The lark does not sing at night,
Or not tonight at least.
When the darkness settles
And so does the mist,
The lark is nowhere to be heard.  

When the lark does not appear,
Neither does the deer.
With her majestic coat
And soft black eyes,
She goes into her hiding place.

When the deer is not seen,
The flying trout do not fly;
Nor do they merrily swim
Across the river's bay, no longer
brightly shimmering.

When the river is dull,
And the skies are dullened
By winter's smouldering cold,
Where on earth will I find the nature
My heart so fervently yearns?

Broken are the words of this poem,
Tired are the eyes that behold these rhymes.
Broken are the thoughts attached to them,
Tired are the challenges I need to climb.

No light of inspiration shines down
On these little lines I seek to write.
Will they turn my powerless phrases around?
Will they inspire the mind that reads them tonight?

This river has become endlessly dry,
No nourishing water flows down its track.
Will I just become an earth, a dust, and die
Without changing the world; this power, I lack!

Come, oh Muse of the Night,
And let us embark on a pitiful Dream,
Where moonlight Shadows and shaded Light
Make starry Skies and breathless Vapours deadly seem.

Come, my Melinoë, and take my sweet Dreams away!
I'll change my Sense for the purest Madness
For not in Agony I impede the venomous Day,
Nor return to Helios, Bringer of bitter Sadness.

Oh Daedalus! beg me to harness my Ambition,
(lest I fall prey to the Sun's melting Faculty).
Rise, my Icarus to drive me away from the Exposition
That could render me Aspiration's final Casualty.

Rise, my Dark, my beautiful Soul!
Catch me from rushing my Time.
Grace me with the Gift of Control;
Please, take my blemish'd Anxieties
Away, bring Golden Rest, and make it mine!

We leave the world the way it is,
not seeing past it.

Sophocles left behind his theatres,
not knowing of his plays today.

Buried underground,
we see no progress.

Shakespeare doesn't know
I read his plays in class.

Not alive to experience
the next invention.

Gutenberg won't ever know
how books are published now.

We never live to tell the tale
to future people,

how things were made,
how things were done.

We leave the world the way it is,
not seeing past it,

so what creations will follow mine?

I reveal myself to the sun,
A season of heat, a season of sweat.

The white lines on my arms
are only remnants of a battle
I lost long ago.

When young they are bright red,
So clear against my pale winter skin.

But, somehow, they are brighter than ever
against my sun-tanned, sun-burnt body.

Only memories of a brutal war
Are only more vivid in summer's light.

A season of reliving, a season of trauma.

When the perfect storm came
She sat by her window
Trying to forget her sunburns.

After suffering a day of sticky light
And sweltering heat
She found a friend
In the cool chaos of the night.

The thunder, more thunderous,
The lightning, even brighter.
Pieces of hail striking her window
Dragging down the droplets of rain.

Grey sky, soaked pavement,
In the end she fell in love
With the enormous expense of sky
Tainting the earth
As if it were its canvas.

What are you waiting for?
No battle,
No war,
No apocalypse.
Hear the bodies cry, wreak of pain.
Feel the love lost, a little taken away
From this disarray, the chaos;
A world with no cure, nothing found.
Wear your fear in panic and concern
But don’t shed it on me!
Leave me to face the fear on my own,
Experience it first-hand.

Closed borders, nowhere to go,
nowhere to stay.
What have you done to us?
What have you created?
Listen to the lost causes,
lost voices,
lost minds.
Is it not enough what you’ve done?
Weak, old, incapable of fighting themselves.
What is it you seek and
What is it you’re capable of?