Berserker.

Let the army approach-
I’ll stand alone.
They clutch their bastard swords,
Bound to their Baron’s throne,
But I have my axe and wulfen clothes,
And I have my cause.

Blinded by delusion –
Keeps me alive.
Alone I face the hordes,
And swing my axe and scythe,
To stall for reform before the fight,
With no dream of reward.

Fuelled by feudal angst –
Compassioned hate.

Beyond the sick-house wards,

Bring the blood, clean their slate,
The only cure: To eviscerate,
These slaves to ‘evil lords.

My fate lies here, I know-
On this bridge, slain.
Holding a lonely ford,
I’m mortally insane,
The solo soldier armed with disdain,
And hope of hope restored.

Something Clichéd About Summer.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more sticky and more desperate.

Violent winds shake the acrid smell of hay,

And summer's o'er-stayed by the second date.

My eyes have to squint to behold your face,

And its not the shine divine of your span;

Nor a simple stare to liven the chase,

I'm just scared of the glare from your fake-tan.

Summer must pass swifter than all seasons,

Or parch each tree to a sterile splinter.

In you swing with no escape, no reason,

With more death than spring, more pain than winter.

So long as you cling, clam, suffocate me,

So long the drought extends because of thee.

Fauxtograph.

All precious tones don't have to glitter,

But those pixels mix a pretty picture.

Close my eyes and count to twenty-three,

Dark deafens screams of an artist empty.

Escape from this fools gold fantasy,

Faithful, disappointing, drowning belief.

Twenty-one, Twenty-two, Twenty-hurry.

Bleak Nerves.

A brush with death, so the devil's lies sold.

Close? Too far? The demon's in the distance.

As my blood abandons this sinking ship,

Over razor rocks stood like broken teeth,

This vessels soul owner ceases to be me-

The sails are snapped and skeleton shorn,

In the end the Wood belongs to the sea.

Hot air shakes me at the death of the storm,

And a bitter taste remains, laced with pain.

Freedom's flown, leaving me and me alone,

A slave to fortune, to you, to the sea.

Setting out sanguine and ending the same,

Each journey's made with intrepidation.

This mortal toil is path independent,

Whatever your route, same destination.

An inch is a mile when life is apart,

Each heartbeat drops at destiny's mercy.

Everyday's another dance with decay,

And each scrape is just another embrace.

So 'A brush with death?' flap my limey gums.

'I'm dead in the end, was dead all along.'