Seeking Byzantium (That Ballad of an Old Man)

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Phoenix Poetry

Submitted: March 03, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 03, 2017

A A A

A A A


 

My mind is a wasteland of eternal fantasy

And see, the bustling mirages of old age

That bow to youth in despairing barbarity.

I am no more than a sillhoute evoked with rage;

Under this thick leather and malleable soul 

Lives the magic of the young, the magic stole. 

 

 

I sink into the intellect of my chair,

Brashed in Rose-red and mahagony spines

Which are crooked and latched onto my limbs

I configure a forest, so vague that it must be a dream; 

Extinct birds whistle temptations and erotic songs

As palats of vision fall as dust in throngs.

 

 

And I will craft this soft, stiff flesh,

Sturdy with poseur wrinkles of lost memories and emanations,

Into a boat free of loose reflections and mutiny

Which are carried in each wave of the Sea;

And the horizon of youth shall beckon me

And Horus’ Earth shan’t glow as I run free.

 

 

I called myself grandfather of the formless

And played the role of a child with no reason

I seeked myself in all things, my skin dust and less 

 

 

My bitter eyes, a fault in the sailors enterprise,

Are wicked with salt and unwoken mystery

That guides nothing but this boat I adore;

Though, I know a Captain seeks the clarity of death.

And so, I will know, that chanelled paradise, that worthy-called empire

Struck with golden mosiacs that make light of fire.

 

 

And I found nothing but soles within soles

That whispered proverbs of death and childhood,

I stood bare with head in hands, blood marinated modernity

And swept it off it’s feet, I lay empty and covered in water;

Though, I stayed afloat, and became a deep-set alchemist

Where I knew what awaited me, but souvenired myself a pessimist.

 

 

Wisdom in age is but a feeble myth

Contrived by raped minds of Alice-Clock gyres

That spin in the minds of men lost within themselves

And by the burnt world that encaptivates them, their youth’s infernity.

They blow Ash and rubble onto necks, their cells are black with smoke;

And the ink is their ‘repentance’, Pan is the face of hopes guilt

That is the face of a malicious child, of whom only I have built.

 

 

My Dense appelations emersed from the matured apprehensions

And my aim, the desire of will, became a forgotten revolutionairy,

Truth sook was as obvious as it’s immortalised dimensions.

 

 

Visions stooped into their play,

And so I was accustom unto myself:

Horizons seemed to melt and flood the day,

I figured wise to surrender unto myself;

And so have I lived in eternity’s squaler, through stains and masks

That show no sorrow to the dimensions of mirrors or tasks.

 

 

Apollo’s burning eyes chizzled into the vulnerability 

That constructs the fleshes of maturity;

And so my brain teethed upon the unconsidered shore;

Congregations of golden chains and grains crusted the Picasso-lined rocks

And the gleaming warmth would be branded upon the wet gums of memory;

The illusion of age is created by the loss of loving instict and mummiffied dedications.

 

 

Within the city square, past the narrated shore, a hybrid scructure stands

And the ineffible transition of intellect that immortalises his stature

Is made feirce, loyal and resolute, glass-eyed by an attentive Wolf,

Although adorned in shining abstracts of streaming gold, his teeth seem shaven;

I bask in the entransing waves of heat, seduced enough to only be surprised

As he posed to me, an oration unexpected from a God, a memory,

 

 

Nothing can’t be so, and I have found intellect in comprimise:

His chest aged like parent sorrow, reliquishements refined out of importance,

For the idol becokoned out in what he would philosophise

 

“We relish in the sorrow of age,

It’s unwelcoming surprise and empty accustoms

But neglect the untouched creation

Of, like your age, untouched curiosity-- made quick by recitals

That we call maturity. We are inherently children, inherntly vulnerable

Though worn clothes lead us astray from our nakedness

Much like how the fastness of time slows a heart

And we see intellect as growth, rather than what it is

Which is state of constant discovery, beyond the fathoms of self-generation

Beyond the impending Moon, beyond the twinkling appendages and Saturn’s viridescence

And again, beyond the light which will burn

 

My ears seemed to fit the head of a confused child comforted in trust,

I held the past within each locked cell of my youth, devout grips

Unified my salvation, I was embodied by the bust, 

 

 

Familiarity is so classic I almost hurdle to my knees and dance,

The bronze of youth seems bold enough to make a statue of my prime,

And the natures of man are being made hysterical to vain wisdom;

I seem young enough to curl and cry, brave enough to hurl and fly;

But the reason has arrived again, bleak and unformed in it’s reign

And it’s the fact I can’t express myself, or those who I am, that causes me pain.

