By Dee
And Debbie Brooks

Born from revelry thus fair and smooth
My eyes rested on him
A ‘true gentleman’ writ large on his face
My gaze longingly upon his spirit
With the nicest smile,
and a laughter of distinction and grace

I ponder…my dreams of him night and day
My muse in love with him, every which way
With welling tide of emotions without end
While white frothy waves cover my mind
As I walk through the garden of his life…
Under each leaf, looking for him, hoping to find


If only I could turn back the hands of time
The day I was seizing the world
A wonderland that so dear I hold
Close and cherished by my heart
I would give up my now
For that precious second start…

That enigmatic moment that I laid
My eyes upon you
I knew my darkness may someday shine
The revelry had perchance thrown up
A pearl wrapped up in immortalized time

Etched and elusive seconds
Turned to minutes, hours and years…
Today…

Your dreams are a symphony’s crescendo
I, the elusive maestro, you the virtuoso
The era that you worship, is a bygone eternity
Tidal oceans, the lost sea of tranquillity
The spirit you seek, is missed love’s divinity

If you could turn back the time, would
your eyes be at peace, the muse still love him
The thoughts you often porpoises through
The gardens are your loved wonderland
Would your heart stretch out
to hold today’s wrinkled hand?

The plans for her
return
always cause the
greatest dis-ease
to the system.

Mother…a wound
that only ever
scabs over,
but never truly
heals.

She comes from
many miles away;
a casually dressed
monster
with self-proclaimed
‘good intentions’,
like the road to Hell.

My hell…on Earth.
Have I yet paid
my dues?
Have I done enough
penance…ever?

The link to
maintaining my
sanity;
the calming balm
to my distressed
heart…is him.

My lifeline,
the reason I can
continue to smile
and laugh, uninterrupted,
despite the oozing
wound,
invisible to the
naked eye,
appearing to others,
that don’t know
the history,
as simply…
attitude.

The wound never
truly heals;
there is no
‘closure’.
I’ve given up on
that particular idea…
wish…goal.

Despite the ever
festering
inflicted/afflicted
hurt;
my baggage,
which seldom gets
lighter,
I find his comforting
hand, which reaches
for my own,
leading me away,
sometimes even pulling me,
for my own good,
into the light,
giving respite to
the wearied psyche
that dwells in my head.

He shines the brightest
of Suns
upon my often
frigid, numbed soul,
melting away
the sickness,
the brain-washing,
the manipulation
of eons gone by.

Always leaving behind
Shadows
where their
very breath
used to be.

He is the safe haven,
the cocoon
which allows my
safe metamorphosis,
until I can slowly
break out of my shell,
stretching out
multi-colored wings
and finally,
flying,
flying,
flying Free.


-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights

The plagiarist is somebody
who loves the high regard.
Talent less and lazy and
lack a sense of working hard.

Its easier to copy,
take credit for another's trade
because they lack accomplishment,
it makes them feel afraid.

Afraid, because of inadequacy
in what they do or say
they want the credit of their peers
without a price too pay.

Incompetent and shallow
might cause these beasts to steal.
They like to boast of mastery
but of course this is not real

Shameful in their thievery
could never achieve the work they stole
but perhaps when they're pretending
this helps to make them feel whole.

This should not make them happy.
This should not make them glad.
In fact it should reiterate
that they are really, very sad!