2 poems

By Moss Orum

the fall of an empire is not a quiet thing

The fall of an empire is not a quiet thing.

It does not die peacefully in its sleep-
nor will it suffer the subtle decline of a tranquil fade to black.

no, an empire dies in a blaze of flames and arrows.
an empire dies with a great and violent sound:
It rings through valleys— over mountains and across seas.
And it is not a sudden noise,
for many can foretell its arrival.
It sends omens of hurricanes and floods, of fires and famines.
of war and ill and fear and rot.
and empires have a funny way of trying to hide their forms.
like trickster gods they claim to be something they’re not

while calling out like the siren-
singing a song to those on thrones of gold who dream themselves divine.

A empires do not die without struggling like a wounded beast:

flailing violently with rage and vitriol in its eyes-
they lash out to catch alight those unlucky enough to be within reach of the funeral pyre.

but even the most violent and dreadful of beasts must die one day.
some empires fall by the force of might and blade, felled like a mighty oak tree,
while still others collapse, rotting away from a blight within their core.
but no matter how strong or feared, how far its claws may reach,
like any other creature of this world, an empire is not immortal
and when it is going to fall, by god, when its time has come, you will know
for the fall of an empire is not a quiet thing.

A love song for no one

Why write a sonnet to the evening, not a heart that beats in sync?

I have searched so far, I fear that kindred flame has gone to ash-
maybe what’s meant-to-be is just this melancholy brink,

as the wise smile and shake their heads and say this too will come to pass.
perhaps my weary burden is too much for two to bear,

or perhaps it is the doubt that they can see behind my eyes-
but still I wonder why they think heartbreak must come as a pair,

as I cloak my broken and pray someone can gaze behind my guise.
why must the mourning dove I chase stay ever out of reach?
I give my all to those I love, but it’s a burden to receive!
I’m a hypocrite, I know! for I don’t practice what I preach!
for only quiet solitude’s the place where I can grieve.
is lonesome why I dwell upon those ancient scars so late at night?
oh! when no one’s there to help me is when I finally feel the ache,
my hollow why I’m always second love to those I hold at heights?
like a thin veneer of numb that knows its fate must be to break.

I’m a fool to think this pain’s unique but that won’t dull the blade-
and denial’s my bedfellow: impression of what I lack,

still, I admit to empty that at times I am afraid,
I wish for one to hold my hand as curtains close, and fade to black.

Moss Orum is a young emerging poet who has been writing for over half of their life. Growing up in the woods of northern California, they developed a passion for nature that carries over into their work. Moss writes a combination of free and formal verse and takes some influence from Romanticism. Their writing is deeply personal and often incorporates elements from their own life. When they are not writing poetry, Moss enjoys learning about history and science, creating digital drawings, and listening to rock music.