Where Darkness Wades

[contention]

We are sinners, so they say:
Darkness in the blight of day;
Without heart, cast of sight
‘loft between what’s wrong and right.

What hither lies, shadow spray:
‘loom upon a’ dying day;
Buried deep, throbbing still
Caught within nocturnal chill

Replaced, replaced, change of face
Filling in of empty space;
Left behind, shaft between
Scattered ‘bout against the seam.

Staring blindly, two eyes tear
Past the world that withers there;
Aged but by our mortal whim,
Ladled in the hands of men.

Lunar light, what doth thou sow
By the meadow, to and fro;
But is the lack from heavens heed
Of which your hands, do seer to seed.

Thou the poison, thou the sleep:
Swindled in thy tongue to seek;
With wild snap, gape of jaw:
Come, succumb, control us all.

Touch we dearly, drawn of lust
Or some forgot, begotten trust;
For He in His eyes held that face,
Till fallen out of Holy place.

What resolution reigns supreme,
But that within mine gifted dream;
Blessed by slumber, kissed in woe:
That of which the moon does know.

So does it hang, not by a thread:
But every word, that goes unsaid;
Like listless lips, parched and prune
Grazing in the eve of noon.

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It seems hard to really expand deeply on this piece, merely because it is but some mirror of jagged thoughts all thrown together. In essence, this poem was not made in one sitting; but numerous accounts of illusions and ideas. Yet, it is choppy in many a portion, and an apology to heed of the likes. In the matter of things, on another hand, this poem has a strange to see moral. It's real figure was supposed to lay in the sign of what the moon was metaphorically. However, the beginning of this poem denies that message and starts out by explaining something a little darker. That of mankind, as he is seen as a sinner, or so they or a religious perspective may say. This can be linked to the negative focus often proposed on the moon itself. Deeply, by the case, this can be seen in past literature that would constantly focus on the shade of night as nothing more but a symbol of evil to incarnate and reek. So hence forth, the first stanza gains it's meaning to introduce the much more satanical portion of the growing moonlight.

The second stanza proposes something more natural of night; explaining it as a surge of blackness against the open light. Slowly it burries away the day, leaving nothing more but the thought. Yet logically the sun is never gone, it is elsewhere and still beating. This is where the line gets its moral and meaning. The Third Stanza is in a very familiar state, recognizing that in gestures; the moon comes to replace the sun, and fill the seam of which it has undone. Therefor it takes its place and carries on it's duties, doing what it must to propose a nightime solitude. The next stanza, or the forth, gives the moon a bit more "apostrophe"; this is simply showing that the moon is given human like qualities to follow after. Therefore, it has emotions just like everything else in the world that is mortal shall. This help exemplifies the fact that it sees nothing more but a dying world in front of its eyes, slowing tearing away into something even more.

The coming stanzas are mere obvious statements to the moon and the things that it proposes. All by all, this poem is a insert of the moons own personification.

[Twi]

Another brilliantly written piece of poetry, deep with meaning as always, expertly personified. Your poems are some of the greatest works I've ever seen and each one is as amazingly put as the last.

This poem is one that captures the essence of the moon very well and in it's many possible form. Starting with the macabre and working through to what the moon is personified and it works very effectively.

Keep up the awesome work, Contention!

[contention]

Thanks for such there Twi Guy; very much so.

There will always, no matter what though; be those out there who seem to capture the essence of a word in one simple slip. As if their mind is nothing more but the subject, from the sea, to the earth, to the stars. It's that, and those farther on; that come to perplex the mind and string it forward. We, in our era; are without the fathers of our past. Of course, logically that statement is henceforth pretty obvious to it's meaning. Yet, further in, as society changes: it can be percieved that we are left in this brittle civillization. For days of the past were at one time, lesser of what we have now gained. Things such as bloodshed, poverty, kingdom and such on were growing, powerful, markers. It would open the eyes of those that bled, letting them seep their simple hues onto those pages; to make some torn riddle to take in the hearts and pleasures of those fans. It is that, which is dim in our daylight; no one can seem to contrast into a larger picture, something that wraps around humanity as a whole. Most poetry and prose of today seem to reveal itself in more personal tones, more inner meanings; things that can not be fully linked with anyone around.

You though there Twi Guy; have a most stupendous skill in the way your fingers stroke each key; especially in your story. Letting out the most mirthed forms of writing; tis that which lets your chapters flow. You show change, let alone the full meaning of alteration as you head onwards. It is difficult, some say; to really become anything. Yet you in general defy that motion by becoming something so large and spacious to man and beyond. Never let your spirits down, and may your hands always roll to bring forth the better. For it is that which has become rare; that which never should, nor ever could at one time and place. What we as humans have become, can be said, at the least, horrid. To forget each other, and plainly look with blind eyes on what we need and desire. Tis so, such the dialation within our pupils; distorting the plain knowledge we have to outdo those before us. Yet we deny them, we deny whom we are, all in some farfetched game of popularity. We are but in measures like that of a cup, filled with water. Till the sand sifts in, and each ounce changes the clarity of the mixture. As time passes, it becomes weak, unbalanced, miscalculated. It is not as it was before, we are not as we were at once; we are not anything near it.

We do bend it seems, on some unnerved knee to admire the ground of which some certain figures dance upon. Yet, we never seem to notice the soot upon their heels; we remain ever so unknowing. That is the game of popularity, of some peer growth that so many shoot for. Only drawing and writing to a certain "party" "group" or "themselves". They do not look for a deeper altitude; they plan to rise on their own strings. Lifting themselves up to what, but total darkness, that is it. I can not write as some can out in that world, there are those who can construe words from every other sentence; pulling together rhyme and heart. Bet that in those soft bows, lies an interior of a poet in you Twi; some mean to say what you feel. Yet, you always have, and always will. In some sight, there are heros of today; and you will stay as one, throughout the test of time. Woe and pity to the men who only do what they do, for the better of their name, and not their own pleasure of the matter.

[Midnight]

I'd really like to hear some of your poetry as music; it could make for some very inspirational songs.You're one of the only people I know who can write poetry without it being tacky.Far from it,in fact.Keep up the good work. ^^