Rossignol de mes adieux

Quelle douce lueure qui effleure,
la fleur de lune sur ta peau brune.
Cet astre chante-t-elle son nom?
Comme le silence de la brume.

Le soleil palit aupres d’elle,
qui remplit mon ame de musique.
Je suis la melodie de nuit,
porté d’affections romantiques.

Comme les zéphyrs qui frétillent
elle dance d’un air que nul n’entend.
Je suis le rossignol qui chante,
pour elle de mysterieuses chansons.

Car tres loin est elle, douce femme,
son oiseau ne prit pas d’envol.
Car ceci n’est que la balade,
de la Lune et du rossignol.

Chante pour moi,
Kulundra

The agnostic’s prayer

At the top of the tower,
it’s empty he said,
There is nothing there,
your god is long dead.

These footsteps that echo
are none but your own,
eternally searching
a place to call home.

Where shall you go now?
You, with no respite.
Do as they all say,
Walk into the light?

This light is but stardust,
that which suns have bled.
The tower is empty,
your god is long dead.

Sing for me,

Kulundra.

Song to the god of death.

Like the darkened crescent haunts the sky,
the dancer flames in shadow.
Fevered is her whirling step,
her edge gets ever narrow.

Like glacial winds that sting the north,
the fighter pines in silence.
Hard and swift, like knuckle’s bones,
a monster: born of violence.

Like gloom that clings to forests old,
the hunter stands in darkness.
His eyes sharp pierce through life and hide,
his slings death with morbid prowess.

Like needlepoint on which life stands,
the surgeon cries tears of pain.
With fingertips like bladed death
he watches as life wanes.

Like the desert sun that kills the earth,
the soldier has no soul left.
Mindless killing erodes his mind,
he prays to the God of death.

Like the farce of life we entertain,
the impostor which stands in our face.
Losing ourselves in trivial pursuit,
Man, has fallen from Grace.

Sing for me,
Kulundra.

To her…

If I could find the words to say,

I’d say you take my breath away.

In fiery oaths that lovers cry,

In your eyes love eternal lie.

 

Our bodies wound in throes of heat,

Your moans are like an angel’s sigh.

They peal like pearls of summer rain,

your skin of silk feels sweetened pain.

 

My lips upon your skin they crawl,

your body arched with passion’s flood.

In eyes of brown, my heart will fall,

you light the fire in my blood.

 

Tell me there is aught you’d do,

but spend forever in my dreams.

I will not see this moment gone,

but hold you till our days are done.

 

I love you, sweet child of the sun,

your lips do set my soul ablaze.

For all my journey came to this,

till now my eyes, you still amaze.

 

I breathe your name when night does sing,

like laced wings of butterflies,

Your touch to me a comfort brings,

I’d drown forever in your eyes.

 

I sing for you,

Kulundra

Emptiness

The memories you find

when a world’s left far behind,
the poison that nostalgia leaves
will never heal a heart that grieves.

The moments spent in sweetest sin,
when lovers leave, when hearts are gone!
finding some new place to begin,
regrets as older lovers fawn.

For all the lovers in our past,
and sins we have not paid,
eternity was made to last
and memories never fade!

Remove the threads that hold the seams,
the shards of broken melodies:
of egos and of shattered dreams,
the crucible of memories.

Tie all together with your pride
a haven where your tears may hide.
Where sorrow is the name of one,
where wounded souls oft come undone.

Sing for me,

Kulundra.

Dream Weavers

Cobwebs hold the stars aloft,
as spiders weave for children soft
the dreams which keep away their fear
for daylight’s drawing ever near.

Slumber gives to those who lie,
a drop of healing in their eye.
On children’s lips where weavers trod,
Mother, is the word for God.

Homeless men find hearth in dream,
and princes in their sleep may scream.
The beggar then may wear a crown,
and royalty in nightmares drown.

The spiders net the sky with thread,
that draws to it small children’s dread.
Their teardrops cling to this small line,
to us they are but stars that shine.

Sing for me,
Kulundra.

At Twilight’s end.

This poem is written by the author of the Webcomic Dresden Codak. His work is excellent and deserves to be viewed, shared and supported by many others! So, I share his site and his awesome poem! (www.dresdencodak.com) 

At twilight’s end,
the shadows crossed
A new world birthed,
The elder lost

Yet on the morn
we wake to find
That mem’ry left
so far behind

To deafened ears,
we ask, unseen
Which is life,
and which the dream?

 

By Aaron Diaz, author of Dresden Codak.

Tinker me, Tinker me…

Tinker me a heart of gold,
and keep it like a secret.
When with you none may be so bold,
so as to try and take it.

Tinker me a face of wax,
and burn it in the sun.
for as the pain my body wracks,
I’ll know there is but one.

Tinker me two eyes of lead,
So I may not be seen.
I hide from others in my head
to reminisce all that has been.

Tinker me a soul of silk
and throw it to the wind.
Bathe my broken corpse in milk,
like the Egyptian Queen in sin.

Tinker me a brain of glass,
to hide the pain that’s in my past:
which echoes in my head of tin
and whispers of my tears thats been.

sing for me,
Kulundra.

Song of a woman

She is the bite marks on my skin,
melancholy songs in the dark.
We kiss and shout and fight and cry,
without her not a day goes by.

I am the violence of my past,
a beast that cowers in a cage.
It seemed I hurt her broken heart
with my destruction and my rage.

She holds a burden of lost souls,
a sorrow she can hardly hide.
We are both victims of the world,
pushed together by different tides.

She is the lyrics to a song,
unfortunately, it’s not mine.
My music echoes sadness still,
my muse one day I hope I’ll find.

Your melody is beautiful,
you sing to me of things untold.
I fold the fabric of our love,
our story will never unfold…

Sing my name,
Kulundra.

Rebound

This is the first in the series of three breakup poems…nothing morbid, just pure resentment and grief!

We spin in turmoil’s decadence,
a dance of sickly sorrow.
We weep in grief’s sweet penitence,
for there is no tomorrow.

Like dervishes of light we are,
contusions of delight
Though we may exude happiness,
fueled we are by fright!

For all the lovers in our past,
and sins we have not paid.
Eternity was made to last
and memories never fade.

A morbid stage-work done again,
over and over played.
Keep the scars of your old pain,
this time a different shade.

We never learn from our mistakes,
we live with the same fears:
then when our little hearts do break
we cry no different tears.