 

 

Age loses the senses in cultivation

But senses are the compass to imperial naiviety,

So strong that denial is pride in a shroud;

Skulls stare and scar hearts by that reason alone;

Infancy still lives within me as agitations 

And those beguile and solid implications.

 

 

I want to unravel from the cycles of self-mind hierarchy

Where I am a student, a crocodilian coneissuer 

Of self-loathing and prosecuted tyranny,

I will strip myself from this waste and fur;

Mirrors call to the radical pariah’s pain 

As doubts and friends call Thoth insane.

 

 

Life is a cycle of derangement;

Where the most-part is the seeking of a conclusion 

That can only justify a belief for the grand arrangement

 

 

Since I am blind to detail and unable to articulate my youth

I shall thread the common desires and worn respect

Unto the tight viscera that shows my difinity in the making,

Embroideries shall hide my soft skin and hang like buntings;

My wrinkles shall scape across the fervour in my skin 

And I will be made an Ancient greek by a fulgent white chin.

 

 

The vessel of thought is the home of the soul

And I reverse back into the bilge, clawed in hazel stretch-marks,

And grow unto the natures of the accounted common man,

On which I have accounted my putative’s of life;

With a baton for the heavens and grounding fingers hung

I confine within the bindings of the old and young.

 

 

And I have no memory of Byzantium

Nor of what has hindered me and made these thoughts come;

But my youth is now something different,

My old age is defined only by faithful shoulders and torment;

Rejoice has no need to be 

For it exists with me, with eternity.

 

 

And before I set out, I wrote 

Of the unintended secrets of the journey

That I should find within this boat…

 

“Advanced thinking may be the parent of posterity

And change shall not be stained by infant nobility,

By itself, or for now, the damp light that whispers;

One may seek death in all it’s forms, and be an actor of all life, 

Death is the defining nature of life, the bleak necessity of breath

And my youth would never have lived without age, or death.”

 

 

My mind is a wasteland of eternal fantasy

And see, the bustling mirages of old age

That bow to youth in despairing barbarity.

I am no more than a sillhoute evoked with rage;

Under this thick leather and malleable soul 

Lives the magic of the young, the magic stole. 

 

 

I sink into the intellect of my chair,

Brashed in Rose-red and mahagony spines

Which are crooked and latched onto my limbs

I configure a forest, so vague that it must be a dream; 

Extinct birds whistle temptations and erotic songs

As palats of vision fall as dust in throngs.

 

 

And I will craft this soft, stiff flesh,

Sturdy with poseur wrinkles of lost memories and emanations,

Into a boat free of loose reflections and mutiny

Which are carried in each wave of the Sea;

And the horizon of youth shall beckon me

And Horus’ Earth shan’t glow as I run free.

 

 

I called myself grandfather of the formless

And played the role of a child with no reason

I seeked myself in all things, my skin dust and less 

 

 

My bitter eyes, a fault in the sailors enterprise,

Are wicked with salt and unwoken mystery

That guides nothing but this boat I adore;

Though, I know a Captain seeks the clarity of death.

And so, I will know, that chanelled paradise, that worthy-called empire

Struck with golden mosiacs that make light of fire.

 

 

And I found nothing but soles within soles

That whispered proverbs of death and childhood,

I stood bare with head in hands, blood marinated modernity

And swept it off it’s feet, I lay empty and covered in water;

Though, I stayed afloat, and became a deep-set alchemist

Where I knew what awaited me, but souvenired myself a pessimist.

 

 

Wisdom in age is but a feeble myth

Contrived by raped minds of Alice-Clock gyres

That spin in the minds of men lost within themselves

And by the burnt world that encaptivates them, their youth’s infernity.

They blow Ash and rubble onto necks, their cells are black with smoke;

And the ink is their ‘repentance’, Pan is the face of hopes guilt

That is the face of a malicious child, of whom only I have built.

