The moth of madness flew across my sky
Its fluttering became my wishing well
But all the innocence of youth forlorn
Forgotten dreams of love and foolish hopes
Became the beacon never ever sought
To follow there where all of moths be found
To skies unknown we must thus overcome
Our fears to find it all a vanity
Purported by the keepers of the
flame.
Poetry Drafts
You said I was cursed to love in darkness,
but I carry matches, candlesticks, torchlights, high powered LEDs, road legal lasers (and the ones burning truths into the back of your mind); I will love in light one day, one of these days, or part of a day maybe, mornings before 7? For an hour, or less? Can I have a passing thought of love and light, please?
You said I was cursed to love in darkness
— but I refuse.
There’s so much going on in my orbit, but I don’t know how to get there
Copyright © 2021 @behind-the-veil-of-sanity / Hayden Veil
Copyright © 2021 @behind-the-veil-of-sanity / Hayden Veil
A life at the end of the road, a gravel path
leading from somewhere to nowhere;
I watch myself watch myself
smiling as the dust settles,
the spring bulbs emerge from the frozen
and the summer meadows bloom.
I would be happy there, in the other world,
in their world …
meandering through the pines
and fir forests, golden berries of clouds
and golden mushrooms hiding;
I would be content there
at the end of a road
— leading nowhere.
Sometimes I just want to stop writing, but I can’t. What’s wrong? Am I addicted to words I will never manage to elevate; cement shoes, concrete boots and Chicago overcoats, all filled with words of imaginations and ambitions far beyond qualifications. There’s no ink to dry out, no graphite needing sharpening, nothing material to run out of; it’s the pit where words will never catch fire.
I wasn’t just having a bad day,
the last snow had melted and the sun
never rose above the horizon.
I wasn’t just having a bad day,
shades of grey stained the sky
and people faded into ghosts.
I wasn’t just having a bad day,
echoes of the perished ones
reverberated like gongs at night.
I wasn’t just having a bad day,
the exit of the labyrinth of night
was lined with gleaming knives.
I wasn’t just having a bad day,
blunt utensils and silverware
mixed with scents of cinnamon.
I wasn’t just having a bad day,
suppressed-memories jokes
lingered like mist in early morning.
It wasn’t just a bad day, it was a day
like every other.