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.

Oh,
so taboo,
wouldn't you say?

An act of love,
but then again,
not cherished
like it was in my day.

Two layers of skin,
cries of pleasure,
an elixir of sweat.

Beautiful, truly.

Bright, big hunks of orange squash
open on a garden with leaves strewn across.
An oak litters withering, crippling leaves
that smell like cinnamon.

You give my heart
such a pleasant, exaspirating
burn,
sweet, never enough to hurt,
like pineapple on my tongue.

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.

What a pity
it would be
if suddenly,
I hear no melody.

It would be bad,
an awful fear,
it would be sad
if I couldn't hear.

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

I'm out of breath
trying to chase you,
but now you've left
like you were supposed to.

I'll mourn in pain
and sob and grieve,
but maybe again
we may meet.

The air,
it smelled odd.
Like whiskey and copper,
cigarettes and petrichor,
but where do these aromas
come from?

They said
that you had played me
like a fiddle,
they said
that you had played me
like a pawn in chess.

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

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.

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?

The pines stood tall on the alpines,
the snow sat heavily, splendidly,
on the prickly branches
or the top of the mountains.

For a brief moment,
I felt happy.
I laughed, I cried,
I was no longer numb.
For a brief moment,
I socialized.
I talked and chattered
like a twittering bird.
For a brief moment,
I was me again.

you smell like a witch's storage,
a pantry of spice;
rosemary, basil,
turmeric, corriander.
the smell,
it's spice.

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.

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.

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.

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

I collect cassettes,
little boxes of music
as the tape spins about
in a vintage melody.

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.

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!

A bridge of wood and rope
above a canyon filled with water
waits to be crossed.

A fathomless pit under you,
a glorious destination across.
Shall you cross,
or shall you stay?

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.

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.

Never trust the someone's hug,
that small, erratic embrace.
It hides all their intentions
behind an unseen face.

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

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.

"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.

Humans nowadays,
they know not to cherish
simplicity,
caring only of more,
more,
more!
But how much
extravagance
can one have
before it's too much?

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

Our doom is inevitable, let us repent?

No, we are late, onwards!

you may have suffered
discrimination,
harsh words,
an offense towards your identity,
but remember
to remain
resilient.

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

I seldom swear
on anybody's name,
but never in vain,
as I cry to know,
for somebody's sake,
where are you?

You can attempt to protect him,
but he simply can't be saved.
You are simply a toy,
a pawn in his game.

I don't want to be the one to say it,
but I can't help but be angry;
I am to do what I am expected to do,
and yet
everyone else's errands are so minimal.
I can't help but be disappointed;
when you don't think of how
you not doing something
could be consequential for me.
I can't help but be frustrated;
that you keep saying you will make a change
but another day goes by,
and you still haven't done anything.

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?

Your lies are thick
like molasses, you know,
like honey or syrup.
Sweet,
too sweet to be real.
And yet,
you let them fall out of your mouth
like a running faucet,
it's so easy for you
to lie.