Poetry of Nulli Secundus

The Cathedral

The heavy metal ball, bit.
Deep into the side
Of the musty Cathedral.
Once raised. Now razed.
Years of history crumbled away,
Like the cracked brick foundations.
The man in the suit watched.

One year later, the Cathedral was back.
Only this time it looked very different.
It had elevators, the latest in interior designing.
Pot plants, receptionists,
The clergy wore designer suits.
The man in the suit looked down.
Twenty-one storeys.
He picked up the phone,
And began to preach
To a variety of lay people,
About the sin of poverty.
He knew what heaven was,
And he asked his god
To raise him up.

The Chess Board

A King and Queen watch silently,
Penning me in.
Ready to protect me. They know what’s best.
Making me perform the same moves
Over and over again.
I am still a lowly Pawn
And not yet fit to make my own decisions.
Not until I become one of the others.

I watch others fall around me.
Taken by the Knight of Peer Pressure,
Or knocked off by the Bishop of Depression.
But not me.
Never me.
I can see the end.
Only a few squares in front.
So close, so close.
Learn to drive, pass my HSC
And endure endless lectures.
Surviving until I reach the end of the board.
That is my goal.
Then, only then, can I watch myself changing.
I can then look back and see
How far I have come
And all those I’ve left behind.
I can see the End.

When I reach the End, I will be free.
I can choose what I want to become.
I can choose how I want to move.
I can choose where I stand on the board.
I can choose.
Choices.
Of my own.
Something new.
When I reach the End.
Checkmate.

The Fire of Time

The fire swept through
The House of Life
It started in the foundations.
Causing pain, misery
Inconvenience. Making them unsteady.
Nobody noticed it, for what it was.
It moved to the upper extensions.
The fire crackled and blazed,
As the once perfect structures became gnarled and twisted.
At the heart of the House,
The fire really did some damage.
This damage would effect the rest of the House,
Cause it to deteriorate.
And it did.
The fire finally reached the attic.
Here was stored all the memories,
Of a great life.
Faces, sunsets, celebrations, family,
The fire burned all these.
Erasing them, changing them,
Forever.
Some fragments of the past
Still floated around in the attic.
The fire had left these.
Considered them worthless.
But that was all the house had.
Then the fire went out.

A LIFE

As the last drops of gold
Were shaken from the glass bottle,
Tired eyes turned inwards
And so began the memories.

The youth. Oh the youth.
A bat and a ball was all
That was needed to get high.
His biggest worry was getting
Home for dinner.
And so began the tears.

Like a hurricane over a city,
The memories swirl.
Coming to a stop at a celebration.
Hats were thrown high,
Soaring like kites,
Soaring like the spirits
Of everyone there.
Soaring like the expectations
On his shoulders.
And so began the regret.

On the rocks, mate.
Sadness oozed from the bar,
Blood from a fresh wound.
The door opened, and another
Poor soul took their first step
Down the crooked path.
He’d thrown all his life
Into a glass, drank it.
And ordered another.
On the rocks.
And so began self-pity.

The drunk snuggled into the newspaper,
Closed his eyes, and for one last moment
Thought about how much time had passed.
And so the dreams returned.

THE WASTELAND

Where the sky is bleak and grey,
Where the ground is trampled and old,
Is a place where blazing eyes,
Full of youth and hope, turned cold.

This place, once was golden,
With blue sky overhead.
Now the sun is shrouded,
By the Veil of the Dead.

The fields were once resplendent,
With grass as cool as ice.
A place of happy memories
Until Fate threw her dice.

It was here that battles were fought.
It was here men sold their souls,
When lives were dearly bought.

A cruel, unforgiving place.
Where the wind cries out in fear
Of Death and his cold hand,
There's nothing living here.

Forgotten sons and fathers
Rotting side by side.
Their faces twisted in terror
Fell screaming as they died.

The sodden, unkempt earth
Is littered with the lost.
Men died for love of country,
But really, at what cost?

This dark and terrible wasteland,
Has broken lives laid bare.
With blood-soaked, muddy ground,
A world fraught with despair.

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