I.

Lingering essence of thoughts, silver-lined
Majesty, like specks of winking hope 'gainst
Still, black tapestry.  Words fail, so useless
They seem juxtaposed with that burning surge
Of feeling and intellect bestowed to
Famished souls yearning to devour beauty.
Gift of art, as forgotten as Odin,
Skies bereft of  your mighty, thund'rous roars
Leave the heart barren; the world cold, empty.
Viewed through a lens tinted by dread power,
Where is beauty?  Is it enslaved energy,
The structure which imprisons every mind?
Art begets freedom, freedom is beauty,
The eternal credence of the Grecian Urn.
Its words, indeed! - they are all on earth we need.

II.

“The world is made up entirely of things,”
He says to me.  He puts them in his closet.
Mankind will never be his own brother.  
I wander lonely through the snow capped trees.
I wander lonely through the desert sands.
I float across the dark, outstretched ocean.

We touched the moon, it became a thing- not
Of beauty, but of rocks and dust, dirt and
Stone, her glow quenched beneath a curtain,
Her spiritual essence crushed, a Goddess
Slain like so many others.  No one cried.
Man once again triumphed over the Gods,
Cheering in triumph.  The smallest of “things”
Had destroyed two cities and unleashed fear,
A God of our creation.  Where is Zeus,
The thunderer, punisher of arrogance?
Erinyes, when did you meet your tragic end?
We saw Her, who once bathed us in silver
Splendor, filled weary hearts with hope, instilled
Wonder and freedom in many dreamers,
Turned into a wasteland of dust and rock,
Hurling through the blackness of space and time.
Indifferent to Man.

III.

I wander lonely through the snow capped trees.
I wander lonely through the desert sands.
I float across the dark, outstretched ocean.
Skywards, I once had a silver companion.
She is a lifeless monolith, she dwells
In what was once home to Gods, who now near
Lifeless, ubiquitous starr'd graveyards rest.
I reach out, but I am still alone.
Living in exile, man sold his heart
And gave away his soul.  Does his ancient spirit
Still dwell in some ruined, forgotten temple,
Awaiting his return?  Perhaps he'll wake
The world again, restoring back to life
The bleak world, who with our help, tragically died.