Monday, July 23, 2012

At Large

At large is the monster of my demise,
Who wanders through streets with her lucid ties.
Fulfilling in the moonlit sonata
A cry of desire, such a salsa
Did one never dance as this who did prance
Upon my mind with shimmering advance
Similar to the oncoming slaughter
Of man who defiles his own made daughter.
Now at large is the one who stole my love,
Misplaced is upon the wayside, a glove
Missing from my hand, rain without cloud bands;
And now I am alone in foreign lands.
Yet waiting still is the bride of my hope,
Who braces me up, gives me faith to cope.

At large, greater still than this monsterous
Belle who did steal my heart, led me to hell's
Door and broke my lamp upon onerous
Thoughts so as to lead me deep into dell's
Made of darkness, light of despairing gloom,
Hidden inside such light, impending doom;
Yes, at large is my old hope, just outside
The door of my wounded vanity, pride
That grew in the night rather than the day;
Such hope is greater than fright that may fray
The constancy of man. Yet should the night
Give way to light so easily? What lay
Did prophesy of the harrowing bite,
That highway man who staid my now lit way?

Large enough is the shadow cast by him
Who causes light to seem at it's great height
To seem but a shadow, to seem so dim;
A deadly sorrow to men this cold weight
That sifts the ground for minerals and grain,
Who sifts for life, his own to sustain. Fright
Is prompted by such a sight to appear
And lead astray the hope that is still near.
But worse still is the one who comes behind
And steals the hope from within the man's mind,
Calls him fool, and prettily calls him back
To be her man; exposed to such attack
From behind, the shadow creeps forward to
Steal what it deems is it's reward, it's brew.

Larger still is hope cast aside, seems small
To the illusions of the mind, a gun
Hidden in the fold of man's coat to maul
The evil that crosses the moat of one
Who desires to remain pure and free. From
The side the weakest link seems to call, makes
Vein attempts to rally the heart; a drum
Beats in the heart of impending death, takes
It's toll upon the inner workings of
Man, driving him to his senses. Such love
As man does perceive without his hearts say
Leads all men to fall, to wither away.
Thus beauty turned is a monstrous offense
That borders the heart like a picket fence.

At large then are they who do strive to win
The beauty of God from the hearts with sin.
Larger still is the heart that wills beauty
To be what it was truly meant to be.
Blackened hearts cannot sense the hope that's near,
Cannot overcome their own man made fear.
Yet spring eternal lies within the heart
Of men who seek to do their given part.
Beauty is in the eye, held as a speck;
But is laid low by doubt, is held suspect.
Then be at large my hope within the fold
Of my jacket, from my pocket I draw
A weapon to fight the shadow's untold,
To turn from false love, and escape the maw.

                        At Large, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

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