Graceful as a falcon
Graceful as the flaming chariot great Apollo draws,
allowing the moon to retire.
Graceful as an angel upon Heaven’s throne
watching over creation.
Graceful as the moving planets
forever turning around the sun.
Sinful as the soul of a murderer.
Sinful as the bad thoughts after anger.
Halt! Something’s wrong!
Graceful as a dancing butterfly.
Graceful as a cat in the sunplaying with a drifting feather.
--
The above poem is based on one that was given to us in creative writing.
11th February 2010 - Saxon Walker
Freedom
Break down the crumbling walls
of self regret to face the light, self
redemption is held within the chambers
of the heart. Private barriers of
darkness are made of glass,
reflecting the outisde world through distortion.
Break the chains that bind you
and let your soul fly free, the way it was born
to do, reach the heavens.
Unleash your dreams. The only thing
stopping you is yourself; it is up to you to
release the light that shines within.
I am but your inspiration, your muse,
your guide.
Your promise of eternity.
11th December 2009 - Saxon Walker
The Chess Game
Moonlight drifted in through the large windows, mingling with the dancing fire light as it hit the floor. Old book covers coated in dust lined the walls, stacked upon old shelves of a dark oak. Some of the books had been read recently, the dark greens and reds of the spines standing out against the others, whose colours were obscured by the thick layer of age old dust. There seemed to be no pattern to the books read, almost as if they had been pulled out at random, the glittering gold titled printed down the spines having nothing in common, some of them in a language that looked almost Greek.
A large mahogany door arose out of the wall opposite the large lead lined windows, surrounded by books and studded with rivets of silver. Unpractical yet splendid in its appearance, clearly made by someone who knew what effect it would have on visitors. Someone who’s idea of decor had been long forgotten in the modern world. A marble floor swept across the room, a circular pattern etched in emerald stone taking pride of place in the centre of the floor. This circular image, holding a sort of broken figure-of-eight inside it, one with little swirls at the sides, looked almost Celtic in design. The same Greek-like symbols surrounded it in a sapphire coloured stone, the meaning known only to the maker of the room.
The flames of the roaring fire sent odd shadows dancing across the room, casting the solitary figure into half shadow. Seated at the only chair in the vast library, back to the door, it was hard to miss him. The back of the chair was much taller than he was, making him appear small as he slept in its arms. In front of the chair stood a large, circular table upon which rested a number of books bound in leather and a half completed chess game. A smaller, square table rested to the chairs right, supporting an old oil lamp, burnt out and stone cold, and a half empty cup of cold tea. The saucer below it was slightly chipped and stained, clearly much older than the china cup it lay below.
Slowly the ornate door handle turned, casting harsh artificial light across the floor as the door swung open. Without a sound a darkly dressed woman slipped into the room, closing the door and melting into the shadows. The man in the chair shifted in his sleep, unaware of the new presence.
A sad smile flicked across her features as her hand slid into an inside pocket.
“Sweet dreams” She whispered as she crept towards him, placing her gaze upon the half completed chess game. Leaning forward she moved a piece forward, taking what she hoped was the colour he was playing. He’d been waiting a long time for her to come and complete the game; it was almost saddening to think he’d be losing more than one thing this night. Waiting so long in fact she’s forgotten what colour her pieces were.
“Nice move, but one with many faults” The elegant voice made her jump; she spun towards the chair he’d been in to find him gone. She cursed, still not accustomed to the gloom that surrounded the walls. Her distraction with the game would have given him enough time to simply slip away unnoticed if he had been in a normal sleep, yet the drugs she had slipped into his tea shouldn’t have worn off by now.
She felt intimidated as he slowly walked towards her, blocking her route to the door now, he looked terribly disappointed in her. The blade in her pocket felt like lead as he reached out a hand to her.
“You don’t want to do this, Miranda, not without knowing the truth” His voice was gentle, stirring a memory in the back of her mind that refused to come to the surface in full force.
“You’re a fool to think you can change me, Professor” She spat, the words like acid on her tongue, sneering at the way he stepped back, shocked by the tone of her voice. Quickly looking away from his eyes, suddenly sad as the firelight danced in them, she gripped the bone handle of the knife tighter. “Nothing but a fool” The same harsh tone seemed to have escaped her, this time coming as nothing more than a whisper. He moved forwards calmly, eyes flicking over the chess board. A thoughtful expression crossed his face before he moved a white knight forward, capturing a black bishop.
