'O godmother, open your mind to me and tell me of your woe!'

'My dread spouse, he is to joust on the morrow's night; Death cannot accompany him, else I shall be left bereft!'

'O godmother, he is no longer a marauder; he shan't greet Death on the verdant hill where he shall joust,'

'My dread spouse, what will he suffer if he were to fail?'

'O godmother, ye of little faith! Your dread spouse shall joust with a fiery spirit,'

'My dread spouse, what would become of me if he survived, only gaiety!'

'O godmother, worry not, for he shall battle under a gibbous waning moon, a good omen surely!'

'My dread spouse, if he shall be pierced by an arrow whilst on his stallion, I shall weep to the moon!'

'O godmother, if his blood is to stain grass browned by heat, he will lay peacefully knowing his courage.'

You never know when you might lose something.
A bracelet, a bill, a pencil that you chewed nervously.
But sometimes, you lose a person;

I was in a classroom,
with great big tables
and walls that echoed the teenage chatter
of my class.

My love, he sat beside me.
My friends, a tad bit too loud
laughed behind us.
A modest couple
chuckle in the back.

A brilliant, clever man
with cunning yet tired eyes
look at me happily, solemnly.

A smile was traced
by his beard laced with silver
and his accent inquired professionally.

I remember how much fun he had,
how he filled the void in my soul,
how he shared his stories and wisdom.

I lost him; I miss him.

Tell your secret to the nourished grass,
And your secret will be swept away by the wind.
Tell your secret to your bed-frame of rusting brass,
And let the polish cover up the secret, hidden.
Tell your secret to the flame of candlelight,
And the flame will die down before telling.
Tell your secret to the moonlit night,
And dawn will come before night can begin singing.
Tell your secret to an autumn flower,
And let it be crippled by the winter frost.
Tell your secret to the running water in your shower,
And let it spill down the drain with your secret, lost.
Tell your secret to the purest snow,
And by spring,  your secret will melt away into the well.
Tell your secret and let the  fireflies know,
And your secret can’t be retold; there is no one else to tell.

my perspective on life
is optimistic, blissful.
while i try,
i really do,
to look on the bright side
where the sun shines.
however, obstacles
never rest
and make life bliss,
with a side of misfortune.

"Have you ever screamed into the night,
until your throat was raw and dusk left to hide?"

"Never have I ever."

"Have you ever walked the halls with tears streaming down your face?
Well, they might as well have been a mirror,
because of all the people who stared,
bewildered."

"Never have I ever."

"Have you ever lost someone,
and tried to fill the empty void in your soul,
only to lose that person too?

Haven't we all?

Shouldn't we all?"

"Never have I ever." they said; a blunt lie at that.

Rust
on an old, silver bell.
It grew old, surely,
and the people dreaded its echo,
for it signified the presence of death.

"Who shall be taken by the Reaper?" they asked.
"Who shall suffer his wrath?"

Until the Reaper appeared, a dreary night it was,
to take Timothy McLaggen down death's path.

The people thought,
"The boy is too pure! You shan't take him whilst we breathe!"
"The boy is too good! You shan't show him what is under your malicious hood!"

But the Reaper took the boy with ease.

He was unhappy, you see
and needed to leave,
and he felt as though the Reaper
had set him free.

A clear umbrella
that let people glare
past the dewy tears of the sky
and into the mirror-like
platinum hair.

A constant clicking
of shoes on wet cobblestone
click, clack
like a clock
tik, tok.

A small tea shoppe,
with pastries and coffee,
the Italian roast just as awakening
as the refreshing rain.

The chime of the clock tower,
oh, is it midnight already?

I suppose I should retire,
a fine day it was,
I cannot deny that I love
Tuesday in London.

My wooden guitar,
it's rather bland,
so I'll paint a picture
of the stars.

I come from a land
far, far away
where the grass is greener
and the trees are taller
the sun rises higher.

Please forgive me
if I cannot understand
your language
or your customs,
for I am not from here
I am a foreigner.

A tale as old as time,
they say,
that the dreamcatcher woven from the cobwebs of a spider
would capture unpleasant dreams
and ban them to oblivion.

During the night,
amongst the children,
the dreamcatchers dangled upon the window panes.

However, it was not
the beaded sinew
that protected them from their own minds.

It was a mysterious spirit,
known as
the Dream Catcher.

With an enchanted fishing net,
he would steal the dreams that
tormented the children
and replace them
with dreams full of bliss.

Tell your secret to the nourished grass,
And your secret will be swept away by the wind.
Tell your secret to your bedframe of rusting brass,
And let the polish cover up the secret, hidden.
Tell your secret to the broad cobblestone wall
And let the ivy cover it up until it’s tucked away within the cracks.
Tell your secret to the grains of sand
And let the ocean sweep away the remains.
Tell your secret to the flame of candlelight,
And the flame will die down before telling.
Tell your secret to a crystalline raindrop,
And it will become one with the earth before whispering.
Tell your secret to the moonlit night,
And dawn will come before dusk can begin singing.
Tell your secret to an autumn flower,
And let it be crippled by the winter’s frost.
Tell your secret to the running  waterfall,
And let it spill down into the river with your secret, lost.
Tell your secret to the tobacco in the pipe,
And let the smoke be lost within the brilliant clouds.
Tell your secret to the buzzing bumblebees,
And they will never say it aloud.
Tell your secret to the purest snow,
And by spring,  your secret will melt away into the well.
Tell your secret and let the  fireflies know,
And your secret can’t be retold; there is no one else to tell.

Tu m'as sur des cordes
qui tirent à me fendre les poignets.
Ma tête tombe mollement,
mes yeux sommeillent.
Tu bouges les ficelles,
tu fais un spectacle de moi
dans une étreinte manipulative.  
Tu me contrôles
comme une marionnette.

