- Matthew Wilson
Selected Poems by Matthew Wilson

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Souls for the Reaper
They hanged Helen for envies sake
this brief queen of Troy
whose beauty knew no equal
a prisoner of such little joy.
So many deaths were at her feet
this ruler of a distant shore
captured by her victims families
where only friends remained before.
I watched them cheer for rope
they laughed and hung her up
making great fires to burn her
handing out goblets from which to sup.
They hanged Helen for envies sake
so I waited till night for more
to cut her down and lend my magic
and with her beauty make another war.
Gifts of Dead Gods
I have been the keeper of these treasures
the cursed remains of a dead kings spire
the rubies he used in his demented pleasures
his jewels that escaped his enemies fire.
Broken are the golden shields of Zeus
snapped is the lance of dead Thor
who failed to keep enemies from the gate
the last to fall upon the bloody shore.
Bent are the goblets used in better times
toasting glory of one eyed god victory
betrayed by their lesser favorite son
who wished to give their name to history.
I have been the keeper of these treasures
now the Olympus mountain is done
no more shall winged beasts fly over it
carrying their dead souls toward the sun.
The Murderer of Marlowe
Envy made me a murderer of Marlowe
to whom the muse speaks so free
when I should be the writer of all ages
when immortality should be my destiny.
Marlowe was the teacher of Shakespeare
rising that Stafford lad from the gutter
to one ladder rung beneath his talent
who would've left life without a splutter.
I have printed bad verse in his name
spread lies about his religious station
so whispers would ruin his good name
reviled as a criminal throughout the nation.
Envy made me a murderer of Marlowe
getting him drunk I used my blade
now the world will know my stories
no more to hide behind his shade.
Song of the Traveller
A stationary soul is a terrible thing
wasting in stagnant sceptered places
when the world would have it singing
warmed by new and smiling faces.
Men must travel in their early years
before grey stains their fading hair
to sing and love as travellers do
to live a life without a care.
A traveller walks the woods of Robin Hood
beneath the beams of Shakespeares home
to live as free as only birds can
to have no restrain on where to roam.
A stationary soul is a terrible thing
when old men resent their youth
wasted time they could have travelled
to uncover love and beauties truth.