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From oils on canvas framed in teak,
a goddess spoke to me in Greek.
A tale of light, the journey there,
seductions, greed and dark despair.
Of pages flicking ancient verse
though dead the bards, they still converse.
Where beauty waits, where I should dare
to face the storms to weathers fair.
Of those who sing, the light, rejoice;
to seek, I must, to find my voice.
To follow through, a song to where?
Whatever music brings to bear.
But where to look, so vast the land,
to dig a well in desert sand?
In hopes, a spring, the truth, declare,
to breathe the light from honest air.
I’ve searched, I’ve journeyed, how I’ve aged,
how I have hated, thieved and raged.
How I have faked the grand affair;
of pretence, I’m a connoisseur.
Traversed the lands and sailed the seas,
I’ve kicked the dirt and lost the breeze.
I’ve played the pimp, the debonair
and coward from my nom de guerre,
Temptation’s lure, of vice and whim,
how easy to succumb to them.
Enthrall, entwine, entice, ensnare
whilst angels cried, “Beware, beware!”
I’ve spat on beggars and watched men bleed,
heard children cry yet paid no heed.
The light from coin, that manmade glare,
my everything, my everywhere.
To hell, be damned, the devil’s bent;
well, so be it, I shan’t relent.
How dare you ask, a moment spare,
to mend my ways, my wear and tear.
What of it then! It’s my disgrace
if power’s won by trailing grace.
What breaks the soul let hope repair,
who hopes in wealth, who’d even care?
Am I not of the light of fame,
deserving praise, I’ve won the game?
Frame me in teak, let trumpets blare,
where seated on my lofty chair.
A form in stone of chiseled pain,
from quarried years, she waits my name.
She looks at me, that sculpted stare,
“Go tell your masons to prepare.”
Of nightmares, ghosts unearthing guilt,
out of the empire I have built.
For coin and light can never pair,
there’s only light without compare.
Of money’s worth, a hollow might
and nothing thrives in phoney light.
My kingdom come, in disrepair,
I should have shone outside the square.
I hear the scythe, the reaper’s toil,
let not the undertaker spoil.
There must be light, on this, I swear;
go tell the Greek, I’m nearly there.
a goddess spoke to me in Greek.
A tale of light, the journey there,
seductions, greed and dark despair.
Of pages flicking ancient verse
though dead the bards, they still converse.
Where beauty waits, where I should dare
to face the storms to weathers fair.
Of those who sing, the light, rejoice;
to seek, I must, to find my voice.
To follow through, a song to where?
Whatever music brings to bear.
But where to look, so vast the land,
to dig a well in desert sand?
In hopes, a spring, the truth, declare,
to breathe the light from honest air.
I’ve searched, I’ve journeyed, how I’ve aged,
how I have hated, thieved and raged.
How I have faked the grand affair;
of pretence, I’m a connoisseur.
Traversed the lands and sailed the seas,
I’ve kicked the dirt and lost the breeze.
I’ve played the pimp, the debonair
and coward from my nom de guerre,
Temptation’s lure, of vice and whim,
how easy to succumb to them.
Enthrall, entwine, entice, ensnare
whilst angels cried, “Beware, beware!”
I’ve spat on beggars and watched men bleed,
heard children cry yet paid no heed.
The light from coin, that manmade glare,
my everything, my everywhere.
To hell, be damned, the devil’s bent;
well, so be it, I shan’t relent.
How dare you ask, a moment spare,
to mend my ways, my wear and tear.
What of it then! It’s my disgrace
if power’s won by trailing grace.
What breaks the soul let hope repair,
who hopes in wealth, who’d even care?
Am I not of the light of fame,
deserving praise, I’ve won the game?
Frame me in teak, let trumpets blare,
where seated on my lofty chair.
A form in stone of chiseled pain,
from quarried years, she waits my name.
She looks at me, that sculpted stare,
“Go tell your masons to prepare.”
Of nightmares, ghosts unearthing guilt,
out of the empire I have built.
For coin and light can never pair,
there’s only light without compare.
Of money’s worth, a hollow might
and nothing thrives in phoney light.
My kingdom come, in disrepair,
I should have shone outside the square.
I hear the scythe, the reaper’s toil,
let not the undertaker spoil.
There must be light, on this, I swear;
go tell the Greek, I’m nearly there.
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