****!

mandolins seem to screech out a tune like the cries of those who loved you;
if not for us, for you, please thrive in a meadow verdant with joy.
the rickety stairs of my old home, approximately thirteen steps, creak,
reminding me of how your back must of wept and your soul must have cried from the weight heavy on your shoulders.

Kenzie, oh Kenzie,

why?

soar like a phoenix, reborn, where you are now free;
inhale the air much like the questionable smoke you breathed in here,
and appreciate where you are, high with the sensation of relief and not chagrin.

Kenzie, oh Kenzie,

i miss you already.

you lifted me so that i could touch the sky, remember?
on the ninth month nigh the end of the first day,
you let me discover myself.
were your shoulders heavy with the weight of loathing,
or sadness, then? i wonder.

Kenzie, oh Kenzie.

at the time where the clock strikes,
the hourglass runs out of sand,
at the time where my time in this realm is over,
come to me in the afterlife with a tad of Mary Jane?
i would bring the light, of course.

let us absorb artificial calm together,
engulfed in a beautiful oblivion,
like you promised we would.

Kenzie, oh Kenzie,

cry away the tears that have drowned you.

you are free now, dear girl,
let me light you a crimson candle to help guide you to safety.
you will be missed, treasured forevermore,
but i always did think that your beauty surpassed that of the living.

Kenzie, oh Kenzie,

goodbye.

when you were used to loneliness,
he was right behind you,
a winged man who caught you.

my poetic brilliance is nothing to boast about;
it is a curse
because the best poets
write with blood, sweat, and tears.

i hope to grow old,
someday,
and be ridiculed for my distasteful,
unwise poetry;
i won't need praise to fill a void in my heart that is meant to be youthful,
i shan't be fruitless and tired;
i will finally be happy.

the extraordinary sensation
of my heart beating far too quickly to be comfortable in my idle body
is a pain that even i, a poet,
may find a hard time describing.
think of it as your body hosting the end of the world.

i'm tired;
the creaking of the wooden stairs of my old bungalow home
reminds me of how my back weeps
when it is reminded of the heavy weight on my shoulders.
i'm tired;
the melancholic music that plays
as i try to force myself to sleep
reminds me of my lonesome circumstances,
and i can't help but wonder what it would feel like
to sleep forever?
one try;
i'm tired;
goodnight, forevermore.

Pendant que je joue le mandoline, les flames brûles humblement.
C’est la nuit; hélas, je ne voit pas le soleil. Mais on voit les étoiles !
On peut voir de la fumée, mais pourquoi? On gèle !
Est-ce que ça se peut que c’est toi qui fume une cigarette pure
Pendant que tu admires les étoiles; pendant que tu admires la lune gibbeuse ?
Et toi, mademoiselle ! Aimes-tu la musique de mon mandoline fière ?
Ou peut-être vous-êtes une femme qui préfère le son d’une lyre…
Ah, bon. Je’n sais pas jouer la lyre, mais peut-être t’aimes chanter ?  
Non, non, non ! Tu me dis. Mais pourquoi ?  Vous-êtes une dame pointilleuse. Mais peut-être t’aime la poésie ? Je sais raconter des histoires !
Oui, oui, oui ! Tu me dis. Parfait, je te raconte l’histoire de ma vie.
C’est une oeuvre, je le sais. Mais tu deviennes langoureuse, vous êtes endormi.
Ah, je le comprends. C’est ****, ouais ?  Très ****, je le sens, mais je’n bu pas !
Mais désolé, je joue encore mon mandoline, mon mandoline en acajou.
Et le bois du foyer n’est presque pas là, je voit seulement de la cendre.
Mais c’est ****, c’est très ****.
Donc je souffle les bougies,
Et je vous souhaite une bonne nuit.

Well, it was fun while it lasted
but deep down, in my soul,
I knew it wouldn't last.

Your moral compass
was never the same
as my own,
your excuses rusty and
ever so transparent.

Thanks for the experience, though,
for the knowledge I now have,
and may you continue your life
peacefully.

I finally sent him a letter
tied to the leg
of the same little blue bird
that had told me many things.

I didn't know what he would do
at the time,
but he responded with such enthusiasm,
it was almost too much.

And so we went out
and talked over drinks,
and then he kissed me
after forgetting my name.

He was dashing, he was tall
he laughed a lot and smiled a ton!

