Who said the sun was life, and grace, and green?
That fire, so attractive from afar,
Burns fierce; and fiercer when from closer seen,
Blinds lying eyes, that hid what fools we are.
You melt beneath the pain of layers lorn
When light peels back your face, and then your skull.
To bare, beneath your bones, the words that warn:
“This ship rots from the captain, not the hull.”
An instant in that hot, actinic glare
Brings clarity monks vow their lives to learn,
Then terror at a broken world. Despair.
Then all is white,
And there is no return.
Ten years the iron tower stood alone,
To spew its smoke and ash and earthy waste,
Scour the fields and flocks to sand and bone,
And make a Stygian vale of this place.
Today the band of heroes broke their fast
On liquid courage, liver, pep, and grit;
Now they will strive within the pillar vast,
And leave in triumph; or fall seeking it.
In time a team will come to match the test,
Pass every pitfall thirty stories hold,
Enraged and tired, meet the building's best,
And still succeed.
Then metal will unfold:
A rose of steel, cut by a master's hand,
Shown to perfection in a ruined land.
I dreamed that writhing shadows wreathed a hall,
While celebration's song was heard within.
The lighted windows each in turn grew small,
As darkness piled up, then filled them in.
The music kept to perfect pitch and beat
While silence showed the screaming throats the knife.
The sheep and cows as one made their retreat,
And left the song the only sign of life.
The darkness rose, to snuff the stars, the moon,
And leave a world blanked out, but for the song.
I knew the sun would not be rising soon;
I knew the music would continue strong.
How long it held, and whether light returned,
I do not know. I woke before I learned.
Defeat shall not be mine, nor shall remorse;
No storm infernal matches my attack.
No heart is brave enough to keep on course,
And dare to match my terms, and turn me back.
I shall not tire. Neither fairs, nor ills
Shall once divert me from my purposed path.
Nor hope of peace, though every weakling wills
It, ever be enough to stay my wrath.
To speak my name, and "failure", is to lie;
To question this, is treachery itself.
For I have won, and even as I die
I shall remain the master of myself.
And on my tomb, they'll write for all to see:
"'Just one more turn', for all eternity".
All my ROW80 progress this week (other people’s) seems to be tied up with fear in some way.
Firstly, I finished reading Nineteen Eighty-Four on Monday evening. It was a lot easier to read the last third of the book, I think because the suspense of waiting for Winston to be captured was finally resolved.
This post is great!
Beyond my skill to say
In what degree or how, it touched my heart.
My meagre skills can only fade away
When matched with such perfection of the art.
Your obvious wisdom, and your silver tounge
Could win — indeed, deserve — more ears than I.
From rooftops everywhere, this should be sung,
And carved in stone to place in honour high.
So much I'd do, to share this perfect word,
And make your name in every corner known.
Awaken, ye who wander with the herd!
Don't leave behind a voice that stands alone.
"Just sign your name to this (yes, using blood),
And say the word, and watch the viewers flood."
Within my moment, all the world will change:
Past, be to Future, just as Night to Day.
O natural things, accept you will be strange,
Once nature's dusty rules are thrown away.
O space, renew, through to the Earth's own core;
Atom and atom, mote and mote, replace.
O substance of the Now, be now no more,
And all your risen symbols, now deface.
All stars and planets shall wink off, and on.
One fearsome instant, bare the blind abyss,
Then shine once more. But as they never shone,
For all their past, I have reduced to this.
A newborn time, where history's pages tore.
Now I can try again for HIGHEST SCORE.