The smell of brewed herbs
and the hot metal
of the kettle
is strong in the room.

We drink,
we speak,
and we let our deepest secrets
spill out of our lips
like poison.

A youth adored by a goddess of love and beauty
He was confident, with stricking features.
His bravery, a virtue admired by many
led to his demise.
Was it the chaste huntress Artemis who ended him?
He was to spend the afterlife in the underworld
during the chilling season that frosted the Earth
And spend the summers with Aphrodite.
He was stricking, and melted the chill
of the underworld.

Every time I blink
a new world forms
behind my eyelids
like a screen,
like a dream,
so that,
temporarily,
I can escape.

poison needn't come from a chalice,
it can come from words,
full of malice,
a strum of cords.

a reddening whip
on your back with a belt,
provoking hot tears
that could make copper melt.

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

A huff and a puff,
tobacco smoke from a wooden pipe,
*** on the rocks in my left hand,
rather Victorian,
wouldn't you say?

i used to hold my head high
my stance filled with pride
but now my neck is aching
because I keep looking back.

the expectation
was that victory
would taste sweeter.
you shouldn't lament,
for no matter the outcome,
war always tastes bitter.

On the battlefield
fighting the adversary
who was once part of his own pride.

In his heavy chainmail armour,
he was struck by a musket
which ended his misery.

However, his beloved
would mourn over his body
as tears fell freely onto his armour.

Over time, it rusted
with gold.

People far and wide came in search
of this, now famous armour
thinking of invincibiliy.

Legend says the man's beloved
buried it
in the exact place he died.

you're so dull,
so simple,
so
black and white.

that's how you see the world,
right?
black and white.

i,
however,
see the world
in colour.

I used to gaze upon dandelions
as if the were flowers.
"They are only weeds, darling. We must rid of them."
But without them, I felt as though
our garden had too much space.
It wasn't cluttered with yellow,
it was bland.

You drain me of a necessity to live.
You try to enthrall me with manipulation and power.
You lie, you don't love me, you are much too aloof for that.
You are conniving, with a malicious smirk to accessorize your bloodshot eyes.  
You disdain me, you love only those who can offer you gold.
You need not receive my love, for you are too fascinated with yourself.

The flaming, glorious mirth in your iris'
as you place your dirk to the throat of the adversary
as you contemplate whether you should send him to death,
or await submission.
In your sporran,
bullets destined to be loaded and shot from a musket
lie, a dead weight,
reluctantly used.
You let the adversary flee,
with warning,
for a proud warrior you may be,
but willing to accept a change of heart.

We may try to put water in a mold,
to shape it forever without letting it freeze.

Impossible.

It will drift quickly upon a river,
fall fast when shooting out of a faucet,
sail openly on cold metal
and sink when in contact with fabric.

Water has no form, yet it possesses one of the most
magnificent beauties of our world.

The old floor creaks
as the people dance drunken shimmies
while they laugh mindlessly;
it's a shame, really.

They come to forget,
to drown their sorrows in mead, beer or wine
and seek relief;
Alas,
they forget the pleasure
as they dance into the night,
indulge in a forbidden chaste kiss,
it all perished from one's memory,
but not their reality.

You would like me to brood
while you remain aloof,
how is this fair, I ask?
What would you like me to do?

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

I would be saddened
to lose my eyes,
but then again,
I wouldn't cry.

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

It would be awful
to lose my voice,
for I would no longer
have a choice.

I practice magick, not theology, my apologies-
but I can assure that this cherub becomes a daemon at the pearly gates! Bring your silver spear, I am adorned with bronze!
I needn't worry, no deity awaits my presence, only Death; let us be reunited at last!

What a pity
it would be
if suddenly,
my smell would flee.

It would be awful
no to smell the breeze
as it carried the scent
of the cherry tree.

We pull in a slick black beaumont
from 1965,
but the year was 1985,
where we make-out
with the film playing to
our tongue's dance.
I wasn't sure what film it was,
but I know I enjoyed it.

Do you hold not
the value
of fidelity,
my love?

"I will give you a choice, heads or tails?

I wonder why, at my death row, I pick the side of a coin?

"Tails."

The coin flips with the flick of the executioner's thumb and it flies through the air, an inexplicable suspense.

"It has landed on heads. Instead of a flogging with the Cat o'nine Tails, you shall receive a beheading."

I sigh, but this was inevitable. With my wrists burning from rope, I lay my head into the guillotine.

They're so ungrateful,
so terrible,
what must I do
to avoid these swines?

Nowadays,
to be different
is wanted.
But why?
Why now?
Why do you take the name
of the minorities
and claim
to be one of them?
To take their limelight
when you have fought their battles?
Why?

When you awaken,
wipe the grime from your eyes
and squint to the sun,
start the day like you wanted to
yesterday.

If you really think about it
a masquerade ball
is simply people in posh fabrics
hiding behind a bedazzled mask
because they cannot face humanity.

I listen to the planes soaring through the clouds,
I watch a dragonfly kite pierce the air,
I hum a tune of delight.

What a lovely afternoon, wouldn't you say?

I listen to the birds chirping jauntily,
I watch you stare in amazement,
I smile with glee.

What a lovely afternoon, with you here to keep me company.

After a night that let
snow like chilled cotton
fall from the cloudy, yet sunlit sky,
the enthralling,
calming sounds of
twittering birds
and crunching snow,
that is my winter wonderland.

Isn't it?
I mean,
there's not much we can do now,
but that's alright.
We will still
survive,
we'll remain
alive.

I lay in the sand as the ocean caresses my skin
as it crawls boldly to the shore.
I ask for a favour, but the sea is its own master.
It is hungry, insatiable. It desires blood.
The moon shines brilliantly upon the ocean,
illuminating the flowing string of blood
that choses to meander upon crystalline waves.
I stare at the moon as she takes my unborn child.
"Do protect her, please."

Liar,
Liar,
heart on fire
hanging
from a noose
of wire.

I collect the tears of the sky
in hope that it will suffice
so that I need not release
tears of my own.

I'm an amateur poet,
passing along messages of sorrow and wisdom
like a child passing notes in class.

Prickling thorns on a white rose;
it has been stained by Adonis' blood-
care for nectar, Highness?
I offer you my condolences and my adoration,
wouldn't you accompany me?

Roll the dice,
see how many times
you'll be hurt.

When I have been struck by an arrow of silver, I lay, awaiting death.

"Mother will cry!"

May she grieve quickly.

"Father will cry!"

May he mourn peacefully.

"Brother will cry!"

May he live happily.

"Your lover will cry!"

May he become free.

'Swine, O swine!' you cry, but why?

Our doom is inevitable, let us repent?

No, we are late, onwards!

Let oxygen flow,
in and out,
as you release tension,
hatred,
discomfort,
and replace it all
with love.