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

A composition that turns to ash in the crackling hearth; but now the crow cackles, how could you?

I smell petrichor,
as dew lands on grass.
I smell cinnamon
on the bristling autumn leaves.
I smell copper
as I ***** my finger
on a crippled rose.
What a blend,
such pleasan aromas.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

my body may remain the same,
but i feel unexplicable pain
as though the skin and sinew,
the muscles and fascia
transforming me
into the monster that I am.

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.

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.

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?

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

"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.

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

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.

There is a fine line
between the utmost bravery
and utter stupidity.
I remain treading carefully
across that line
as though I were performing for a circus.

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.

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.

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

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.

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!

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.

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.

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."

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

Stay calm,
close your eyes,
relax.

You needn't worry of what is to come,
do not fret.

You need only breathe slowly,
smell the sandalwood,
and enjoy the moment.

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!

She sits upon the roots
of the wise oak tree.

"Tell me, what must I do?" she asks hopefully.

"I cannot answer your query, for I do not know what you should do,
but I know someone who could help you." the oak responds.

"Well, who?"

"The Universe."

I'll paint a picture
with you, right here,
by my side.