Silas Rosalie Dumont

Softly falling feathers
A vivacious red that stems
From the thorns of the past
The blood of yesterday
...

Decadent and opulent these joys
Reflect upon my corrupt state of mind
I pay no heed to prophecies of old
Over me no power do they hold
...

Peace it continually does escape
Our democracies dying in much pain
Darkness enshrouding the vox populi
Oh these darkest days, these most sullen times
...

In the cold white lights of a subway station
You can see the roots of an unnamed nation
A nation of the young who are sick and tired
Of being made to pass on through the fire
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The glass throne sits empty in this dark hour
Just as well, it would shatter anyway
But whom then shall command me through this haze
The foggy tendrils of smoke do encase
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Thoughts flowing freely onto the page
Like ink from a pen, splashing colour as
A thousand watercolours streaking gallantly
Through the powdery blue sky, that deepens
...

Deceptive the sunlight casts its warm gaze
On a frost-chilled town in April's late throes
Synthetically calculated songs
On the loudspeaker like a wire of crows
...

The world is ending
They cried out to the young child
And they were believed
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Can you feel heartbreak when leaving a place?
I remember the first time I saw that face
The rows of corn were standing tall
Raindrops pounding against the wall
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They shot some folks down in Buffalo
Scarcely three hours away
They ran over a family nearby
A year ago, almost to the day
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I think I may know
Why they call it a brainstorm
It really does storm
Because at each lightning strike
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Twas the latest days of January
The books began to close
A flurry of activity as
We were buried by the snows
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Terror-stricken confessions
I don't know what to think
The evil-doing rogue that
Once pushed me to the brink
...

Did he call me out of line
Or was I presumptuous
Why didn't I say my lines
Did I blank in the spotlight
...

Garbled signals coming through a handheld radio
Promise and then none
Joy and then anguish
Hesitancy and then eagerness
...

By Eve the Garden overthrown was kill'd
Though ‘twas Adam who truly did destroy
But since from hence Eve's womb life be trill'd
This tale thus used ‘gainst feminine, a ploy
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It is serenity and yet reality
It is class without snobbery
Refinement without an upturned nose
It is peaceful and yet not silent
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They bleached my skin
They cut my hair
To hear my tongue they could not bear
They took my parents
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Thou art to me a breath of freshest air
Filling my lungs with true and simple love
To be yours cannot truly quite compare
To the songs of birds, neither lark nor dove
...

You cannot eat a story
And yet on them I feed
You cannot drink a story
And yet they refresh me
...