I sit on a cliff to watch the
Sun as it rests at the vastness
Of ocean. Here, I found

A self chained by the oppressive
Landscapes of memories—measuring
The distance of a life lived in the

Folly of youth from the life
Lived in the youthful folly of life.
Life is a circular argument.

                A strange voice from the
 Wilderness utters the words of the
               World. I am compelled to

                                              Listen
        ­                                       Obey
                          Drift from my self.

I lived a life not of my own. Blown
By the wind. Riddled by doctrines
Of truths in multiple versions and

Renditions of power. Powerless I
Have become. Becoming, thus, is
Defined and defied by truths

Relative to utility. Living is an
Attempt in futility unless the myth
Of becoming is braved by believing

In oneness with one's self.
I sit on a cliff to watch the sun as it
Rises from the vastness of ocean.

Here, I find myself.

Your pale skinned girl
whose roses thorns
pierce, red tainted
cheeks

You take the blood
from her finger tips
pricked, smearing
circles

Bright blue eyes sparkle
akin to, the chandelier
above her willowed out
self

Her eyes always glistened
more when, they were
heavy from always
weeping

Sadness had a taste
salt water falls on open
grazes, where cuffs clasped
her

Today was liberation
sold on from one buyer
to another, man of
taste

Her beauty had a price
she was, the first price sale
this bidding meant a new
dress

Today she was virginal
pure white, floral, leaving
an opened button for the
imagination

He lied about her age
a teenager, he said as
her face smiled, so
innocent

In all truth this girl had been
captured since, her teens
for at least a decade has now
passed

Roll up
Roll up
Next sale
Next girl

How they flock to this
blonde haired girl
not woman, they prefer little
girls.

© Sia Jane

If you come as softly
As the wind within the trees
You may hear what I hear
See what sorrow sees.

If you come as lightly
As threading dew
I will take you gladly
Nor ask more of you.

You may sit beside me
Silent as a breath
Only those who stay dead
Shall remember death.

And if you come I will be silent
Nor speak harsh words to you.
I will not ask you why now.
Or how, or what you do.

We shall sit here, softly
Beneath two different years
And the rich between us
Shall drink our tears.

(1)
I am the huckster of love, bibulous in love
She is my bijou, she is my billow
She is my Hob-goblin.
                       2
At dead of night she called me
I fell into oblivion
She came off with flying colors
I was impressed by her green eye
She was a pack of lies
I sailed, I sailed under her false colors
I sailed, I sailed under her false colors
                            3
These are the hows and whats of my love
Waiting to pay the debt of nature
Waiting for the call of my creator
Living to write my swan song, living to write my swan song
Expecting to write it ere long, expecting to write it ere long
                             4
I am the huckster of love, bibulous in love
She is my bijou, she is my billow
She is a hob-goblin.

I found some grammer of the universe:
Not easy to catch, but easy to find,
as it is simply everywhere.
In the navel and in the fridge.
In a teacup and in a dream.
In a memory and in a grain of dust
as much as in a withering biography.
Sometimes I mix up prepositions,
so that I my beloved feels demagnified.
But I will take the effort to spell lovable meaning in that language.
And it happens that I use wrong keys
- and I don't get the meaning of sentences
that couchsurf my mind - but it's all furnished
with such a beautiful mess. Oh dear,
let me play on you(r) combinations.
And embed the failure in the long run of light.
I know, everything is meant to glow.
Furthermore there is the challenge of silence,
t h e   a b s o l u t e l y   s u p e r c o n n e c t i v e
muting the noisy pain of opposition.
Let us meditate on that.