Dearest hand, may thy desperations hinder,
The mere desires of future events unfold,
For a heart that wants, seeks to fasten thy hands,
But thou'st hands, fasten, holds a story untold.
For a stream flows some steadily pace,
As do time, who flows as a lonesome creek,
Yet, the lingering lusts of the desiring souls,
Shall to the future thou'st fiercely seek.
Dearest time, for the creek whose water holds,
Thou'st undoubtful truths of thy future untold.
Yet to some, the stream is but immensely brief,
For the creek's rushing stream yields thy grief.
And tell'st the story of dreams unresolved,
Upon the midst has't dreaming tales dissolved.
And too, for the current dreamers with goals untold,
Moves thy creek too rapid, for his story'st yet to unfold.
Oh dearest time, must thou'st be too passive for the desiring souls,
And too fiercely swift for those with unfulfilled or desiring goals.
For the moon rises to its peak and the night grows long.
And the mass of people joyously mingle a'sound.
As you wait for your mate a'here as time lingers on.
Until the soundly turns soundless as the lights curtain down.
And you finally discover that you were alone all along.
The heart, a tide, may change amongst the day,
Like the brewing wind from north to south a'sway,
An imminent death that strikes so abruptly for one to act,
Hence draws the forsaken horrors and emotions deemed fact.
A swaying heart like imminent death is but marked a treachery,
For but the tide from the brewing storms crashes only so severly.
But amongst the tide shall we anchor our hearts with mightly chains,
And sway not the heart nor mind for we'st be imminently sane.
Oh, dearest future brings not plentiful hopes but plentiful fears,
Oh dearest troubles comes not in singles but in plentiful pairs,
So draw not the sword to fight off thy troubles that come near,
And wield not the shield to defend against the pains that we bear,
But waits the impeding horizon that greatness comes in fiery form,
As thy trouble retreats in fear and treachery upon the passing storm.
Yet pass the horizon is but another reachable horizon before thee,
Yet too awaits plentiful fears and troubles that shall spawn a'sea.
So bare that too, for an impeding horizon is but just ahead,
And through the plentiful pains and sufferings are thy to tread,
And shall wait upon the fleeing of thy troubles and fear of these.
Before the passing of the horizon and see'st another to seize.
Dearest maiden for thy'st hair, the trees wave amongst the wind,
And thou'st dearest denials of words, the spoken boulders unkind.
But the lingering urge to implant upon thy lips but a single kiss,
Only to draw upon the conjurings of the dreaded addictive bliss.
Oh, a body of warmth must due for the late lonesome nights,
And an angelic face sent from angelic heaven must deem a'sites.
Yet thy warmth, but a blistering heat in the stifling summer air,
A lusting, firing desire for thy skin to touch wholesomely bare.
Oh, poor me! So he says, that poor troubled soul,
And towards the heavens he weeps his utter sorrows,
And calls to the troubles of fate that burdens him so,
Placing him in this cyclic tragedy that had deemed a'go.
And so the mountains and valleys must his dearest life,
Be of great rises and falls and uprising immanent strife,
Yet abandon this liveliness not, for can his soul forsaken,
As upon the life of cyclic tragedy has he inevitably awaken.
For he lives in the facade of failure of encompassing fate,
That hinders his successes and brings his motives innate,
And free'st the facade of failures can he do such not,
For he lives in the cyclic tragedy that fate has gracefully plot.
A mere person. Where does thou'st being exist?
The body is but a container that wholesomely consists,
Of the individual that walks amongst the land,
And takes actions of his mindfully command.
But amongst this body, where does this I live,
For where does thy soul slumber and strive?
For thy being, thy soul lives not the heart,
But indeed thy death slumbers here 'tis part.
Yet, thee soul lives not in the midst of thy mind,
For in unconscious sleep, one'st unchangingly defined.
Then where does thy soul reside in the physical realm,
Maybe it be so that soulless we are, despite a'whelm.
So what indeed defines the being of you and I,
Know'st not you nor I, but defineless we be, by and by.
For a boulder untouched rests in solitude alone,
An emperor unconquered rests upon his throne,
A field unwintered flourishes so hopelessly aside,
A songbird unharmed sings so mutelessly by,
Two lovesome starlings may each other greet,
Only to apartly fade and never again a'meet.
For troubles, in singles or greater pairs,
Always finds a way to draw a'near,
But away do these troubles inevitably drift,
As joys, too, fades to nothing, ever so swift.
As a prelude may swiftly come a'close,
Much like a woman's heart a'drift it goes.
