William Blake was an English poet, painter, and printmaker. Largely unrecognized during his lifetime, Blake is now considered a seminal figure in the history of both the poetry and visual arts of the Romantic Age.
Published on Sun, 1st Feb 2026 at 23:59
A stillness found my form,
flailing silently away;
fame, a fickle food,
conferred the chosen day.
Crumbs of graceless photos
furnish the scrolling plays,
and then came the hawks
to denude the welcome stay!
Pieces of my soul adrift,
yet quietly, my
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Published on Sun, 1st Feb 2026 at 02:09
Death is a common fight
we find within the light;
do you jest?
or stay your hand?
an ocean reeps the floor,
with little chance of succour;
and what of tomorrow?
Death is a common fight
we crown before the night;
do you prevail?
or flaunt your coronet?
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Published on Tue, 27th Jan 2026 at 13:02
All but left is ashamed;
death and all her games
leaves life a cherished play,
in anguish ... yet decayed.
This labyrinth of time
yields plenty to enclasp;
but death and all her games
comes crawling with a tax.
All but left is ashamed;
death and all her
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Published on Tue, 27th Jan 2026 at 00:19
Death is sick; a silhouette sprig of life begets a shield; what more of thee? Drunk on blood, their sins forgiven? ghosts shalt not see the trees. Empty thrones forget the truce; therein lies the innocence of youth. Death is sick; what hand is left to play?
Published on Sun, 16th Nov 2025 at 00:54
Assail me, and beat me ... sign;
I am the glass that keeps the mind.
Regale me, and picture ... find;
I am the hand that bleeds the time.
Fail me, and listen ... mime;
I am the heart that beats the rhyme.
Assail me, and fight me ... fine;
I am the glass that keeps the
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Published on Wed, 29th Oct 2025 at 00:15
Effulgent, her smile; soft and warm,
where sunlight wraps its soul ... behold!
Weary, yet dogged, the moon does ache;
what of her day will grace this heart?
Vast, yet sewn, these swathes of trees;
deeper from me, her lies do bleed.
Effulgent, her smile; sweet, but worn,
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Published on Sun, 19th Oct 2025 at 23:19
Perennial streams bore a son,
riven beyond their dreams; ramparts
kept his goals at bay, in a citadel
born from timidity.
Abode there, as he is, as sandstone
withers in peace; dust and tears
gather in frames, whose memories
have yet to be born.
Perennial
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Published on Fri, 10th Oct 2025 at 23:06
Pink blossoms
within a veil of apples,
effaced my fears ... begone!
what tender heart begat thee?
I must find her time!
yet sap ascends on broken arms
whose relics lay wasting
upon the sod;
have I spring
to lay thanks to thee?
have I spring to
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Published on Thu, 9th Oct 2025 at 07:51
She lays in wait, my timid friend,
and sits on a happy end.
Watching, and waiting,
with boundless faith;
will fate bend
to her heart?
this diffident youth prevails
under fallacies of fear;
what remains of me is still unclear,
yet still she waits,
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Published on Wed, 8th Oct 2025 at 22:46
Execrable words upon my walls, their tarrying unknown! this solitary path bedevils me, yet what of you remains? this earnest heart continues, but not without regret, and upon the pastures, my heart does fill; where to hang upon my walls?
Published on Sun, 5th Oct 2025 at 23:31
Falling leaves
under a mundane sky;
their time will come again ...
this veil of rain becomes me,
in a maudlin sort of way,
as summer departs in triumph,
with a haven still unknown.
Fallen leaves
under good tidings feet;
their heart prevails again ...
much
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Published on Fri, 5th Sep 2025 at 01:00
Why am I so different?
Is it my mind, heart, or soul?
When will this madness end?
What will be the toll?
I am further away from my youth,
and fewer days latch to any sense;
yet onward, I continue;
Why am I so different?
I am shunned by differing
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Published on Wed, 20th Aug 2025 at 23:04
Low upon the lake, a docile crescent moon;
abash, yet stolid, and luminous to a fault.
The stars lay silent, affixed upon the sky,
and this thespian claims the night,
as a daughter purloins the south.
What of the black dahlias?
in repose they haunt the fields
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Published on Wed, 20th Aug 2025 at 16:20
Hollow dreams awaken me
from an anxious sleep; opaque skies
cloud the arcane sun, and what looms
is crushed beneath my soul.
Velvet rays dry my eyes, as yearning
beats no more; madness lingers, but not
what's seen, and cerulean skies
cast the pastures
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Published on Tue, 19th Aug 2025 at 23:07
What game do true lovers have?
garish clothes unlike any of mine?
what ambient waves unfurl the sheets
and beget a dream
still wasted on the young?
Look at me! they scream and plead;
photos capture the naked truth
and thread the walls on desperate screens;
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A Poison Tree
25th May 2025 at 14:39
