Liam Cahill

The End of the Lotus by Academy Monthly

Does a single soul notice
You’ve ceased nibbling the lotus,
In an unexpected drop and sudden stop?
Can they tell that you’ve awakened,
You’ve distinguished all is fake and
The end is something you can’t really top?

With that small, sharp shock
Forms a poor stopped clock,
Waiting that horologist’s knock.
Your skin turns to ice
And there’s no one for advice,
So you’re forced to take
A cold and lonely
Walk.

Yet still, the sky is blue,
And the weeds amok with dew.
Perhaps it’s not so bad, this universe.
It can make you sad and scared,
Make you lonely and impaired,
But It’s hard to picture
Things could get much worse.

Lily Pad by Academy Monthly

 Dear lily pad, oh lily pad,
I’ve scaled the mountain’s crown,
And since I’ve found your lovely lake,
I’ll never go back down.

Dear lily pad, sweet lily pad,
How bright your colors gleam,
With pink and yellow crest so fine
I must be in a dream.

Fair lily pad, pure lily pad,
With clothing so divine,
If only I could swim to you,
Then you’d be only mine.

But lily pad, no, lily pad,
What lays atop your leaf?
An oafish, ugly, stupid frog,
The dirty, rotten thief!

So lily pad, oh lily pad,
I really hate to go,
But seeing you weighed down as such,
It brings me awful woe.

Beat and Mind Intwined by Academy Monthly

Beat is unfixed in its paces,
Mind’s eye ousting unclad faces.
Sun gave light and saw inside,
Now in this somber pen I hide,
Reside alone, awaiting meal,
With not one here to help me heal.
But soft… what’s this?
A flame anew,
That sings the songs
And paints the dew,
Bringing light to blind men’s eyes,
Imparting guidance oh-so wise.

“Sullen in undue misplacement,
Limited with harsh abasement,
Truth is often pure in art,
Your wealth lies in your soul and heart.
You walk in worlds they cannot see,
That they may say could never be,
Yet we both know the awesome truth,
That’s been retained beyond our youth,
Since all our reals are in our heads,
They may as well be in our beds,
As we sleep and dream the dream,
Shatter walls with flaming beams.”

Beat remains unfixed of late,
Though fear of it became abate,
For mind’s own beat is absolute,
Outside of it, what’s real is moot.