Guided Effort (day 3079)

Each bound of this effort
Shall be guided by an ethic
Thick and strong
And learned from teachers
Who have passed the cosmic test
Of ethically moraly taut strings
That have tested each suitor
Teetering on the brink
Of life’s precipice
In an act so noble
So filled with gravitas
So acutely aware and attentive
That each scope and legend
Becomes unto itself
An aura of valiant deed
To guide this said effort.

Fond of a Maiden (day 1101)

When wanderers showed me another decision,
A lane up ahead lifted options adieu.
Where once was a path littered with madness unforgiven,
Turned swiftly to a road which lost was a given.
Down, through, and past ghouls where I roamed
A length I did witness had I hardly been borne.
Beyond intents, beyond deliberation
I was lost in a path for forever ambition.
Launched into desires like a reflection upon me
I shared all I had with a widow of seven.
She laughed at my folly through havens and glens
That caused me much heartache of which I’m still shaken.
I was laughing at the tragedy I’d been witness,
In all of my givens I was never victim,
Save only of dreaming eternal desires.
Here was my folly; deeper than madness,
Here was the road I had swiftly been given.
To which [luckily] my stars had been lifted to heaven
Aloud as I lay beneath all these twilights.
Then at once – without warning –
As I kissed my last maiden goodbye
I witnessed what I had openly given.
Shared with my gallantry: a picnic in the glen,
A light long been forsaken.
Here I was dined like a royal brandy-wine
A Mister to a noblette, a guru to affect.
Like my littered path of madness unforgiven,
I was handed a chance of a rosy countenance.
Here I was left as if struck by forever,
Struck daft by the eyes of life’s fairer.
So out of my lands I had mended and mined,
Through wild abandon chalked plenty with lust.
I found I had seen what’s never forgotten.
Here I was. Here I decided. And here
I lept at the chance to grow fond of a maiden.

Ambition’s Race (day 819)

It is not I who shelter your conscience from the bitter truth of denial
It is not my sword that slays last hopes in fitful cries about bloody battle grounds
It is not my spells which sheath truth to avoid speaking amongst those who whisper wrongs by name
Nor is it the timbstrels who dance around the spoils of victory
That shake the knees of that noble fervor so deeply rooted in passions teeth
It is the lofty words of treachery and treason that curse the steeds of ambition’s race

Waiting for the Spirit (day 529)

I grow patient as I roam across the tundra
Waiting for the spirit to knock me over
An instance I know will never occur
Lest I be fruitful in my efforts spoils
Take on the wayward glances
Ye mighty soldier of futures designs

Put down your walking stick
And pull through the open doors
Do not lay down yer tired shoulders
Keep the noble dresser in his tight pants