Meditations on Death and Darkness

DO NOT SPEAK FOR OLD STAVED MEN

Do not speak for old staved men whose faces glint like tyres,
In the twilight of their years, they hum a tune so grim.
Their stories told in whispers, kindling ancient fires.

Beneath the moon, their silhouettes like church spires,
Stand testament to lives lived on the brim.
Do not speak for old staved men whose faces glint like tyres.

With every wrinkle, a saga that never tires,
Eyes that sparkle with memories, vivid and dim.
Their stories told in whispers, kindling ancient fires.

They laugh with the madness that freedom acquires,
Dancing to the wind's capricious whim.
Do not speak for old staved men whose faces glint like tyres.

In the hush of night, their spirit aspires,
To cast off the shadows, stark and slim.
Their stories told in whispers, kindling ancient fires.

So let them be, these merry old sires,
As they sip the stars, on the world's rim.
Do not speak for old staved men whose faces glint like tyres,
Their stories told in whispers, kindling ancient fires.


IF AT FIRST DEATH'S WORLD IS ROUND

If at first death's world is round, take heed,
Where shadows dance and silent whispers play,
A routed cock will sing for prayer indeed.

In twilight's grasp, where heartbeats intercede,
And stars above in quiet judgment sway,
If at first death's world is round, take heed.

The moon's pale light, on which dark dreams will feed,
A canvas vast, where lost souls might stray,
A routed cock will sing for prayer indeed.

Through time's thin veil, where ancient fates are freed,
The echoes of the past are not held at bay,
If at first death's world is round, take heed.

In madness' grip, where sanity will bleed,
And reason's voice is oft led far astray,
A routed cock will sing for prayer indeed.

So listen close, for it's the earth's own creed,
In life's grand play, we all must find our way,
If at first death's world is round, take heed,
A routed cock will sing for prayer indeed.


OH, WHAT NOW FOR THE FORGETMENOT MEN

Oh, what now for the forgetmenot men,
In a world where fathers jack all pleasure?
Their laughs echo, "Ha ha," and then?

They dance in boots of heavy leaden,
Stomping on dreams with no measure.
Oh, what now for the forgetmenot men?

With every chortle, they count to ten,
A madcap rhythm to their leisure.
Their laughs echo, "Ha ha," and then?

They sip on the nectar of a pen,
Ink-stained lips betray their treasure.
Oh, what now for the forgetmenot men?

In absurdity's grip, beyond our ken,
They find in oddity their true pleasure.
Their laughs echo, "Ha ha," and then?

So raise your glass to the when,
To the forgetmenots, in all their splendour.
Oh, what now for the forgetmenot men,
Their laughs echo, "Ha ha," and then?


O, WHENCE VENAL BODIES BREAK AND SPURN

O, whence venal bodies break and spurn,
In twilight's sickly, dolorous embrace,
What now for death but a new day made up from sickness?

The stars above in cold judgement turn,
As shadows cast by the moon's pale face,
O, whence venal bodies break and spurn.

The raven's call, a direful mourn,
Echoes through the void of this haunted place,
What now for death but a new day made up from sickness?

Beneath the earth, where the lost sojourn,
Lies the heart's desire without a trace,
O, whence venal bodies break and spurn.

A dance macabre, the world does churn,
Absurd the stage, life's fleeting race,
What now for death but a new day made up from sickness?

So sing the dirge, as the candle burns,
And time erodes all but disgrace,
O, whence venal bodies break and spurn,
What now for death but a new day made up from sickness