I only ever saw him in the same place;
he helped all who entered,
gave them their bread and drink
and he liked to laugh with me.

Did he really like me?

I sure hoped so;
it would have been mutual,
reciprocated.

You like me?

Likewise.

I was busy chasing someone else
when I knew the love dissipated, disappeared.

And then a little blue bird came flying from a big blue sky, bringing a message not on its leg, but in its chirp.

There was another who knew me,
and then he watched me,
and then, well,
I suppose he liked me.

Heavy smoke hangs in the air,
lazily,
it's the smell of patchouli, right?

Angel kisses caress your skin,
Orion's Belt on your shoulder,
Pavo above your navel,
Columba upon your face.

Angel kisses caress your skin,
as do constellations.

I am amenable, but acquiesce;
you speak bombast words of poetic genius,
contumacious when I suggest candor;
must I be this elicit?

I had presumed that I was to birth a boy,
but my babe had been a girl.

She had grown to be strong, to be wise,
but she had told me once,

'This vessel is not mine,'

and I had really, as presumed, birthed a boy.

In the midst of peril, I convince the men
to gather, gather around me as I burn;
till y'er almost scorched, I tell them,
till you feel flames lick at your soul!

O, golden chariot!
Look upon the geldings,
hear the locusts chirp in late evening;
O, golden chariot,
take me away!

Within the debris,
there was the ring;
the rusty, silver ring
that held the story
of a broken oath.

Ink into feather,
feather onto parchment,
ink seeps from the feather,
ink onto parchment.

It would be such a tasteful tale
to be ostentatious in their eyes,
to choose what side of me
they see.

It's so garish,
but so, so conspicuous;
it's absurd, it's futile
to try and hide it.

What a legend it would be,
to be anything but me;
what a fable it would be
to live life perfectly.

Why are my foibles so seen,
where has my integrity been?
This can't be fair, can it?
Why can't I live perfectly?

I didn't notice the transition
when I lost track of my age, the time;
I was always the eldest of five,
but my soul was always older than me
because of pain,
hence the wisdom.

I would've thought that now,
these words would be slander,
proof of my shortcomings;
I should have had vigilance!
I should have taken time to heed!

But no,
I let the soft feeling of desirable comfort
worm it's way into my chest;
it feels ever so iniquitous,
ever so lovely.

Your hand comes to caress my cheek,
to cradle my face,
but when I show doubt laced within my smile,
your hand returns to the blade in your sheath;

Oh, well, life is such.

I play my bowed lyre,
my mind not quite clear,
albeit I did not imbibe.

Chagrin is strummed
as I tell myself the tales
of my trysts.

Now I sit near the hearth
watching the log lessen in size,
turning to ash.

I cannot elude this aberration,
I feel the forlorn tug of my heartstrings;
my meretricious panoply of remorse shall stay within me
until my heart has become turgid with sorrow,  
until I cease to roam this world.

'Thou art tardy,' said I.

'I belongeth not to you, and now I must brave the sea,'

'I shan't let you, no! You speak balderdash!'

'You doth protest too much, I should have been long gone minutes since,'

'This is punitive!'

'Goodbye, may good fortune tend thy days.' said my lady.

She roams hills and the verdurous woodlands
and on each eve of the new moon,
she follows the river,
making merry and becoming drunk with mead-

She had wanted to be with bairn,
to have man, woman or child accompany her through the forest,
but she only knew the fawn-

Alas, as she fled her role as royalty
when the King and Queen were born a daughter,
she wished upon a jolly gay key of brass
that they would birth a son.

And so they did,
with good luck and omens,
she would celebrate not with a record of vinyl,
but with the strum of a harp and the song of quail.

The men leave nigh nine,
after sunset brings prism light onto the raindrops,
now dewdrops,
from last night.

The tears free fall
like a waterfall,
or perhaps a broken faucet;
look, it's a tree! A walnut tree!

Well, it's rather stunning, no?
Your feeble attempt at pulchritude is admirable,
I suppose,
I congratulate you on your effort-

But why,
answer me,
why does carnal turn to carnage
with you?

My bare feet lie in the stream,
heels sinking into wet soil;
I read the stars, watch the messages told in constellations,
the poetic and epic story told within the clouds,
in the sky,
a quest of emotion, of sorrow, of joy
all without moving.

