Beneath His Feet-A poem about loss

This is a Hub I wrote a few months ago. It set the stage with a couple of young versions of the Saddlerider and the trials and tribulations of losing a Mentor and best friend and standing over his grave site and remembering the day they both first met. I a sopping wet 15 yr old at his door, drenched from the rain and standing there in hand me down clothes. He saw a piece of coal in the rough that he could shape into a diamond and that’s when the Saddlerider a boy was shaped into an honorable, kind and caring man.

Later he took to writing and growing older and wiser and a little mad. He took up a Quill a bottle of Red Wine, found his Muse and began to write. These are older and most current pictures of the Saddlerider. He does look a little mad doesn’t he? His muse has to pull him kicking and screaming at times from his cave to sit him down to write and when he does interesting scribes are conceived.

Demons leap from his soul and slide down his Quill to white they find escape from his closet like skeletons from his past. I hope you all will continue to have patience with his erratic behaviour and continue to read scribes that unfold as his angels allow him to breath another day. Peace and blessings to you all and a huge thank you for your kind support, readership of my work and all the many comments gifted to me. I couldn’t have done this without you. I lift a glass or two of Red to you, Cheers.

 

Beneath his Feet

The ground glows as the warmth of his spirit

is present in front of a marker of stone a sign

to me and promised before he left this plane for

a place on high amongst scribes who penned

his name in gold a long time ago

 

His angel stood before the boy now a man with

one tear on it’s cheek to tell him that his father

was pleased and missed him like a father would

this man bows in silence listening as he whispers

to his soul and speaks to him in

words remembered so long ago of gentle heart

and kindness shown to this boy for

just being who he was a wet boy standing at

his door dropping rain from ragged clothes

given to him from charity Salvation Army stores

 

So with heavy heart he says farewell as

depression sets in and cast it’s ugliness upon

him while he lingers under a spell that it put upon

his defeated darkened soul he hates himself

for being lost in comma by a trauma sent from hell

 

Will he ever awaken from his twisted pass to find a

shining lamp to lead the way to safety and open up

a door of hope that won’t close so firmly in his face

with each attempt he makes to raise himself up

 

He finds himself inside his mirrored reflection of his

beautiful mind that once was clear and brilliant but now

fogged up by the swirling mist hugging the shoreline

waiting to be lifted by the tides rolling

in from a mermaids breath

 

Once he lived and loved and found a life worth

living and the music wine and beauty of the ladies

were forever present for this man who now is bent

and spent with a mind so confused and burnt

he is becoming mad

 

Alone at night he tears his life in strips of colored

pieces tainted in shame by who he is and then awakens

from this dream dripping in Salvation clothes

wet from rain of so long ago

 

© Copyright Vincent Moore 2010. All Rights Reserved.