Fred Rik Kesner Poems

They call us mad, they call us cursed,
For we will not bow to their painted gods—
Their temples reek of incense and decay,
Their priests chant empty words to dying fires.
...

people are our real legacy;
one day sure, entire poems
shall have been forgotten,
while remains a phrase or
...

O Dionysus, breaker of chains,
I sing not for the meek, the tamed, the gelded—
But for the wolves who howl against the night,
Who tear the velvet lies from rotting thrones!
...

Secrets remain shrouded, unspoken,
yet I see them seep
into the spaces between breaths.
Truth, as it stands,
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They tell us to hold steady,
keep the ground firm,
but the ground itself shifts—
silent adjustments beneath
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History does not pause for breath,
it moves like morning,
inevitable yet unnoticed.
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A soul refrains from distant quests,

Throne, temple, summit—all forsaken.
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Snow finds the peaks first.
Dusts the rocks,
a quiet landing overnight.
Thredbo wakes white,
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They came for the feast of phrases,
gathered ‘round the wordless flame.
Empty cups clinked, unsated,
as the poet shrugged—his muse unspoken.
...

Beneath the ash-grey skies of longing,
the earth breathes—not for you,
not for me, but for itself.
A pulse steady, undaunted by
...