains; metallic forests or

  prison bars for giants.

  On the Boulevard of Broken Dreams

  I sit at a cafe and view

  the woman across from me who smiles

  demurely at the slick gent

  with the Cheshire Cat grin, and

  eyes of perversion.

  She is careful, less her smile mar

  her Botox-injected face, the only

  addiction she has besides

  heroin.

  In disgust I walk away into

  the windswept streets,

  where every smiling face is a

  mask

  and every whispered promise is a

  lie;

  further into the city heights where

  the highways are littered with the

  fossils of those who paved them,

  forgotten by the multitude

  that trod upon their grave.

  City Heights III: The Skyline

  Steel clad giants whisper in their

  misery, groaning in barely audible murmurs.

  Secrets they have, knowledge of

  rising hopes and forsaken dreams.

  Ascend, they whisper

  rise to the skyline, and see;

  see the true face of the city.

  And so I climb

  like Jack, except my beanstalk

  is of fiber-optic cables

  that gibber with a million tongues,

  like

  the populace of Babel.

  Braving the wind, I sway on the edge

  of chaos and order, of triumph

  and destruction.

  Phantom figures flit about,

  borne on wings of bone and gossamer.

  They tell me they are the spirits of

  hopes, of dreams that were born

  only to perish before their time.

  Now they wander like the homeless,

  like hermit crabs

  seeking a new shell to inhabit.

  I clamber atop the Everest of steel

  and observe the city,

  the collapsed veins of

  the addiction to transportation;

  the shadows, the stalkers,

  the dreamers, the lost wanderers

  seeking new lives in a maze filled

  with dead ends.

  As fire in the sky descends, the buildings

 
; shimmer;

  towers of molten flame.

  And I see beauty, the kind an old man

  might see as Death approaches.

  The city is painted red,

  tints of hellfire and blood

  before night sweeps over, and the

  neon and phosphorous shine

  blindingly,

  glowing like stars

  that the walking dead

  are unable to witness.

  Christine

  Your voice was honey, wrapped in silk, and

  draped upon the beautiful songbird

  that lives in your throat;

  and when you

  sang,

  I knew that crowds would weep, would

  bravo from the floor to the rafters, would

  celebrate the confirmation that

  angels truly do exist, that

  miracles actually do occur, and that

  you, Christine, was their herald, the mouthpiece

  of Heaven.

  They can never know that the Devil, the Phantom, the

  lord of the stygian underworld had

  nurtured your skill, instilled in you the

  confidence, the conviction to be the

  Goddess that you are.

  I love you more than they, far more than the

  golden, shining man-child Raoul,

  (Who must die should he get in my way)

  more than all the words

  in all the books

  ever written about love.

  I feel you in my chest, my thoughts… my

  accomplishments, my deeds, my genius

  is nothing, less than the dust that is swept

  from the floor of the stage

  if I cannot possess you, have you

  completely, utterly mine.

  I sin with my lust, my jealous

  rage;

  though surely I deserve this one

  moment, this one opportunity at what was

  denied since the day of my birth, the

  only time I have ever envied these

  mortals, these spineless bleating sheep,

  who all have at least the chance of

  claiming what I cannot:

  being loved.

  And so this time I will not be denied; I will

  kill

  for you, I will steal, I will

  turn my back on the God who long since

  did the same to me,

  if it means I can win your love, your

  affection, if you can look upon my

  death mask

  of a face without screaming, with

  adoration, instead of pity in your eyes.

  Only then can I go to the gates

  of Hell with a smile, for no

  torture can be greater than my life, no

  torment worse than being

  untouched by love.

  From the belly of darkness

  I come for you, Christine.

  I rise from the depths,

  a mask on my face;

  a crescendo of music in my

  mind, my opus, my final performance;

  tonight all my demons will sing

  in a chorus:

  Don Juan Triumphant!

  Don Juan Triumphant!

  Black Rain

  Black rain fell from the

  sky today;

  I stood outside with

  arms outstretched,

  to feel the pain from Heaven.

  The taste on my tongue was

  bittersweet, the tang of

  good intentions gone awry;

  misdeeds mingled with regret.

  The world is filled with

  disheveled ravens

  holding on to the

  hope, the undeniable promise

  of the fall of man.

  But I, I have already

  fallen;

  therefore the deeds performed

  for the sake of greed and

  the empty words of

  false prophets with voices like

  sunshine

  are of little concern to me.