“Maybe, maybe” He spoke gently, keeping his eyes on the board, “But I can sense your unease, child. Things have not gone to plan, have they, Miranda?” He left his question unanswered, holding up a hand to silence her. Weighing the bishop in his free hand, he took a few more steps towards her, looking up as he halted, his blue eyes blazing with a new light. “You miscalculated the dosage of the drug and have let yourself become distracted by the game and your thoughts” She shivered, his uncanny ability to guess what she was thinking still getting to her, even after all those years spent with him. At his words, she couldn’t help but look towards the table and cup, noting with a scowl that only half had been drunk. Not only was he playing for time, he also could think clearly, the time to complete the plan was now or never. Miranda watched him place the bishop down carefully on the edge of the table, before he turned his back to it and stood as still as stone. Bringing the knife from the place of concealment she lunged forward, unsuspecting that her victim may be capable of defending himself. Almost as soon as she had taken a step towards him he had brought one of the books around to collide with her knife hand, knocking it from her grip. The bone handled weapon skidded across the room, coming to a halt in the centre of the patterned floor.
“I didn’t want it to come to this, Miranda. It’s a sad affair when a father must fight his daughter” He sighed, letting his book drop to the floor with a thud. She roared her anger, instantly turning to retrieve her weapon. Ignoring his warning cry she ran across the room, grabbing it and turning. In her anger nothing mattered as she ran at him for the second time, smiling as he realised the game was up. In his haste to place the table between himself and her, the chess board was knocked to the floor, the pieces shattering. Once again he called out, clearly foreseeing the consequence of her actions. The cry fell on deaf ears as Miranda tried to manoeuvre around the table at speed, her foot catching one of the fallen pieces and causing her to trip forwards onto the table. Her eyes widened as she landed upon the sharpened blade, staggering backwards and clutching a hand to her chest. Blood trickled through her fingers as she let the knife fall, not finding it in her to shout at him as he ran forward to help. Dropping to her knees, she knew the game was up, watching her own blood stain her clothes. Her victim knelt at her side, speaking to her through the fog that clouded her mind. She let him hold her as her life faded, strangely comforted by his presence.
He stood, looking down at her body, a tear slipping down his cheek. Without wiping it away he turned to leave, to report the accident. Stopping at the door, he turned back, sighing heavily as his gaze traced the symbols around where she lay.
“Those who plot the downfall of others often fall victim themselves” He read sadly, “If only you had taken the time to learn the language of our ancestors, my child, you would have heeded my words and understood why your plan would never have worked” Closing the door behind him, he rested his head against the wood, letting his eyes adjust to the harsh light of the corridor, before slowly walking away from the room.
28th November 2009 - Saxon Walker
Whispers
Silver moonlight played across the colourful panels, dragging flashes of colour across the stone floor. Broken angels and innocent saints forgotten as they lay scattered across the grey stone, free from the hold of iron. A steady dripping of rain fell from the sharp edges of the grand, broken windows pooling like the tears of mourners between the shards. The icy breath of nature curled around thin, torn banners bringing them into the air, twirling with them in a solitary and ghostly dance. Old pages from yellowed prayer books once again took on the endless journey over the dust-covered wooden beams holding up the ceiling. Animal bones were shook free from the cracks in the ancient walls as the wind took hold, the building trembling as the tiny structures joined the resting place of glass and paper.
The silence in the place was haunting; the air heavy with the scent of dust and that metallic edge blood gave. Ghostly fingerprints and a smeared hand print decorated the great doors in the crimson substance, the edges slowly beginning to turn a darker shade as the air hit it. Neither the strength nor energy was in his bones, having crumbled much like the ebony skeletons now at rest near his hand, never to rise up again. A pale hand fluttered over the stone, gripping one of the broken pews in a faint grip and pulling. Only a slight movement, the arm soon falling back to earth with a dull thud, a faltering intake of breath, clouded over with the coldness of the room. With a light growl of pain, fire leaving its trail across his chest, he found himself on his back, staring up at the chipping paint.
Inaudible words were muttered into the still silence, choking back tears as slender fingers surrounded the wooden handle. A single, quick wrench and a loud scream of pain that echoed around the building, more dust falling, was all it took. Blade hitting stone ringing above the harsh gasps, hands clenched as he trembled, clinging to the material of his blood-stained coat in a feeble effort to drag it over his weakening frame and keep warm. Blood quickly flowed from the free gash, his life ebbing away as it dripped onto the grey stone, spreading under his shoulder and colouring his clothes.
"Hello?"
A voice, female, made him flinch instinctively and hide his head. It was clear she wasn't to harm him, worry etched on her question of a presence. A gasp before he felt the hand on his shoulder. He hadn't heard her run up, or had he and not recognised such a life-filled sound?
One eye opened slowly, her image blurred and faded, shifting in and out of focus as he fought to hold on. Her coat sleeve was gripped, held in an iron-like grip as he mouthed something, tears shimmering in the pale light. Something seemed familiar, though with his current state of mind it was hard to point out what.
