Wayward Son

I wrote this poem thing something like two years ago, maybe further back, and told myself it was publishable. I’d hang onto it for that right moment. I then forgot about it. Well, today I recalled it (thank you Kansas (the band)), and reread it. Dayum is it pretentious. Perhaps the most pretentious thing I’ve ever written. Not publishable, but hopefully interesting. It’s so “in my own head” that it maybe reads like nonsense.

The Pledge

The chains the chains
Hark and hear the chains
The savior’s come the angels sing
Hark and hear the chains

I hear them well this sunny strife, oh glory, soundswept chains! He comes he comes, oh bless his heart, to cure us of our pains. In crude we bleed and stone we stand for penance harsh yet just demand, but sorrow sighs, forgiveness cries; I hear him in this land! Let Nowhere be a Somewhere now, a loving place an Eden found where we can all please live as one away from sin and summer’s degradation.

The chains the chains
Rattle in the light
The Wayward Son is come at last
Hark and fix our blight

The sun shines far in red disgrace, a cooling forge a listless face. A once awash in sin and rape when tempers flared and minds erased, it brought upon a vivid heat that burned away all grace and sleep. But now it cracks and melts away, ending now an endless day—the Journey starts this night. Our Savior brings a frozen love, a happiness and winter found, so hear me now, the Wayward Son! He’ll whisper gone the devastation.

The chains the chains!

The Arc is near and arcing here while chanting with cold metal. See the thermals rise in joy; salvation spites the Devil. Apostles wrought and with them brought creations for a world so fraught with sin and longing for a cure, a something better something more: to stop the faultiness of man. And now the fabled ship of life in shipment knifes its way across the sand with calling swells so far from Hell, halleluiah, please hear our reformation!

See the sea of might!

Massive ship with missing mast is pulled with love and windless mass. Crossbeams stretch with arms out wide, bringing to us children life. Above, above, I see him there! Our Wayward Son is brilliant fair in everything he’s bound to do, perfection marked with happy tears. See the sun bow down to him, setting red and burning dim. The heat is gone at final last, the Wayward Son has stopped our past with presents for our future too: He brims with glaciation.

He sings away the sins we cast!

Now the happy children move in dancing circles all but prove how right we were to raise our songs and voices high in praising thanks to noble heights. Stuck no longer in our ways, we move at last to setting days, to fix ourselves to fix our world, a second chance with brand new swirls. The sand now gleams in brilliant orange, copper flakes that rise and shake to joyful bursts from chilling works of wonder. The Wayward Son has stopped at last to perfect jubilation!

Hark this Godly knight!

The chains they fall as we all bow to he who saved us all from imperfection. We ring around his ship so vast in spiral furls of penance asking for the night to stay for cold to love and dreams to sway forever in our hearts. He looks at us with golden eyes that well with tears and kindness wise; his mouth gapes wide in wailing song that shifts the wind and makes the night turn long forever the correction. His piercing sound of searing love starts our hearts and fixes desperation!

The chains the chains
Noble wonder chains
The savior came he angel sang
Hark and praise the chains

 

The Turn

The chains the chains?

Nowhere is alive at last, found again and starting fresh; a brand new name of Wandering Child in reference to perfection mild a savior of all nations. Shadows in cast outer glows, I see this city thrive and grow while stars rain down in heavens sky like rivers made of silver. And there the ship is resting peace while all our world awakes from sleep, for Journeys start and Journeys end, but mind that not my weary friends, for tonight we all are one absolved in limitation.

Wrong invades the right?

But something isn’t quite so right, for joyful praise is lacking might. Apostles see and nod and weep but sing with us they cannot reap the wonders under stars which glide upon this night. I go to them; they turn away with stoic love and nothing say their eyes which crack and burn to pressures I may never learn in life. And yet I yearn to comfort them, for they brought wonder savior’s din which cured us all and fixed the Fall with perfect invocation.

His wailing heart is broken vast?

Worry is expanding here, a swelling heat with busy fear. Apostles search in frantic dance for missing love and hopeful chance to leave but forced to stay as Nowhere lives in great dismay again. There he sits, the gold is gone, replaced by fear and tarnished bronze, huddled in a darkness deep so pale and small and filled with grief that shakes him with a violent hand whose wrists are red and broken in. Singing screams hold laceration.

Hark this painful night?

The Prestige

To the Arc we now must go, lost in thought and body too. Apostles come in silent black, worry free but troubled yet the night still shines in iron deep with silver stars and magic free to fix our world forever. My Wayward Son begins to quake as we approach his rightful fate when wrongness bleeds in brightness hot like burning suns all casting rot to never speak again. Life it dies as corpses writhe of children small in mutilation.

The chains the chains
Bleeding on in spite
The future died relive the past
Hark this sorrow sight

We bring the dark. We bring the cold. We flee the sun forever old. An Eden once lived in this world, a flourish full with greens and blues where cities dwelt and grew and bred, but all is gone. All is dead. The Wayward Sons bring life to us in glory false, salvation lost forever. The Cosmos watches in disgust, our lifeless ball of death and dust which circles in the nether. Inconceivability bites in savage molestation.

The chains the chains
Slaving needed chains
Our saviors live and die and sing
Hark and fear the chains

 

 

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