  What should be told is

  already known;

  the future holds no mystery.

  That is why reality is

  no friend of mine, I

  drift away

  on razor-edged wings

  toward the striated darkness

  where the dark deluge falls;

  my arms outstretched,

  to feel the pain from Heaven.

  Wilderness

  Lonely seas see seizures of

  depression in my head;

  demons take their chances,

  chance of living amongst the dead.

  Deadly consequences quenches

  thoughts of dirty deeds;

  weeping willows winnow mournful

  tears for the bereaved.

  Reaver’s whispered ruination, four winds

  carry out the call:

  Freedom is but promised, but not

  guaranteed to all.

  All always herd together, gather

  targets for the cue;

  amass our mass destruction,

  fire magnifies the view.

  View of retribution

  spews across the blazing sky;

  sky-way to tomorrow, sorrow

  blinds immortal eyes…

  Autumn Leaves

  The leaf turns shades of gold and

  crimson, blending with its brethren…

  The little boy runs in the park, laughing

  while pursued by autumn leaves…

  The leaf is touched, softly, slowly, the

  wind caresses it like a lover…

  The confused boy looks out the window as his

  home recedes into the past…

  The leaf and stem divorce; released

  on the sea of wind it dances…

  The frightened boy sees the monster coming,

  a heavy tree branch in its grip…

  The leaf revolves slowly, a nomad

  drifting without a care…

  The defiant boy runs through the forest, his

  imagination running wild…

  The leaf spins a final time, before

  collapsing on the ground, forgotten…

  The restless boy roams the streets, his

  dreams escape his grasp like mist…

  The leaf falls at his feet, a token

  reminder of his future…

  The somber boy lies in the plain,

  enclosed by autumn leaves…

  Lord of Winter

  He sat alone on a throne carved from

  hoarfrost; his breath ghosting from his lungs in

  blue-tinted billows.

  His arctic abode was vast, and at times

  haunted, so he believed, for

  surely he was visited by the ghosts

  of Misfortune and Regret sometimes, though

  he had long banished them from his glacial realm.

  It is better to live in brumal exile, he told himself,

  than to suffer the foolishness of

  Dreams, which splinter and crack like

  thin ice when I approach, and seek to

  collapse and drown me in the dark,

  chilly waters of Despair.

  So he built his fortress in the Alps of

  Solitude, with walls thick enough to

  defy the sun, a hiemal tomb for troubled

  emotions that he no longer wished to

  be troubled with.

  And from his vantage point he could gaze

  with his cool, dead, distant stare; looking upon

  those who frolicked below in the fields still

  green, as though Winter could not touch them.

  He curled his bloodless lips in contempt, and turned

  back into the gloom where he would lay upon his

  frosty sheets and dream forbidden dreams of the

  warmth of her touch, an
d the

  sunlight in her eyes…

  Spring Away

  Spring came to me with

  lightning eyes and flowers

  blooming in her hair.

  Across the budding fields she’d

  dance

  and laugh without a care.

  A winter child she’d call me, for

  my soul was cold and gloomy;

  yet she would take my hand

  and let her eyes

  and mind consume me.

  For she was wind and water,

  rain and roses in the morning;

  her arms outstretched

  without a care, one

  leap and she was soaring.

  And my delight was in the

  gentle thunder of her laughter;

  the way we’d talk as if we’d

  live to see forever after.

  But when June came, her

  disposition cracked and rudely

  splintered;

  until the day she fled across

  the other side of Winter.

  Brambles

  He was lost…

  somewhere between the price

  and cost; the brambles in between

  her words, inaction in the

  face of verbs.

  She sang of pain in pleasant

  voices, showed him

  scars born of her choices;

  borne on her shoulders was

  the beast, the indecisions

  that would feast upon intentions

  in the past, the hopes she

  shattered,

  brittle glass was less fragile

  than all her feelings, her history

  of double dealings, the

  complex weaving of her pain,

  her unshed tears would

  make the rain

  jealous if ever they

  would fall, if ever he would

  hear her call

  his name in love

  he’d sell his soul, to no avail

  to no control, for she was like the

  fickle muse, her words were

  weapons, were her ruse, her

  means of dealing with the

  pain,

  she stabbed him

  time and time again, until

  at last he turned away, he

  blindly staggered toward

  the day, the light that she