I once knew
an evil being.
His name
was Comparison.
He was shameless,
an unapologetic thief
of joy.

no means no,
not that i'm timid
or hesitant,
it simply means
I entertain no wanton.

Your touch was dangerous,
entrancing but not exaspirating,
fingers that felt like
a velvet guillotine.

I soon, unexpectedly
got cut.

The guillotine disguised
as velvet
had pierced my heart.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?
You look in the mirror
A mere object, reflects
Reflects you, reflects what you see
The mirror cannot tell you, you are fairest
Unless you tell yourself, you are fairest
Fairest in your eyes
Fairest in the mirror
For the mirror, the mere mirror
It reflects
Unless you are seen as the fairest by yourself
The mirror will never see the fairest
Watch the mirror forevermore
And see the fairest
The mirror, the mere mirror
Will see you as fairest

A woodpecker probes an oak for grub,
a raven cackles while perched proudly on an old wooden fence,
On the hazlenut sapling, a warbler twitters.
On the willow, a viceroy butterfly flutters.
In the sky, a hawk has narrowed eyes in search for its prey.
In a weeping birch, a dragonfly soars.
These creatures, they see the world from a different perspective,
only because they are winged.

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.'

Elle avait la peau de porcelaine,
des yeux malicieux,
une sourire narquois.
La forêt verdoyante
était sa place de refuge,
où elle pourrait parler à l'homme
dans la lune
sans problème.
Au dessous de la lumière formidable
de la pleine lune,
les personnes du village l'appelaient
la dame blanche.

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.

you're gone now,
but it wasn't a waste of time.
thank you, truly,
for the love you offered me.

She wanted to speak with me
and spoke about her problems
but little did she know
I had gone through the exact same things.

They enjoy the rebellion,
the revolution,
the adrenaline running through their veins
at the speed of light
as they embrace the burn of liquor
as it travels down their throat.

His eyes,
I remember them fondly.
Iris' like amber, and perhaps specks of citrine,
but you'd have to be close enough to gaze into them.

His pupils were dark, like black pearls
sitting in the throne of an oyster.

His eyelashes were black, like the night of a new moon,
and fluttered like the flap of a raven's wing.

Yes, I recall,
his eyes were beautiful.

The window to the soul, they say?
Well, I suppose that makes sense.
He was utter magnificence,
and his soul was beautiful too.

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

the barista asks
"milk? cream? sugar?"
i'd like cream and sugar,
please.
i don't take black,
it's far too strong.
i have a bit of a sweet tooth,
and it's always far more present
in the morning.

I feel cold in here
I feel uncomfortable with these people
that I grew up with, that I know
I would rather be alone.

Tu devrais être prudent,
mais ne crains pas l'obscurité,
utilise la sagesse de tes cicatrices
pour t'aider à t’évader
la nuit.

Free love was a scent in the air
and the psychedelic illusions
of LSD ever present,
the strum of beautiful music
and poetic lyrics,
those were the years,
that was the 70's.

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.

What a pity
it would be
if suddenly,
I couldn't feel.

It would be bad,
to lose my hands,
but for no longer
could I work.

Am I really seeing stars
that create constellations
or do my eyes deceive me?

Do I wake every morning
whether it be a golden sun or a raging gale
and smell persimmon?

If it is real,
so help me,
I love it.

The modest shop with a crackling fire
Lighting the glazed wood of the clocks
Tik tok, tik tok, midnight strikes the oldest
The grandfather clock, tall and broad
Looks upon the the young and new
That tik and tok without a squeak of rust
Yet, the grandfather clock is the wisest
The brass pendulum swaying
Tik tok, tik tok, the hourglass spills its sand
And yet, it will run out.
But the grandfather clock, the wisest, the oldest
Will never run out of wisdom.

The man who wore the dashing tailcoat and brass monacle
was always fascinated by how everything is hidden.
He was considered isolated, introverted, perhaps even rude,
but in actuality, he hid from things hidden.
The sheer silk pillowcase on one’s pillow, which hid the feathers of pheasant.
The crimson carpet, which hid the cold floor,
which hid the Earth beneath it.
The clothing on the backs of every human being,
no matter satin, cotton or twine,
it hid one’s skin, thus their vulnerability, from the world.
Alas, as the dashing man sighed,
he could no longer investigate his fascination.
For he knew, under the fabric, whether the finest silk or derived from poverty,
hid skin.
And skin, it covers up the hideous, unspeakable secrets that no one should know.

The apparent gentry
written upon their faces
by an ostrich feather quill.
Thus, not smitten,
rather inconsiderate,
they are.
So, turn,
avoid piercing eyes.

A temporary print on my skin,
no particular meaning,
but beautiful nevertheless.

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.

I was burned,
my ashes were scattered to the wind,
and I felt helpless.

My wings were taken
like those of Lucifer
and I couldn't help but feel
weakened.

Alas,
a spark ignited
and I knew I was stronger.

The sensation,
it was like a euphoria of fire
blazing through my veins.

I felt as though
I was being reborn
like a Phoenix.

I am locked in the wine cellar,
supposedly punished,
yet I may easily quench my thirst
and forget my pain
by drinking from the barrels.

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.

I could no longer
stay in a place
in which I did not belong.
I hoped you would compromise,
fight with love on your side.
Alas, it was too difficult,
too much of a burden
for you to fight for me,
for you to keep me,
for you to love me.

Cogs spin in my brain,
and I've been graciously informed
that I have no heart,
that I am a machine.

Perhaps it is true,
for when I hold a crimson rose,
it ****** my finger,
and out comes gasoline.

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.