Davis' Grandeur by Brazen Clay Ramey (reading well .txt) 📖

• Smashing into the sides of the caves.
• The only sound, that of the cascading water.

• Feeling the ocean, smelling and tasting it.
• The raw power, built up behind the water.

• Distinguishing the light, followed closely by a cloud of darkness.
• The essence of light being smothered by the liquid.

• The cracks; entryways for the oceans influence,
• Those same cracks leading to deep underwater caverns of brimstone and H2O.

• Even the waters guiding hand of influence cannot sway you Brazen.
• As you are the cork to stop the water.

Do you like the way my garments glow?
The way they POP to the eye?
My coverings try to remain low.
But in the end they fly.

The colors, a rainbow of different shades.
Obscured in some, and illuminated in others.
The contrasting lines not unlike those in hades.
No one seems to bother

To tell me that I look flashy.
But I can feel myself in fact,
Being just as they are themselves, classy.
My self-esteem not just an act.

Yet at the same time it plays
Just like the golden days.

You are the one. You are the hero.
Everyone looked up to you brother,
Through that clear, crystal window.

I’ve seen the eyes staring at you all mellow
As though they were attempting to smother you.
For you are the hero.

Could you not see ME, your fellow?
Am I too much of a bother
Through that clear, crystal window?

I was your catch, like a marshmallow.
Your significant other.
You are the one. You are the hero.

You wear the halo
Although there is no other
Through that clear, crystal window.

For most, you are the Day-Glo.
For others you are cupids’ arrow.
You are the one. You are the hero.
Through that clear, crystal window.

Your eyes, inside them rest a spark.
Your fingers, long and crooked like that of a lightning bolt.
Your nose, all obscure and dark.
Your wild hair, dancing about like it had a jolt.

The immense power you hold.
The way you throw primal energy around like it’s nothing.
The way you handle lightning like a fold.
The way it caresses you like it loves.

But, the power also deceives.
But, the power kills.
But, the power receives.
But, the power wills.

Yet, it still tempts.
Yet, it's still kempt.

Famine is like a disease.
It starts off small but spreads.
It forms things like the catalysts that affect society, like the wheezes.
Famine is like a curse, it’s full of malign and dread.

Poor people on the streets, moaning in agony.
Every day is another day in pain and misery.
The screams in the dark, like a symphony.
But no one cares because it’s been going throughout history.

Though some people care, myself included.
Only partial groups of us exist.
The select few, always secluded.
But we will always persist.

No matter how long it takes.
We will never break.

Their thighs and limbs grown lighter, like sticky castanets,
Stone-bruised horses with one white horn stamp, summoning floods,
And the eyes of men glow fire as they cast their nets.

Rolling in an amber sap, whole packs of filthy Jobs
Grovel beneath a quick-dying tree, and touch its bole,
Their thighs and limbs grown lighter, like sticky castanets.

The King of Roses opes his bursting veins, faking throes
Of pain. Clear red salve begins to glister in the globes,
And the eyes of men glow fire as they cast their nets.

In his antechamber, Bacchus quietly disrobes
For leering witches, who dangle tinsel from their lobes,
Their thighs and limbs grown lighter, like sticky castanets.

Mulciber claims his gutted throne. His fleshy train gloats
At the innocents, who smear jambs with the blood of shoats,
And the eyes of men glow fire as they cast their nets.

Children dress and dance in mud, with twigs for rude barrettes,
And fall behind an oil stone where gleaming cherubs flow,
Their thighs and limbs grown lighter, like sticky castanets;
And the eyes of men glow fire as they cast their nets.

Time can say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you, I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time can say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you, I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time can say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you, I would let you know.

Suppose the lions all get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away?
Time can say nothing but I told you so.
If I could tell you, I would let you know.

We never saw the ghost, though he was there—
we knew from the raindrops tapping on the eaves.
We never saw him, and we didn’t care.


Each day, new sunshine tumbled through the air;
evenings, the moonlight rustled in dark leaves.
We never saw the ghost, though: he was there,


if ever, when the wind tousled our hair
and prickled goosebumps up and down thin sleeves;
we never saw him. And we didn’t care


to step outside our room at night, or dare
click off the nightlight: call it fear of thieves.
We never saw the ghost, though he was there


in sunlit dustmotes drifting anywhere,
in light-and-shadow, such as the moon weaves.
We never