Yet a lonesome pebble may drift miles a'sea,
Only to cross upon a mound of utter debris,
A withering rose may bloom only to later die,
And wither its way back to its initial state a'by.
To observe such cyclic manners bears no path,
Of hopefulness and motives under fate's wrath.
And so, should one live amongst the world a'here,
And seek for nothing but a moment to disappear.
Oh dear calming waves that brush upon the shore,
And blooming flowers and overcampusing trees a'more,
And the pleasant smells of freedom and liberty,
And the numerous hearts of my civilians sincerely.
For the most safest of places, shall I call my home,
And deem no infliction upon such values of my own.
Until what horrors have drawn a near,
Until what treacheries are we to share,
For 'tis a place of safekeeping have we deem,
No longer holds its name at all does it seem.
And much like the Titanic of a poem from before,
Have these fated deaths have but fate to blame for.
Oh shall we never recall this city as a tragic place,
Nor recall the Boston Massacre of 1770 with haste.
For no sane of man shall the slaughterings enjoy,
And for no family of one shall the deaths rejoice.
Remembrance of our people and our city's name,
Are we to call another terrorist is to blame?
Are we to call that be but the doing of tragic fate,
Or the will of God and towards our ideals He hate.
Or shall we blame it for the naiveness of us all,
Thinking that terror only upon namely's does it fall,
But for a city shall its peoples stand a'mass strong,
And rise from the ashes of horror and continue living on.
And shall we take the tragic seeds of what was left to sow,
And grow'st the blooming rose from the ashes as a whole.
Can the greatest of beings flee not the holdings of fate,
For it is but the mere faithful calling shall they await,
The inevitable fall of those hubristic ones must call a'forth,
As inevitable as simple creatures that a'fly south to north.
For even the greatest ship of such pleasantly mass can float not,
For even this awe-deemed greatness has fate inevitably caught.
What was thou'st name; for I merely recall being Titanic it was?
Oh, and had they said the was the greatest luxury a'dear because,
Shall'st its crew be equipped with almost a thousand faithful men,
But yet can they escape not as the fated tragic fall commend,
Oh dearest ship and dearest lives, beware of the facades ahead,
A berg, is but a mere fragment above, but neath greater instead.
And shall has that inevitable meeting of dearest ship and ice.
Draw upon the fated deaths of those here with us tonight.
Oh dearest lives of thy dearest ship must thy drown a'sea,
Now let us question, how utterly cruel fate can truly be.
And dearest ship may your stern and bow touch lovely a'hand,
And drift deeply beneath the sea and thus forever strand.
Oh, and let the beacon flares alarm of those around,
As the oceanic grave drifts about without a sound,
For those who have lived are but now a'dead,
And those that survived are but widowedly unwed.
And those who have had lovers or a closest mate,
Are but left with nothing beneath the wrath of fate.
Dearest being who lives in thy heath,
Who chants the words of failed love:
Death with love is but life beneath,
Life without love is but death above.
Oh poor self! Why has thou'st chain thyself to the boulders with shackles so adorably great?
A'watching the sea before thee, and see nothing but the passing waves so favorably innate.
But oh for the calming oceans possesses not a single mind, for the treacherous waves may seek,
And inflict wholesome pains upon your very chests, clashing thy knees until 'tis inevitably weak.
And so, shall you clench your heart and hope and pray that the greatest of waves has passed,
But be'st faithful thinking, brings only falsified hope for sorrows comes not in singles but in greater mass.
Oh dearest bloody daggers, why must thy unservantly float about 'tis lingering sky?
For as I ponder amongst the lonesome land, and you draw'st the very blood of my.
What impairly sharp and piercing pain has thy minute item brought to this very scene,
As its lingering blade still smirks at the blood of thy as you, against the solid wall a'lean.
Dearest faithful God, for where has thy gone? Where has thy hidden and danced a'lost to?
Where dearest God are you to see this lonely site? Oh dearest God, where indeed are you?
Oh maybe, could I have walked a'stray from the paths of solitude and faithful regime?
Or have I wandered amongst the darkest skies for which your being sees not here it seems?
Or even maybe, thy'st has now gracefully turn'st thy back away from this lonesome world,
For us bittering, faithless humans has pressed hard enough on the earth with our silly whorled.
Thou'st but a ghost who lingers amongst the land,
For must he lack the proper notion of the peaceful rest,
Yet shall the specter be sent from the Heaven's command,
Only to wander and yield unaccomplished goals attest.
