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Poems by Korbin Trench


BELLEZADA

It fell... how could it be otherwise
that we confound justness with life in equality?
And as it bounces playfully aside
in this Catedral du Triste, I... want to see
you castles of crystal, your fiery shores
and a child's wishful, optimistic moors
That you, the Pride of Angels build above
That I never saw, inside: an innocent's love.
Bella Bellezada...
Sloped stone sepulchres hold no love,
nor Cimmerian light in this place forsaken,
as it shatters: an epitaph to heaven above.
How often did I watch you hold that globe,
Wishing for what, in your Pollyannaish hope?
Your dream, though unknown, never forgotten,
Can't raise you up from your corduroy coffin.
But, stay by salt waters, in gossamer wings,
that you I might see... in saccharine dreams.
Bella Bellezada...
Solamente queremos para perder.



PARAMOUR

Eyes as jaded as the stone
>From which you wish me now to bleed
Have, in truth, dear, no more lovers' need
Than the flesh of my husk and brittle bone.

Hair as flaxen as the brook
To which its babble I, you attribute,
Is, in our lives, darling, of no more rebuke
Than the lines of my face and its disquieted look.

Lips as crimson as the rent
In which you pitch those used and spurned
Would, in itself, love, have seldom more learned
Than the blood of my veins and their erudite descent.

Pith as deep as apostates' rapture
For which you wish me now to bleed
Should, for itself, paramour, hold higher esteem
Than the optimism of my eyes and their coupled capture



PRAYER OF THE ORIGINAL POET

Ashen river's hymnal passes
Speak volumes to my scholar's glasses
The gust that blows o'er Your tables weighted,
the somber sets of parishes' perished flames
Gambol their nocturne unabated
And clutch the church in sanguine bane.

A crossed betrayers' churlish fate
Faces my eyes in Your Pages' rate
That springs as you upset my flesh unnerved
At this ungodly hour of a lamia's wailing
And under the hastening, a sedulous verve
Filling my steadfast sage face with first failings.
Were you there, then, for my requisite request?
Your patience, Father, that I mightn't have
digressed
In asking absolution from divinity's grasping that
others never sought
For a work by the hand of Your glory is none to mine
And, though, Midas of Verse, I have no riches in what
I've wrought
I may yet achieve perfect imperfection, given time.



KNIGHTMARE

Over the thunderous, maleficent terrain
Chimera rears in duplicity's hell
Atop its maw's dark, fearsome foe's reign
he sits with his eyes in a fervent dark tint.
He spits his blights from twisted grimace
his King's granted blade in a muddled expel
with lancet and shield in deliberate remiss
his fellows' felled faces relaying his splint.
While his darkened hue razes cue (how untrue)
Darkness, beware: Mourningstar is among you!
Under the tranquil, pacific pastorals
Pegasus trots in Camelot's gloss eclipse
Atop its eyes' bright, honorable foe's morals
he sits with his eyes in a fervent dark tint.
He speaks his oaths from sorrowful grimace
his King in trusting of knighted lips
with sword and sheath in a grateful dismiss
for the blood upon each is not enemy's glint.
While his golden hue catches you (how untrue)
Arthurians, beware: Knightmare is among you!



THE PHEONIX'S DILLEMMA

Damn, what a malady of solar superfluosity
o'er your already timeless shapely bronze.
Would you now wish it, for closure to your
lust for truth others had looked to or upon?
What am I that I would NOT seek the melee of
liquid luminescence in rise or refrain?
Certainly reflections o'er reflections in a
current bathed in rife merit sweeping scorch
or the very protest of artificiality in
those seventeen callow steps to your torch
in admiration, firebird, of your endurance
of scorched swelter as the fire-eye passes
ever slowly, and in you was there a rise
over the shadows of the sun, sans ashes.
Under which you flinch not, under which you
fight the satisfaction of melting (smelting)
Over that heat, once born, would not your
consummation yield you to bear it all in lot?
Who am I, that I can say, I will watch rise
and refrain, that the midday is too hot?



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Biographical sketch: Young in age, old in values.

Korbin Trench recommends:

The Odyssey by Homer
Reason: Superb mythological allegory as true today as it was in Homer's time.


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