The Tome Of Storms
And so the miserable wanderer
comes to the stone garden, sits and reads that tome
of storms, as honour-less men scurry about like insects
in the desert, finding rocks
under which they might hide their treacheries
beneath the glaring truth of the sun's wrath.
My heart trembles at the icy clasp of hate
even in the heat of the noonday sun.
You are everything, and everyone.
The ashes of pariahs drift by
on the summer's breeze,
and I inhale them, the familiar stench
of heedless judgment and betrayals.
On my chest I carry the insignia of the gods -
Truth, stitched in thread, covering hapless
flesh, tested and burned by the withering world.
I am the arbiter of hidden condemnations
as I observe the would-be friend
hiding his iniquities behind a cloak of righteousness,
bright eyes turned heavenwards, seeking God.
Do you believe he forgives hypocrites any more than I?
You are an empty face, less than a mask,
behind which lurks nothing but tawdry appetites.
.Your own condemnations slide off like water on rock
As I observe the futility of your sharpness to pierce
these hallowed walls.
and in your moment of loss you
turned away, and show the dagger
you hid behind your back.
As waves of hurt radiated from what you wished,
unfulfilled upon the passing of days.
You walk about like a blind man
groping out to the sides as though to guide
you along narrow halls. But the world is wide
and your path has led, inevitably, to me.
Burned beyond recognition, you seek renewal,
but look at me and know there is no rebirth.
Look at me. There is no resurrection.
Look at me, as tears fall to the ground
to drown my feet.
Look at me. You cannot hide.
Our paths have intersected, here in this desert;
no one of worth will ever mourn you.
You hide the realities
of your truth beneath a rock, hiding your ugliness
from the world. But soon you will have to do what you fear:
you will admit what you have done
and look me in the eye. And as you
wither to nothingness, I speak.
And I will tell you the manner
of all things in definite proof,
here in this ordered row of stones
bleeding with the silence of the dawn
of worlds. A cold wind is blowing
in the changing world.
And as you accept the chaos of truth,
with bitter coughs and tears
you shall find no mercy in me,
For many are the things I have learned
from that tome of storms.
Forgiveness was not one of them.
I will breathe out your ashes
and scatter your ruin to the winds,
offering my insincere sympathies
in the dissolution of your hopes.
And you will find your company,
in the ash and detritus of traitors
and fools. The silence and speech
of your duplicitous days at last fall
to the emptiness of broken dreams.
And with but a breath and curse,
you become just a ripple in time.
You are nothing. You are no one.
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Comments about this poem (The Tome Of Storms by Landred Vhael )
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(14 October 1888 – 9 January 1923)
(8 February 1911 – 6 October 1979)
(23 January 1861 - 2 Apirl 1931)
(27 December 1797 – 15 February 1869)
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