The Green Veil
In the tails of heavy torrents
The buildings face a wooden chest,
An expansion to an end of feat,
Shock runs the gentle wave
And onto this sight
Madness,
Written and spoken
Soft and calm
With a banquet of lunacy,
The earth is born
And fed to the water,
Sailed and contrived
With the promise of genius
Through healing tide,
Sheer and sought
To the gracious union
Of the impetus croon,
As such fusion leads endless waters
To be spoken
And to be written
By the unveiling of the mind.
Motions by Moonlight
Resurrected,
The clothes of hindrance
Beckon to the droplet of chance,
A train, to the equity of motion, Powering,
In the first step of dividing endurance,
A thousand kings fail to rest,
The garden overflows,
By the windblown sea
A steely roost omits genesis
To mix with the clouds
My eyes blend to yield,
Drudgery torn to fraud, weary
Vigour erected in the name of reverie
A turn to old as such at no time finer
Breath was among desert dreams,
The wishing chymes of permission
Of vocation in certainty,
A pharaoh's pride
The greatest recognition alike,
To be resurrected, to the impetus exertions
Of hasty precisions
Unfolded
By the drunken lullaby.
A Stroll by the Moment
Down by the beach
Down by the youth
And down by culture of a surfaced epicure,
I hold a dollar,
To the lands I have not yet reached,
But look upon the skies as if all,
All behind the eyes
That convey a weight of royal sheets
Beyond a circumference of thought
In reason by flair,
Those lines amount peculiar
Of chronicle diegesis
That one ambler holds fair,
For it is heat and it is seeking
That drives pleasure fair.
The Concrete Tempo of Dolly Fair
Shall a requiem judge,
The hours upon which we proliferate,
Are we listed by sound
Of the squallers
Who brood by the musing to fate,
The trinkets of absurdity in a minacious pure
Rattle and observe
To dare not blemish
A reckon of fur to the congregate,
For to be,
Fresh to the lapsed
A witness to the steps,
A novice in awakening
Rest to thy concern
For be it of this day
A vested illusion
For to the selfsame,
The tempo of dolly fair
The bells of recurrent back-cloth fame,
Shall thy procurement
Solicit a step
Upon fathomable fame.
Lust before the skies
The curving touch,
Whiter I to hold
You to seek
Is bound to redemption, lost to evasion
A ponder of assignation
Is to the road
Of where shall we born
To come to such guileful favour,
For the curving eyes
That whiter by moon
To that assembling of lusting consume.
Darren Lynch aged 24 from Dublin , Ireland is a poet who for the last three years has been immersed in the Irish spoken word scene. Having a background in music , poetry emerged over the last few years as his main focus. Darren has numerous publications and is currently writing his first collection of poems.
No comments:
Post a Comment