Most stories don’t have happy endings The brutal truth is that most do not For each hero who makes it home, In unknown ditches, a hundred more rot
For every song about some brave champion, There are endless graves without any bones For there was no body which they could bury Only lost names engraved on stones
We must admit if we’re honest about it, Eventually, Death claims them all Those who we celebrate after a battle And those who on the battlefield fall
Those who seem to be safe back at home Are also short candles in a night so late None escape the long-armed grasp, Of those pitiless stranglers, time and fate
Something in the Air – an album of 10 original songs from Trent Boswell, available on June 8th, 2022 at most major music streaming services like Amazon Music, Spotify, iTunes, etc.
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The poetry and music of Kevin Trent Boswell
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Magus72 on Patreon – the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell
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Kevin Trent Boswell has many seven books of poetry published, all available on Amazon and at Conjure Work.
Beat – from Dark Matter, Poems of Horror and Depravity
It’s been set to a beat, so that your strange æons might be somehow just a touch more symmetrical in nature.
The .mp3 file is attached, feel free to download it and share with anyone you like. Just click the DOWNLOAD button below, to play the track. Or hold the button down and select your SAVE option.
Nameless, black Void and choice-less Surrendered to night, Full of dark Wanting nothing, Now all is empty Free to take up any chain Any desire that one might wish for No desire, no restriction No thirst for servitude There is only the vexing slumber Hunger for the fat of a new kill Is somehow become as a stranger Wandering, wanton hex A nubile delving into psionic prisms Load the chamber With hollow shells of the dead Projected visions of delirium Angelic chasms Frightful clamoring in the cranium Call back the dogs And let them sleep For the dawn will soon enough Overtake their prey That tender light, shredding matter Rending garment and flesh Quite succinctly No need of drummers To time the pulse of this tune The rhythm of it, A vacillating pendulum Lo, it is even without the ability To stray from its precision The striker upon the cylinder Is the pointing, bony finger of The hand of Death, Herself The hammer that clangs the bell Is the Mother of Night, incarnate The femurs of a thousand heroes Beating against the tanned hides Of the children of the same Her crooked digit, A culminating of perpetual cycle… Stick meets skin, head warps and Sound emanates through eternity Stick meets skin, head warps and Sound emanates through eternity Stick meets skin, head warps and Sound emanates through eternity A beat all too well pounded into the Collective memory Burned into a hive mind Fallen into cerebral pits of “Never before” We have at last, found the true past It is even more horrid and shameful Than we feared It is full of monsters It is full of us
Copyright 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell
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