I wear my scars like tattoos,
dead skin etched into my arm;
O, please know!
These are signs of pain turned to wisdom!
An exquisite display of an oath, a sword placed on both my shoulders as I am rewarded Grace for my sacrifice-
One cicatrice on my knee
from falling off of my red bicycle;
the other from crawling, climbing out of the utter Hell
that I suffered.

You analyze,
and then you criticize
but that, they despise;
hence your demise.

Your words sound evil,
not at all civil;
alas, you meddle
or you are played like a fiddle.

You don't really try,
but you don't mind if they cry;
you're harsh, but you don't lie,
you are not what meets the eye.

Cloak of black velvet,
coat of white satin;
Your skin is itchy with burlap, tied with twine.
Silk robes,
Cashmere clothes,
your boots trek through the snow, made of leather.

The spruce cries merry tears of sap,
like molasses or honey-
the bark holds no bucket or tap,
and now it's all sticky;
it cries, it stings with pine
as we strut through the forest
as if it were yours, as if it were mine,
let us venture, dearest.

A sickly sweet smell
of a steaming liquid, tainted rouge from the cinnamon-
the potion of peace, what a brew;
will it help me sleep?
Surely, it was made with simplicity;
tea leaves in hot water,
no divination necessary.

My dear, my friends, countrymen!
Lend me your ears and take my word as gospel;
the soldiers come in blood-stained tunics and armour of leather, they come to fight on the plains if we engage-
we shan't sacrifice all these men, no!
Pay the ransom in silver and gold, let it not become sultry!

I am woman, a reproach to men
and despised;
a humbling demonstration of vulnerability, me?
Not at all, no; I shall show you my strength,
use my knowledge and my language
to educate you on the matter-
I am afraid I am the bringer of bad tidings,
for you will be disappointed to hear
that you are not superior.

To be a poet is to be a sage,
it is to know sorrow;
they were scathed in battle
and their skull is not hollow-

To be a poet is to be wise,
to know true agony;
to have clear, knowing eyes
after years of tragedy.

You bear fruit, ripe;
seeds float through the being of wind!
Write to the sky, the sky! - With the feather of a dove.

I solemnly worship in all my piousness;
you have my loyalty.

My adherence is yours, Lady and Lord, what is my duty to you?

Need I give gold, need I give blood?
Need I give life, need I die?

My oath, to you, I shall not adjourn Fate; you have my piety.

Such fervour as thee recites the deciphered text of Gods, your vehemence is impressive.

'How agog, you are, from where do you find that spark?' I inquired.

'Only the fiery spirit of the life before mine.'

Insatiable is your thirst,
it cannot be quenched, no sir!
You are so avid, your zeal is,
with all candor and honest amity,
exhausting.

Covetous, you;
parsimonious, gold spent;
you now have ****** and wine, what else?

Enigmatic, the epitome of charisma!
You speak elegantly, your intellect vast; you are eloquent- although petulant, sometimes morose!

So decadent, such wanton!
Humanity cannot be trusted, not now;
it has begun, the deterioration,
so frivolous, such caprice!
So recklessly extravagant, and for what?
Humans, so promiscuous.

How cathartic it is when tension is suddenly lithe;
I had cried ile for far too long.

I stop for water at the sight of the creek;
it is night, she had bid me goodnight
and in turn I made an oath,
I shall return- wisps of light
from fireflies, they cannot compare
to the white effulgence
of the man in the moon.

If a bayonet of a musket shall pierce your skin
and you fall among the wounded, lie peacefully;
if eternal slumber is now your Fate, so be it-
they may have told me, maybe not;
it was you with infallible memory, not I-
sleep among virginal blood spilt
as a war of man versus man continues.

Thee is so deeply versed in the art;
bind my wounds, eliminate my chagrin
with your practiced eyes,
calloused hands- do me this favour,
if you please;
I am afraid I cannot offer you fame and riches,
but I can offer thee my generosity;
I shall bring you rye when you so desire
and bring sinew for you clothes;
thread my wound with the needle cleansed by wine,
thank you,
I am in your debt.

Autumn;
cinnamon and the metallic scent of iron, almost ******;
leaves dipped in copper, wet bark;
when was it, when it came to be?

What in the world did you do
to be pushed from the cloudy shores of the Heavens
and fall, wings aflame, into sulphur and hellfire?