Soul of Cinder

The final enemy at the end of my journey,

The very last jouster in my third tourney.


Ash and soot, sand made into glass,

The sun eclipsed by a dark, black mass.

I climb the hill onto an ash plain,

Ready myself to be once again slain.

Soul of Cinder, a man of fire,

Somehow familiar, fierce and dire.

We start the duel, I break sweat,

I’m reminded by someone I have met.

The Soul of Cinder made me cry,

Not because I would die and die,

(As opponents go, he was fair,

He took me on, shoulders square.)

It was the music that started to play,

Amidst the black sky and ground of gray.

The piano I heard such a long time ago

Such sweet sadness, gentle and slow,

Gwyn, Lord of Cinder was there once more,

Entered my memories and opened a door.

I forgot where I was, just for a flash,

Was beaten to a pulp, ground into the ash.

No time for nostalgia in the middle of a fight,

Not even when it burns incandescently bright.

Dark Souls, I will always remember,

The search for humanity, for the feeble ember.


Kids today

O tempora o mores, by Cicero,

Every adult since, in his tow:

“They’re just drinking their lives away,

Always lazy, always on holiday!

No respect, no manners, no class,

Just sexting all day and growing tall grass.

When I was young, it wasn’t like this,

Politeness, work, not one day amiss.

I pulled my weight, not like they can,

Born in a house I built, such a man.”

Nostalgic lying or remembering wrong,

Affects over 30s, comes before long.

Kids learn more than the ones who came before.

Ecological thinking raises their score.

When you’re twelve and your main worry,

Is the extinction of all things furry,

Climate change or the trash vortex,

I salute you and your cortex.

If you claim they have no will to work,

Unpaid internships, such a fun quirk.

When it’s refused, which is just smart:

“I should’ve known, all lazy at heart.”

Not happy to be slaves is what I hear.

Not lazy; a sailing sensibility buccaneer.

Age and nostalgia go hand in hand,

Might make your senses go unmanned.

80s spider

An 80s spider is a thing, if seen,

Makes you wonder at where it’s been.

An 80s spider with super hairspray,

Its brown fur stays up through the long day.

An 80s spider, hard as a rock,

Tapping 4 guitars, breaking every lock.

An 80s spider, action in a flick,

8 machine guns and punching a brick.

An 80s spider, sitcom star,

You’ll see the jokes coming from a bit too far.

The 80s spider is now old,

Hairspray cans are left in the cold.

The 80s spider got a real job,

No guitar hero, but a thief-webbing cop.

The 80s spider no longer acts,

It ran into reality and facts.

The 80s spider’s family is real,

No laugh-track, life non-ideal.

I think the 80s spider got old,

But he’d still lives for someone to hold.