"I heard the yell; I only live just up there. Well, I saw the fight too, the man who got you, I know him. I had to come and see if you were-"
"...Go... He’ll come ... after you" A voice so quiet it was barely a whisper, frail and cracked the effort it caused him clear as his grip slipped slightly.
Her surprise was even clearer.
"You saved me?" An image of shock flashed across her features, such a stupid question when he was an inch from death.
Unable to answer, he gave a small nod of the head, wincing and gripping the material harder. A hand caressed his back ever so gently, almost lovingly as she waited for the new wave of shakes to die down, almost jumping as a choking cough ripped through him. He attempted to push her away, still worried for her even though he didn’t know her and he clearly needed help. Soothingly she held him close, stopping herself from complaining just in time as a thin trickle of blood slid over his pale lips, resting on her shirt. Where she was didn't seem to matter, she'd find him help soon enough.
"... Help ..." Clearly his mind had changed, no longer weakly batting her away he gave up, laying still. Slowly she pushed his coat back from his shoulders, ignoring his feeble protests out of care to not hurt him further. She pressed her hand to the wound, biting her lip and trying to block out his agonised cries and screams, pale hands clawing uselessly at her own, his brushes and pulls so light she hardly felt them. Even in the half-light she noted how her skin was so full of life and bright against his own. That dull pound of his heart slowing, herself covered in his blood and with no way of stopping it.
“Sorry” She only just heard his words his voice was a whisper. His words certainly took her by surprise, glancing down at his half smile, sweeping a hand across his damp forehead, hair wet with blood, some areas clumped together. Tears were tenderly wiped away, unable to look at him as he choked and gasped, shoulders trembling with such force she was sure it hurt.
Darkness, it was there, building at the edge of his mind, creeping closer with each breath, getting closer to the last. He had no control over the gasps that arose from him now, driven by impulse and on automatic. Movement was stopped in its tracks, curled against her as the tears fell. Her replies to his final words were unheard. Breath faulted, hitched and the pain was back as sharp as ever. He acknowledged she was crying, he felt the tears hit him, he couldn't see her. The need to see her once more was strong, but vision had been the first to slip from his grasp. Coldness almost over-whelmed him as he felt it, chilling him to the bones, numbing the pain. She still held him, frame limp as the last breath danced across her skin and his whimpers died down to a silence. Peaceful at last in his endless sleep, she daren't move in case his pain would return. The idea was silly, she knew it, and he was well and truly gone. Even the blood flow was stilling, the scene painted in a vivid red and covered in a veil of fear.
She knew she’d have to tell the police soon enough, but some strange instinct told her she shouldn’t leave him here alone.
---
Something scuttled over the broken glass, causing it to make a gentle grating sound as it was moved below its paws. Once again the wind danced through the open window, stained coat-tails being lifted from the floor. He seemed so small, left alone in the aisle of the church bathed in moonlight. A single red rose was laid across his hand, all traces of blood having been wiped from his pale skin tenderly. Blood-stained cloth tucked away in his pocket. Asleep was what he could be mistaken for, watched by the painted angels upon the ceiling as the rain gently fell across his innocent figure. Snowflakes began to fall, resting in his hair and staying before melting and fading away. Soon others would know of his death, he’d be the interest of the media for a few days before that too died down. He was just another poor man murdered; his name would be on the lips of millions, used just as a topic of conversation. Soon they would forget his name; another would come along to replace him.
---
She still spoke to him sometimes, eyes as full of life as if he’d never faded from existence as they swept over hers, followed by a smile that held a sharp intelligence. He'd take her hand, tell her the story of how they would have met had the circumstances been different, looking just as he might have if death hadn't caught him. He'd laugh and joke with her, show her places she'd never dream of seeing. Dinner by candle-light and moonlight walks through the forest, his step so full of energy it was hard to believe he'd meet the fate he did. He'd always stop, eyes so full of light and fire it warmed her heart, expression serious and slightly nervous.
"Sorry" The tears would fall, taking her hand in his and holding so tight as if he was afraid to let go. Staying like this until the morning brought their parting. She felt as if she knew him, this stranger that had given his own life to save hers. Each night brought a new meeting in her dream world, his new home.
28th November 2009 - Saxon Walker
Promises
Make your promise, lay down the truth
in the form of language, swear your words to my soul,
create a belief that angels can dance to. Form an
innocent oath of love from which no splintered, golden
secretive despair can spawn. I lay my trust in you,
maker of the bond, don’t break the spoken
treaty of care.
Such strength lies within the promise, an
honourable law from which life can survive
even the curse of death, age wearing away at the
physical, while the mind clings to the agreement,
preserving the soul as if written upon the pages of
trust, an immortal bloom of wondrous colours
that grows within the sediment of time.
