Creator / imaginer: Dabbler in art, literature and sound.
I thought decades healed me of your passing,
But it still burns painfully inside of me,
A rage, an anger at loss, robbed of love,
Your face is featureless now in my mind,
Time places a veil over all memories,
Is it healing, or is it a time bomb,
I have depleting moments left of us together,
All that remains tangible is,
This intense fire within.
That will never go out.
When I close my eyes, there’s a place I go,
Far beyond the dreaming sea,
Where the calm still waters ebb and flow,
And ancient druids call to me.
There’s a great circle of sarsen stone,
Arranged to greet first solstice light,
Where ancient secrets of the earth are known,
And shared with followers draped in white.
In a lake of wonder a lady sleeps,
Clutching a sword upon her breast,
The water hides the tears she weeps,
Waiting for her King to begin his quest.
I open my eyes, and I’m back in my own skin,
I no longer feel the sickly weight of panic,
I’m calmed by my kingdom of ancients within,
And my thoughts are now less manic.
The mystery dreamland calls me now,
As I try to stop my eyes from closing,
I write this verse through furrowed brow,
Time to sleep and stop composing.
A morning sun packs early heat, high in the sky,
After a dark night of wreckage and ruin,
Another mother mourns the loss of a son,
As crows cry for carrion on the green roadside.
My morning mind is lost in dreaming,
Wandering forests where the creeks are streaming,
Where the Wurundjeri Woi Wurrung people reside,
Across a sprawling ancient countryside,
Through forests up to Camels Hump, above the Geburrh ranges,
And back down to Ngannelong, or Hanging Rock to visiting strangers,
Where Kangaroo’s live in grassy fields, and their mobs all peacefully graze,
Along-side foreign livestock who eat away unphased,
By these original inhabitants who gracefully bound around,
While the laugh of Kookaburras, fill the valley floor with sound,
My mind wanders home again, across open farming lands,
Back to my own small town, where my tree filled sanctuary stands.
You can hear me in the depths of Winter,
You can hear me in the home of elders,
You can hear me by a baby’s cradle,
You will hear me when you are unable –
To take your final breath.
I am ever present, ever whispering,
For my name is death.
Today I sat on the bank of a cool forest stream,
And under lush green tree ferns, I began to dream,
That I lived in this forest wild and free,
And my home was the trunk of an ancient tree,
I spent the day searching the forest far and wide,
Returning home that night to comfortably hide,
And admire the jewelled treasures I’d discovered,
Then, the next morning when fully recovered,
I followed the stream right up to the mountain,
Where from its rocky edge a waterfall fountained,
After drinking its waters and healing my soul,
I read magical words from an old paper scroll,
I thanked the mountain for its bountiful gift,
Before sitting quietly to let my mind drift,
To get home I imagined that I’d shrunk down so small,
That I could float on a leaf, powered by the waterfall,
I was delivered home safe, gentle and true,
With a leaf for a boat and mountain stream as my crew,
When I opened my eyes to the real world once more,
I smiled seeing tiny footprints, and a leaf on the shore.
Forests have a special magic, and as this daydreamer knows best,
They’re a good place to put imagination to the test,
So, lock up my daydream in your mind like a jewel,
And may your trees grow tall, and your waters run cool.
Hope shines into the heart of new days,
I’ll heal in nature, clearing both mind and airways,
With eyes closed I can see the illuminated leaves,
In our own sunlit garden, on its magical trees,
With the passing of Beltane, happier days seem ahead,
Far from Queen Winter, the monarch of the dead,
Warmth brings connection, and opportunity to grow,
It’s a time to return to the me that I used to know,
I must shake the bitterness that Yule has put in me,
And start living better, the way that I should be.
There’s a lot of work to do on my body and my mind,
I’ve abused both, so it’s time to heal, repair and unwind,
As I’ve grown older there’s one thing that is clear,
All things can change, except the turning wheel of the year.
I’ve tried every day, but I’m cut to the quick,
Everything angers me making me sick,
With worry, with hurt, or with such sorrow,
For a world with no future, I’ve no hope in tomorrow,
I’ve had enough, and my own time draws near,
Soon it’s time to say goodbye to all I hold dear,
Although I love them, I just can’t stay anymore,
Every day I feel worthless, like I’m cast on the floor,
Of life’s editor suite, who doesn’t think I’m a good fit,
Removing my worth and my life with one simple snip,
All the love I have given, and the little I have taken,
Leaves me here with no ticket, stranded on death’s train station.
With this one-way ticket, there is no coming back,
For my journey is over, and this train is out of track.
A thousand memories, and a thousand dreams,
Hurtful ingredients adding sound to my silent screams,
Too long buttoned up, and for too long held down,
Battling imagined usurpers hunting my imaginary crown,
I fight alone through wastelands left barren,
Used and ridiculed, my mind is starved, left to famine,
After those who sort something from me all drank their fill,
I remain here in the dark, fighting apparitions still.
To save my heart and mind, I must be completely withdrawn,
I seek peace as I grow older, used, battered, and travelworn,
I lick my wounds, and I try to heal deep scars left within,
Those unseen by the world, not those left on my skin.
All these wounds that I speak of have come at a cost,
They are not badges of honour, but evidence of those lost,
Too many friends and loved ones have now left this place,
Leaving me unequipped to cope with the world that I face.
You read this now in a time of turmoil and of inner unbalance,
Where I drink poison to assist paying unknown psychological penance,
Filling my need to be numb, to fake happiness, to no longer care,
A thousand emotions, from a thousand thoughts I can’t share,
About things I can’t change, nor do I want to bring back,
From the lifetime of sadness, I’ve carried on my back.
Falling from the distant stars through time itself,
Into the deep cool waters of an ancient land,
Lost to all memory, a forgotten numen beneath the waves,
As eons pass the subsiding waters form a vast wasteland,
Miles of desolate emptiness, and beneath these ancient sands of time,
The star fallen sleeps, imprisoned within the dark restraints of dreams.
Dan Verkys 