And so is a memory, for which we hold so closely a'dear,
For which it escapes us not for it too is but a lingering soul,
Which amongst the midst of night shall it impose us with fear,
And too, as a specter, shall haunting memories, never be free a'so.
Oh, dearest haunting memories, please flee'st my mind and finally be set a'rest,
Instead of inflicting such engulfing pain and treacherous waves upon my chest.
Oh, for the dearest ink of thy pen may soon then fade,
And then may find'st the dearest of hopes may thus betrayed,
For an artist's soul lends him nothing but mythical spells,
For the mere soonest or furthest of inevitable future farewells.
Thus, then shall he plead to the heavens to forsaken his heart,
As such remembrance and dreams shall he wishingly forgot.
Oh, let the debris of the wholesome heart fall upon the shallow earth,
Let the facades ring the brotheling walls and the truths seek a'girth.
Let the warren mind rest a'las for there yields nothing but wandering soughts,
And let the mindless wandering commence for has this but painful broughts.
Oh, but the broken pen yields no longer an image of the artist stride,
And let's thy work fall beneath the consuming hunger of the oceanic tide.
Oh you fragile and unfaithful life, let thy be of nothing a flowing stream,
And drift thy way towards the crossroads and paths of tis randomic scheme.
For then, may you think that the fall of greatness is but a event of sorrows and tears,
And then you tell thyself that these sorrows comes not in singles but greater pairs.
It is only after the passing of favorable time does thyself inevitably understand,
That only through the death of greatness can the birth of the greater come a'hand.
Oh, dearest time is but a flowing stream,
That yields no halts nor standard scheme.
As it flows, its minute manners aimlessly unannounced,
And for its persons' actions, oh, so merely renounced.
Oh time, why must thou'st unfaithfully pass,
And bestow such burdensome upon the mass.
And bring such false hope in the eyes of the weak,
But inevitably bleed the truths of failures that shall'st failed to seek.
And for such passing, shall the most deafening of regrets,
For in time will persons find most their failures of goals a'sets.
Oh, for such dreadful emotion is but a lingering dagger,
That inevitably shall us mere persons come to a'stagger.
Oh time, for where in this dearest world has thou gone,
And left abandoned O' poor us, to hopelessly linger on...
Oh, the gallant rays help 'tis lonesome rose bloom about the barren field!
For 'tis radiant glory, upon great bestowing shelter for which they wield.
And shall dearest winds sing, oh, how sweetly and a'dear your graceful song,
For your graceful words may feed courage to the littlings to grow a'strong.
Let'st the fulfillment of Gaia's earth, feed you, little rose, the wholesome meals,
And blossom amongst this unforgiving field and propel such greater ideals.
Let the molding of the titan, yet too, shape another being of beauty and life,
Will'st 'tis single rose pierce the heavens, bridging dual worlds by growth a'rife.
But until that moment, will the little rose sit amongst itself, so everly innate.
Until Demeter's tears shed no longer, and the gallant lights again awake.
Until Hades releases his dearest brotheling a'hand, shall it be but a single bud,
And bloom'st the divine spectrum of images and colors of the greater flood.
And wait it will do, for Mater Dolorosa's tears shall flush the mourning skies,
Denying what mere minute piercing rays, that upon the tearsome cloud lies.
Gaia is the goddess of the earth. Prometheus, a Titian, molds man out of clay and breaths life into it. Demeter is the goddess of agriculture who has her daughter Persephone taken by Hades to be his wife, it was later determined that she will be allowed to see her mother half of the year, the other half she shall be in the underworld. Demeter (Mater Dolorosa, Mother of Sorrows) as a result weeps with sorrows half of the year, resulting in the death of plantation and the arrival of the seasons.
A rose by another name, may indeed smell just as sweet,
But beneath its beauty may the thorning nature retreat.
And a plane, by its simple name, may indeed fly so gracefully tall,
But its inevitable motion be not horizontal but be a destined fall.
For even the greatest of lights may inevitably and soon be faded,
For be'st even the greatest of Heavens may be overrated.
Oh, a lioness may ponder amongst the forests and lands for its meal,
Until captured by the passing keeper and within the cage concealed.
For the lioness may display sharefully a facade of tame,
Until the destined moment for a passer-by's death to blame.
To live amongst the living is but to wear the truths of masks,
And be'st the being that falsifies your being but facades casts,
And may gracefully weave into the nature of desires with guise,
Oh damn, only after such foolishness can we now fully comprise.
For a simple line of wisdom may we withdraw from this debris:
Believe none of which you see, and see none of which you believe.