The words of eternity speak beyond the final flicker
of life’s illuminating flame, a candle against the walls
of time, counting down the days until abysmal darkness.
Sepia dreams, faded memory, the soul entwined
within everlasting promises of remembrance,
the chorus of heaven heralding the moment captured
within words of trust and faith.
Through verbal veins runs the fraud,
a broken promise in the form of poison, killing
the invisible ties that weave together belief in the mind
of others. A flower that wilts and dies with each cruel word,
the colour turned to grey as within each shattered syllable there
forms a secretive lie, concealed within the crypt of unbreakable
silent promises kept only to yourself.
Like glass the powerful splinter and fragment,
laced with deceit, sharp words of faith destroying the
illusion of love built up around concealed lyrics, the song of
truth and hope, promises of life beyond death. Harshly
the shattered remains of the delicate oath fade away to
nothing.
28th November 2009 - Saxon Walker
Judgement of the phoenix
A thousand glass eyes watched
As she was lost in the flashes of colour,
And her thoughts were drowned by the drone
Of music nothing more than
A whisper of all there was,
And all there could be.
A mere echo of a memory
Of times gone by, when life
Was good and those around her
Left her to do as she pleased.
Dancing a path she had been
Taught in her dreams
By a fair haired angel,
Watched by the fiery tailed demons
Of good intentions gone wrong.
The fabric of beauty wrapped
Around her legs and slowed her steps,
Until she faltered and was left standing
Alone in the pale white spotlight
Of the moon.
Yet the dull faced creatures
Of glamour didn’t turn to her,
This flower that didn’t belong
In their world of emotionless,
Cloned personality.
The silver flashed in the moonlight
Like the promise of a lost dream,
When the passing of a dark cloud
Breaks the magic and spirals her
Down into the darkness.
Her heart weeps crimson tears
As she forgives those who
Made her suffer in
The lost realms of the past.
They do not concern themselves
With wandering thoughts of how
The future may have shaped her.
Skeletal hands rose to worship
The dying sun as around her
Darkness prevailed as
The sunken faces of glamour
Watched with morbid curiosity,
Like demons delivering
The death penalty
To an innocent wrongly accused.
It was strange how quickly
The room changed, shifting
From an elegant room of
Hope and delight
Into a broken prison
Of nightmares and sly beasts
Clinging to the outside walls.
The music box becoming dusty
In the corner
Where angels and saints
Fear to tread
And the memory of music
Reigns over the delicate structures
Of cobwebs and shadows.
Her world was turning,
Swirling into confused images
And blurry hallucination.
Weakness and ending haunted
The air, vultures
Waiting for the time to strike.
She pitied the soul that had
Done this deed,
Ill thoughts were not hers
To think against the unknown
Evils of the world.
Those whose minds had broken
Were not hers to fix,
Though one day they may break
From their world
Of misunderstanding and twisted,
Chaotic reality to see
The light of tranquillity.
To be reborn,
First you had to die.
28th November 2009 - Saxon Walker
The New World
See the world as a bird does,
riding the wind currents of the broken earth.
Watch the wars; turn your head for just a moment.
Hear the scream as the bird falls to the ground,
killed by the oppression of society.
We are the cyanide that slithers through
the veins of the city. Feel us weakening the structure.
We corrupt and destroy all we touch,
the deadly substance of hell,
the race to claim all and end all.
Black light, broken cameras and fake smiles;
victimised strays of fame and fortune.
They capture the young hearts of the innocent,
teaching them the ways of purgatory.
The harlot calls tonight, love.
Free yourself from the chains of civilisation.
The dogs that haunt your nightmares,
herding you into delinquency,
they are watching you’re every movement.
The time to change you is near.
Let me lift you from the sepia colouring;
allow me be your angel, your saviour,
returning you to salvation.
See the light, fell the warmth;
the world is better on the other side.
28th November 2009 - Saxon Walker
Truth of Fortune
There is no such thing as darkness, only the absence of light.
All myths have a grain of truth entwined within them.
Words are not important, understanding is what drives meaning.
Emotions survive translation, and love is never lost.
Trust is what gives angels their wings, and a dove is but a bird.
Evil is the result of misleading the virtuous.
Caution is intelligence not cowardice, though is often mistaken for it.
Control is not domination, but faith in the powerful.
Forgotten memories are lost for a reason, and protect us from pain.
Death is the end of life and the beginning of immortality.
Not knowing is often better than knowledge of the bad.
The freeing of the soul often involves pain.
Truth is often more twisted than lies.
The spirit lives forever, only unnoticed by the weary.
Survival is not always owned by the fittest.
System simply means order, though many believe repetition is needed.
Endings always give way to a continuation,
Where words are no longer needed.
28th November 2009 - Saxon Walker