FORM
And so, He heaved his last,
as petals rose from an obscure shrub,
hurrying out & hovering about
His inert form; humming song
to His lightened chest.
Perhaps, in hope for a beat or two.
The wind, he knew, so
with spreading arms, soothed
them petals, shrub they belonged.
For your Master's piece to spring to life,
He had to leave. He had to die.
A WORD'S WORTH
Find me words,
notes perchance.
To endure this natural high –
well above archetypal bounds.
Find me words,
that have left Time
gasping far behind;
for a cloud of Air, Water,
or who knows what exists otherwise.
Find me words,
to etch questions new.
Find me words,
to answer my eyes.
DISCORD
broken notes
shiver in shame,
for once they sprung
gloriously, young,
too hard to match.
red winey textures
now black in dust,
run in short,
panting breaths.
i've run too far,
too far from home;
now, i have no song.
IS!
Reality, by origin;
the plain act
of co-existing with
the nothingness
of a moving wave;
bland & moody.
There, on that graph,
regardless of the past,
nonchalant of the future,
music repels.
End of emotions.
Or so you think,
floating aimlessly
for a scratch.
Perhaps death.
Zilch.
It cracks then,
on the subliminal,
that much has gone
in thought, in digging.
And too little,
in the 'is' of it all.
I WANT
No want, no cry.
For the means to contentment,
do not want a want.
No cry, no grief.
For the means to a smile,
do not want tears to shed.
No grief, no death.
For the means to ecstasy,
do not want an engaged mind.
No death, no birth.
Lament, if you may.
As for the means to transcendence,
want to want a want.
SCHENEY - PREMIUM BRANDY
CANISTER STORY
CANISTER STORY
The night was tempest,
the grapes whiffed sour
and the oaks whistled silence.
But he lay wide awake, his eyes is quest.
He had sensed they were poisoning the oaks of Leopold,
to put his majesty to shame. But he was the chosen one,
for his skill to ensure the eminence of the oaks, knew no bounds.
He walked around the forest, looking tree after tree.
They got him surrounded, but he fought.
The warrior Scheney, battled with his last breath,
while the oaks stood shielded.
The Soul of Scheney still lives on,
in every bottle we serve. Listen to the wheeze
of his breath as you watch him quiver out
from the walls of your snifter.
Sip on and let him float. Feel his soul linger
around the corners of your mouth,
enchanting your senses.
The Soul of Scheney has entered your body.
Feel the story of Scheney come alive,
everytime you uncork...
