O Lord of ecstasy, of frenzy, of the unstoppable tide,
Look upon this withered world and laugh!
They have traded crowns for shackles,
Strength for safety, truth for lies—
But we, the scorned, the unbent, the unbroken,
Still raise the cup, still wield the blade!
Let the age whimper in its chains,
While we dance in the ruins of their shame!
O Dionysus, breaker of chains,
I sing not for the meek, the tamed, the gelded—
But for the wolves who howl against the night,
Who tear the velvet lies from rotting thrones!
The poets now are eunuchs, lisping hymns
To hollow gods of equity and dust—
But we, the few, drink deep the blood-red wine,
And laugh as cowards beg for kinder chains!
The certainty of life’s completion is as clear as crystal
The hubris of youth recedes with each crease and line reflected in the mirror
The days of childrearing are nearing their end
Many are content to sit on their haunches to observe and advise
I refuse to wear the comfortable shawl - to rest in numb comfort
I rise - I stretch - I pick up my pack and venture forth
I will die gripping and squeezing the last drop of sunlight from my final day
Death needs that scythe to cut me down
I do not consent - I do not yield
I am the shadow in the storm catching the lightning
......
I bite my finger nails, I gnaw till I bleed.
This compulsion is sporadic with no warning to heed
Just ancient headstones. With blood in the crevice.
Each jagged crimson peak like death on Nevis.
there’s something afoot, its borderline sadistic
defiant to the inevitable, their growth is persistent.
A slap in the face but a one that now cuts
Through the excuses, the ifs, ands or buts
They are driven by soul. their message rings true
That ‘nothing can stop me, not even you’
......
O Lord of ecstasy, of frenzy, of the unstoppable tide,
Look upon this withered world and laugh!
They have traded crowns for shackles,
Strength for safety, truth for lies—
But we, the scorned, the unbent, the unbroken,
Still raise the cup, still wield the blade!
Let the age whimper in its chains,
While we dance in the ruins of their shame!
O Dionysus, breaker of chains,
I sing not for the meek, the tamed, the gelded—
But for the wolves who howl against the night,
Who tear the velvet lies from rotting thrones!
The poets now are eunuchs, lisping hymns
To hollow gods of equity and dust—
But we, the few, drink deep the blood-red wine,
And laugh as cowards beg for kinder chains!
The certainty of life’s completion is as clear as crystal
The hubris of youth recedes with each crease and line reflected in the mirror
The days of childrearing are nearing their end
Many are content to sit on their haunches to observe and advise
I refuse to wear the comfortable shawl - to rest in numb comfort
I rise - I stretch - I pick up my pack and venture forth
I will die gripping and squeezing the last drop of sunlight from my final day
Death needs that scythe to cut me down
I do not consent - I do not yield
I am the shadow in the storm catching the lightning
......
I bite my finger nails, I gnaw till I bleed.
This compulsion is sporadic with no warning to heed
Just ancient headstones. With blood in the crevice.
Each jagged crimson peak like death on Nevis.
there’s something afoot, its borderline sadistic
defiant to the inevitable, their growth is persistent.
A slap in the face but a one that now cuts
Through the excuses, the ifs, ands or buts
They are driven by soul. their message rings true
That ‘nothing can stop me, not even you’
......