OFF THE PEW

My soul kiss its way through haze
In manner of candle flames upon alter,

Surging through the temple doors in haste,
Making vent to what will knotty creeds untie.

The freedom which i duelly sought
In hollow cowls of old time priests,
Eventually offered me to naught,
But sallent nichés and sanctimony

Doomed in the chasm of lengthy litanies,
Lost in between volumes and phrases.

My thigh muscles wither at the assembly...

With ease,my heart's burdened by the flick
Of witty words which dangle like festoon
Within the nooks of its oral lumberooms.

To its silence is falsehood bound,
And its scream is but shallow echoes
Of its own keenest doubts.

Countenance portrayed in various folds,
Misleading like the face of an upset cloud

Gaudy glances from it pierce deep to the bone...

Therefore, if my head ever bow,
Let it be known that i'm not worshiping,

I'm expurgating......

Making ablutions from the sallying stench
Of every risen sullen tongue
Inclined towards me in judgement.

Now, I'm drifting through skewed doors,
Off the ambits of rules and laws.

I will again be joined to liberty
And the vitalizing Spirit thereof.

Mortify the letter of mortality

and cling to the mystique of The Truly Divine.

MY MYTH!

Born in the wild...

groomed among myths...

i am flowing words

like the dripping edges of a monarch's robe

etched in language uncertain

telling where the mind with the feet must go

spitting fire,refining waste.

i speak myth...

and the whirlwind bent to offer obeisance

widening its palms in reception of scrolls

...scrolls inscribed in fury stance

conveyed in cryptic signs the ancient spoke

I lived on quaint oaks...

yet like dry leaves,fell on black soil

among them that yearn for portends of  'lux'

unable to hold what i to the soul  purvey

my stature they loathe and to it they quail

I dazzle the mind..

I lure dreams to dusk,

I am mystery.

-Chris.F.Lucid

UN-ARMED PROPHET

He would visit his muse no more,

And un-cumber not a soul.

Wisdom shall be tangled upon him like locks,

thoughts laid untidy...every picture blurred.

His arrows shall return to their quivers,

and his ink be preserved lest it dry.

He shall now dwell with the wind

and can only imagine himself fly.

There is nothing left for him to do,

Than live life from whole different angle.

Expression prison-ed and freedom hindered,

Cursing cry where tears was few,

Scream of horror where it's scarce.

And paintings made amidst gloomy hue

Is the vision he constantly stares.