A reference to lyrics: "lights all faded... that Heaven is overrated" Drops of Jupiter - Train
Hamlet has spoken that amongst the earth are we but worms,
That the equality of all, in death shall be faithfully confirmed,
Ask the diet of worms, shall we be nothing but a wholesome meal,
That eventually rots and decays and inevitably reveals,
That the prior life was but a mere dream of subconscious scope,
In which man had had dreams and wishes and dearest hopes,
In which unfulfilled desires will unyieldingly linger upon,
The soul of those deadly beings that lay deafly a'sound.
For to live is but to live with neither regrets nor unfulfillment,
But with greater servitude and a single mere acknowledgement.
For to be deadly is but to rest upon the earth and live a life of view,
Seeing the world in greater lenses with greater vision unskew.
And watch amongst the people of the lonesome land,
Yield the same misfortunes and actions that thou'st had command.
But speak not can you, for be'st the silent ghost you are,
And thou'st see upon the world must these idiotic beings scar.
But yes, speak not can you, for the watcher you be,
And observe the failures that the earthly beings see.
And through death have your name spoken and values sound,
For the great doings when living has your existence confound.
Oh, but to die without a name is but to live a non-existing life,
And for at the moment of death shall recalling strife,
That neither has accomplished nor achieved a greater whole,
And done'st nothing of greater value, but with death its toll.
But then, it be inevitable for the state of the freeing soul,
But upon such deadlying actions will thy face no one know,
For once the water of life has been engulfed us all,
Then never will upon the world can you a moment recall.
For death is but a barrier that burdens your hoping dreams,
And blockades the mind with tendencies in which it seems,
That death may bring the equality of beings to amongst us all,
For true equality must it been upon the worms we be drawl.
For in time, will the name be of existence no more,
Unless in life had you achieved something greater swore.
Oh, with aired lungs shall most beings hold no name,
But until spoken death, will some of their existence remain.
Captured by a passing gust, minute petals dance in the warmth of the heavy air. The sun rests overhead; its blinding, piercing rays, malicious in warmth, scorch the innocent earth. The air is hot and heavy – suffocating, if not, stifling. There lacks any existence of life in this barren wasteland. It is a dry and it is dead; the depleted desert stretches for miles and all that could be seen is but the dry terrain – the earth and sand engulfing everything that was once there. And still the minute petals dance in the blazing heat; their owner, a withered flower, suffers the harshness of the burdened terrain. Whether it be the blazing heat or the heinous droughts, the flower struggles for survival, its florid beauty, withered, but it continues to exist and play the role Someone gave.
I was born – their first baby. I had inherited all my precursors’ failed dreams and was burdened at birth by their expectations and goals. I was to achieve what they failed to achieve, be what they failed to be. I was to walk in their footsteps and finish their unfinished business. My parents were the first to set foot on American soil; hoping to succeed in this new society, they had set valuable goals for themselves – which unfortunately they failed to complete. And knowing that their desires were no longer achievable, they bestowed their past dreams to the next generation.
Did I first hate their burden blaming Someone for placing me into the heavy shackles of the past. I felt their goals, a mountain of failure, upon my shoulders. I was drowning deep in the ocean of my precursors – their dreams, their desires, a treacherous wavefront upon my chest. I was a vassal made to fulfill the dreams left behind. I was a culprit perished in the barren lands. But above all, I was blind.
My mother was burdened by my birth; her dreams, a shattered mirror, were no longer a reality. In order to nurse my toddler self, her desires were put aside, as she worked multiple jobs to support not only our new family, but the existing family consisting of my father and his siblings, due to the death of their mother months before my birth, and the abscondment of their father to flee financial issues. She had sacrificed her livelyhood and personal dreams for the family's posterity. She had forfeit her wishes to a foul hindrance, one whom abolished her hopeful dreams: me – my birth, an anchor upon her merchant barge.
Yet, numerous times have I waken in the midst of night to find a glaring beam beneath the door; its illuminating glow, penetrates my room through the confined entrance. It was my father finally home. He was never someone to talk to for he was always at work; he was never home for his restaurant never permitted; he was never present at my birthdays but cake was bought from his sweat and soul. And often would I not see his face for months due to our disarranged schedules. Had I hated him for his absences. But now do I love him for his sacrifices. He had trusted the next generation with his heart and soul, and his absences were solely to support his loved ones.