 

 

My Dense appelations emersed from the matured apprehensions

And my aim, the desire of will, became a forgotten revolutionairy,

Truth sook was as obvious as it’s immortalised dimensions.

 

 

Visions stooped into their play,

And so I was accustom unto myself:

Horizons seemed to melt and flood the day,

I figured wise to surrender unto myself;

And so have I lived in eternity’s squaler, through stains and masks

That show no sorrow to the dimensions of mirrors or tasks.

 

 

Apollo’s burning eyes chizzled into the vulnerability 

That constructs the fleshes of maturity;

And so my brain teethed upon the unconsidered shore;

Congregations of golden chains and grains crusted the Picasso-lined rocks

And the gleaming warmth would be branded upon the wet gums of memory;

The illusion of age is created by the loss of loving instict and mummiffied dedications.

 

 

Within the city square, past the narrated shore, a hybrid scructure stands

And the ineffible transition of intellect that immortalises his stature

Is made feirce, loyal and resolute, glass-eyed by an attentive Wolf,

Although adorned in shining abstracts of streaming gold, his teeth seem shaven;

I bask in the entransing waves of heat, seduced enough to only be surprised

As he posed to me, an oration unexpected from a God, a memory,

 

 

Nothing can’t be so, and I have found intellect in comprimise:

His chest aged like parent sorrow, reliquishements refined out of importance,

For the idol becokoned out in what he would philosophise

 

“We relish in the sorrow of age,

It’s unwelcoming surprise and empty accustoms

Though, it is no more than a prophesised idea within the barrage

Of, like your age, spurring intellects and communals;

Pass beyond the impending Moon, beyond the twinkling appendages and Saturn’s viridescence

And again, beyond the light which will burn.”

 

My ears seemed to fit the head of a confused child comforted in trust,

I held the past within each locked cell of my youth, devout grips

Unified my salvation, I was embodied by the bust, 

 

 

Familiarity is so classic I almost hurdle to my knees and dance,

The bronze of youth seems bold enough to make a statue of my prime,

And the natures of man are being made hysterical to vain wisdom;

I seem young enough to curl and cry, brave enough to hurl and fly;

But the reason has arrived again, bleak and unformed in it’s reign

And it’s the fact I can’t express myself, or those who I am, that causes me pain.

 

 

Age loses the senses in cultivation

But senses are the compass to imperial naiviety,

So strong that denial is pride in a shroud;

Skulls stare and scar hearts by that reason alone;

Infancy still lives within me as agitations 

And those beguile and solid implications.

 

 

I want to unravel from the cycles of self-mind hierarchy

Where I am a student, a crocodilian coneissuer 

Of self-loathing and prosecuted tyranny,

I will strip myself from this waste and fur;

Mirrors call to the radical pariah’s pain 

As doubts and friends call Thoth insane.

 

 

Life is a cycle of derangement;

Where the most-part is the seeking of a conclusion 

That can only justify a belief for the grand arrangement

 

 

Since I am blind to detail and unable to articulate my youth

I shall thread the common desires and worn respect

Unto the tight viscera that shows my difinity in the making,

Embroideries shall hide my soft skin and hang like buntings;

My wrinkles shall scape across the fervour in my skin 

And I will be made an Ancient greek by a fulgent white chin.

 

 

The vessel of thought is the home of the soul

And I reverse back into the bilge, clawed in hazel stretch-marks,

And grow unto the natures of the accounted common man,

On which I have accounted my putative’s of life;

With a baton for the heavens and grounding fingers hung

I confine within the bindings of the old and young.

 

 

And I have no memory of Byzantium

Nor of what has hindered me and made these thoughts come;

But my youth is now something different,

My old age is defined only by faithful shoulders and torment;

Rejoice has no need to be 

For it exists with me, with eternity.

 

 

And before I set out, I wrote 

Of the unintended secrets of the journey

That I should find within this boat…

 

“Advanced thinking may be the parent of posterity

And change shall not be stained by infant nobility,

By itself, or for now, the damp light that whispers;

One may seek death in all it’s forms, and be an actor of all life, 

Death is the defining nature of life, the bleak necessity of breath

And my youth would never have lived without age, or death.”

 


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