Lit Up Skies

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lit Up Skies

 

They burn, the occult moon is in its fullest splendor too,

oh how I wish for the desert to release its young, while

burning sands and vipers slide upon them to no

destination other than to find the shade to feel some

comfort, momentarily though it is.

 

The lit up skies with meteors soaring through the

heavens, only to vanish and return again to where

they began when the big bang threw them off course.

Man awaits its destiny, ruin and doom foreshadows their worth.

 

Yet like a child I was, overtaken by your beauty, the midnight

sky released it to me, you alone knew me all along, you the

goddess of heaven cast your love through the Universe to

meet me in comet’s path cutting me off from life itself.

I felt you, your passion as the moon dimmed, the winter

solstice was about to begin, yet you alone weaved the web

of life, nobody on earth could imagine that life beyond

death existed, but the gods gave you the power to cast

a magic spell upon us.

 

Like a schoolboy I saw you in your entire splendor,

I wished for nothing more than to hold you kiss your

tight lips and beg you to love me forevermore, you

vanished, you left me alone, and the willow was no more.

 

Broken I was, no soul, no desire to live, just to be buried

beside our dying love, our eternity was fatal, we would

be together only in spirit and soul. The ancients walk the

moors, they build the fires and ignite their dead in

dripping ashes, souls and spirits are but one, they

knew they were here for a short time; they loved

and died by the sword, protecting and securing a

life after death in Valhalla.

 

Oh let their ghosts be a reminder of whence we

came, who we were, a tough breed of warriors,

strewn across the Celtic map, a history of wanderers,

lighting fires, burning ash, leaving their mark for all

future generations, like our world has never seen.

 

Firelight will shine the way, like fireflies, we will ignite

and shine a path, lead the way and follow our ancestors

to the grave, we will love always, seeking to fulfill our

ancestral rites, the night is ours, the cold our warmth,

the animal skins our comfort, the sword our savior.

 

Oh sweet ancestors, let us lead by example of who we

were, and why we are here, where we came from too,

let no man question our loyalty to our roots, our clan,

our heritage. For the harvest moon is upon us,

October fires are lit, our souls are warmed by its mighty glow.

 

Vincent Moore

Vincent Moore

Vincent Moore pens his thoughts about many things and has a style all his own. Sometimes, he parties with words excessively and it becomes necessary to publish quickly lest his work be lost in the dark corners of his room or his mind. Vincent will lead you into mysterious worlds that are strange yet somehow familiar, worlds that will leave you unsettled and breathless for more.

He was born and raised in Montreal Canada among the Irish, Brits, Italians and French. Point St Charles (commonly called The Point) was the Hell’s kitchen of Montreal. He played, cried, laughed and fought on the street corners, survival was an instinct and watching each others back important. Vincent left home at 17 to find his way in the world, failure and success he had plenty of. He studied the Arts and loved to draw and paint. Took acting lessons and envied those on the stage under the bright lights and hoped to some day become an actor, writer, playwright or painter. Vincent welcomes you to his world of mystery, fantasy and solitude. You can find a few of his writings in one of 3 books he's published.In Absinthia- In Melancholia and In Passionata.
Vincent Moore

Latest posts by Vincent Moore (see all)

Facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedintumblrmail

Vincent Moore

Vincent Moore pens his thoughts about many things and has a style all his own. Sometimes, he parties with words excessively and it becomes necessary to publish quickly lest his work be lost in the dark corners of his room or his mind. Vincent will lead you into mysterious worlds that are strange yet somehow familiar, worlds that will leave you unsettled and breathless for more. He was born and raised in Montreal Canada among the Irish, Brits, Italians and French. Point St Charles (commonly called The Point) was the Hell’s kitchen of Montreal. He played, cried, laughed and fought on the street corners, survival was an instinct and watching each others back important. Vincent left home at 17 to find his way in the world, failure and success he had plenty of. He studied the Arts and loved to draw and paint. Took acting lessons and envied those on the stage under the bright lights and hoped to some day become an actor, writer, playwright or painter. Vincent welcomes you to his world of mystery, fantasy and solitude. You can find a few of his writings in one of 3 books he's published. In Absinthia- In Melancholia and In Passionata.

3 thoughts on “Lit Up Skies

  • April 4, 2019 at 11:09 PM
    Permalink

    A fitting and powerful tribute to your ancestors, Vincent. Very descriptive and well written.

    Reply
  • April 6, 2019 at 10:29 AM
    Permalink

    Vincent this poem brought me to another fantastic world. I would call the experience a true poetic voyage from start to end. Jamie

    Reply

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

By continuing to use the site, you agree to the use of cookies. more information

Our cookie settings are set to "allow cookies" to give you the best browsing experience possible. By continuing to browse this website you are accepting our cookie policy.

Close