Had I not understand, beclouded by the mist of Why me’s and I cant’s, but now do I find their bestowment a gift. Slowly, have I grown to understand; their pain, their suffering were merely a token for my success. They have gambled their livelihood solely for my efforts; it is something simple I love you’s will never equate; their debt, I must attempt to repay – sole gratitude will never recuperate the wounds of a broken dream. Their wounds tears my eyes when I envision them. Their ideals yields a weight upon my chest. Their agony crumbles my heart like an unneeded paper. In the past, did I not understand their ways but now have I realized the blessing they bestowed upon me.
Therefore, I was granted their heritage and must fate drive me to abide by its path. Do I now understand the pain they have suffered and the sacrifices they have made. I was born into a family of high hopes and expectations – I was their withering flower. Have I grown to accept that role – to shadow my precursors hoping to shatter their traditional defeat; it is the role Someone gave. And He will never be blamed again for He will rid this blazing heat and treacherous terrain so that this flower will cease to wither but bloom in the autumn air.
Remember, remember the fifth of November*,
But better, the past works and pieces remember, remember.
Forgot not have we? For “fair is foul and foul is fair”
Then forever, should we hold nearest those a’dear.
A mindless creature holds dearest his food at hand,
A mindless tree holds dearest its leaves, roots, and beloved land.
But a tree can hold forever his dearest leaves not,
For the current greatest will soon be tomorrow’s rot.
So what brews and exhales is but the autumn breeze,
And for what dances by such blesses: the autumn leaves.
Tell me you’ve forgotten not these dancing pests,
To dance and wander upon the skies, they need not rest.
Upon the window outdoors do they dare not dance,
For this distraction yields nothing but a mesmerizing trance.
With such improper dance comes improper lyrics unsung,
Which only sings to those previous works and dreadful puns.
So should we recall the Wallace and lobster and moral facade,
And the mysteries of black holes, the universe, and all that is odd.
And should we recall that “flowing sea of fallen heads,”
And that Hamlet and Othello that you may have also read.
From yesterday’s autumn to today’s now, can we rewind not,
Because since then, has numerous change been sought.
For even the great trees, their dearest lost leaves free a’last
Only to freely dance abandoned in the recent past.
But yet, this autumn has brought one of many treats,
For here in Amherst, Halloween was but a Christmas meet.
A snowstorm unexpectedly covers Amherst in a sheet of white,
Bringing the season of autumn to unexploited greater heights.
So a night in the midst of dark, were we forced to stay,
And a lack of classes announced the tomorrow’s day.
But as the day awoke, upon the ground – splits and shatters of numerous trees,
And aside their graves bore branches and their so-called beloved leaves.
Have we remembered the photos of this dramatic event?
To snow, to snow, and the aftermath’s discontent.
Had they not clung upon the dearest leaves will tis still stand,
So consequentially now, do both fall upon the failed land.
For now can we see that labeled beloved is truly beloved not,
For such trees has their deemed beloved, suffering brought.
For now can we see, to wear a crown so heavy is but a destined fall,
For upon the grounds are these trees split a’two; once wholesomely tall.
But shall some still stand, through the window I see,
A survivor, a survivor! A tree, a tree!
Though branches apart and leaves adieu,
A month’s time, has this tree stood heavenly true.
And through the course of this semester, my writing a tree,
To grow, to deteriorate, to assimilate neither can be.
For a tree shall stand over its environmental stress,
So will the works and pieces that I dearly express.
For with these works, should the rules bend and stretch,
To house the hopeful, yet bombastic artist sketch.
From autumn ‘til now, has the trees changed greatly,
Although my writing, failed change has failed to see lately.
To be truly honest, my words to the ears may bleed,
But must I say see’st no change in my writing indeed.
And for me to reflect on change that’st occurred not,
For best I reflect on the opportunities that were given allot.
With the rules bent and greatly stretched,
Were the thoughts I mouthed gracefully etched.
Oh, be’st the tree, to stand greatfully proud,
For to have assimilation here is but unallowed.
Call it ignorance or ingratitude, actually it may be,
For dearest pieces and works can change not by he or she.
Call it grandiloquent or effervescent, for the rules bent,
For the treacherous waves of thought can I dare not prevent.
Be it impulse or nature to the second degree,
What be’st is be, and change not it by me.
Be’st the words, a flood, upon the papers it spills,
Maybe they be of value or just numerous frills.
So must I thank you to have one read my unmouthed words,
For my thoughts set free a’last, the skies, the heavenly birds.
*A reference to Guy Fawkes Day, the fifth of November; he designed a gunpowder plot in hopes to blow up the English Parliament. “Remember, remember the fifth of November” It is now celebrated as an annual holiday in London.