Wesley Dante

Here ye come oh glorious day!
Here come thee and make thy speech
To whisk thy Majesty on thy glorious wings!
Speak not thy awful words of zest and
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Its status ajar, two less than four,
Yet the more who enter the less I see.
As one new arrives, the fleeting yellow light
Pierces my soul, and after one becomes stagnant
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The ebony coffin of hatred counts down my life as time.
It is the cubists delight lighting my downfall,
For with its negation do I find myself
A new and lonely soul in this world of ten.
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The principle of perfection
Is in the slightest touch or movement,
That astounds the soul and arouses the mind,
To make you feel what you could never believe.
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In the midst of battle on the darkest day,
I weep for innocence, I pity the brave.
I scorn the hopeful, I enrich the sick,
I pity the brave, I envy the quick.
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The first battle was a battle well fought,
Full of pride, the second was not.
Blind with rage, I came in with the left,
Like a common broom with me he swept
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The test of temptation
And the dance before the game,
Silence from the ignorant,
Pittance for the lame.
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Ever seeking but never reaching
The dreams of the innocent man.
Far too long has Time allowed
The blessings of those who stand
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Cool is the breeze that strikes desert air
When the sunlight fails to enrich it,
Hearty is the fool with tidings to bear
When the moonlight shines in the distance.
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Transfixed upon a serpent
The Hand writhes motionless.
An infinite point on a finite surface,
An eager yet stubborn soul
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My face freezes like so many white nights
As the stiff wind elicits my desire.
For pain and for pleasure on an eternal rite,
To sleep a dream and perspire.
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To wish upon a black night's moon
In the shadow of the deepest state,
To vow to never feel thy hand
In the subtle majesty of this date.
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