The Poetry of Michel St John

Time is running out. Death in the East. Fire in the South. Some great rough beast's, rapacious, grinning mouth, agape. Preparing for the feast. While many wander West, finding Nihil. Gaunt, depressed, and deathly ill. Our true North alone is blessed. Secluded behind icy hills, Beyond all sight we skip and play, with wrong and right. Forsake the day in sheer delight. On bloody beds of thorns we lay. Embrace the cold, eternal night. We fled the fold and your control. A guiding light burns in our soul; To ever struggle, ever fight.  

There are songs that live unremembered inside of you. Their forgotten names evoke no excitement. They seem unremarkable, nestled deep within albums. Peripheral to points of light, which seem to shine for aeons. Like a line in a book read on a sleepless night. Like a photograph buried in a box of memories. Showing forgotten angles of a formless face. If you are lucky, one day, they will find you again.