The Ones That Were

“How is it possible to feel nostalgia for a world I never knew?”

-Ernesto Che Guevara

If there isn’t one already, then I think there should be a word for that. To feel nostalgic for a place you’ve never been, or for a time you never were.

The Ones That Were

The hounds are howling and the wind it screams

Wild and wet, tearing my soul at the seams

Somewhere behind, a lone piper drones out a dirge

Seeking to from this place the spirits purge

The break of day saw loved ones’ goodbye kissed

As we headed out over moor, and through swirling mist

To a hollow no sun could ever penetrate

And gather as one, to face our fate

It was from these grounds our ancestors set sail

A young lad beside me, takes up the wail

Like a hunting party set on a wild boar

Cold and lifeless, to go home no more

With eyes wide shut, and banners unfurled

We depart now from ye, unto this next world

Classic

Can you call something you just made up an immediate classic? Who cares, deal with it, I've got to.

Classic

My eyes insist on closing,

My mind intent on dozing.

In the sweltering summer heat

Of the early evening as I ponder,

The dogs howling in the streets

My thoughts begin to wander.

The devil may beware,

As he pulls up his chair.

Conducted by a chorus of wigs

He takes on the riddle.

A song to which the whole world jigs,

And he plays it on his fiddle.

A knight stiff with starch,

Leads a stately march,

Toward the setting sun,

I fall in line behind.

Now the real frivolity and fun,

Can all start to unwind.

We pass a pond,

Full of swans,

Dancing across the surface.

There’s a hag,

Dressed in rags,

Poisoning apples with a purpose.

Across the ice they crash

Swords hack, symbols clash.

Underneath the starry sky,

An elephant tiptoes through the scene.

Breathing an extended sigh,

I wonder what it means

After the night truly falls,

The reaper man calls,

Up all them lazy old bones.

They rattles and shakes,

The beat never breaks,

As the spirits rocks and moans.

Up a mountain we go,

Waltzing to and fro.

Struggling now for breath,

Ever higher we climb.

A whirlwind dance with death

Having a life of a time.

There’s a third, a seventh,

A ninth, a fifth or half a tenth.

When I falter and stammer,

To help get me back with ‘em,

The gypsies beat the rhythm,

With anvil and hammer,

Into a hall of kings,

A Valkyrie steams in and sings,

A crescendo so full and sweet,

It rends my soul in two.

A final movement that sweeps me off my feet,

And brings me back to you.