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Robin Goodfellow Jul 2016
Shadows come dancing,
and twilight draws near.
But your tiny candle smiles,
and scares away your fears.
And as I wait, with the moonlight
ever gleaming,
I can't help but ask,
"What are you dreaming?"

Are you a man,
traveling to the ends of the earth?
Or are you a boy,
sleeping delicately by the hearth?

Are you a knight,
following the morning lark?
Or are you a sailor,
preparing to embark?

Are you a wizard,
muttering your wild spells?
Or are you a warrior,
seeking out violence to quell?

Are you a gardener,
caressing sweet leaves of thyme?
Or are you a troubadour,
weaving together blissful rhymes?

Are you a king,
childishly ruling over your courts?
Or are you a fool,
commanding the jokes the aristocrats afford?

And yet, I can only ask,
of the thoughts in your mind,
as I continue with my task,
of watching over time.
Robin Goodfellow Aug 2016
Of sleepless meadows,
and cold, seething blades,
the last rose blossoms,
in the desert's cruel shade.

Lachrymose falls
to shadow's black crimson,
while its thorns cry out,
"Why won't they listen?"

The rose screams and shouts,
crying sweetly for its heart,
but vines choke it gleefully,
dooming it from the start.

Gun barrels and swords,
with dirt spewing everywhere,
and sadistic corpses fall
without a single care.

The sounds of their loved ones
still beckon them home.
But that love means nothing,
when you know you'll die alone.
Robin Goodfellow Nov 2016
Shrouded by hopes of bittersweet nights,
following sounds of evening goodbyes.

Tick, tock,
the pendulum
mocks.

A gentle caress from the lips of a soul,
while forgetting the skies of a beloved home.

Tick, tock,
the pendulum
mocks.

Crisp scents of a past, the weary now sleeping
not knowing how our dreams were still breathing.

Tick, tock,
the pendulum
mocks.

Sounds of your heartbeat or my own,
while within the twilight, the clock strikes alone.

Tick, tock,
the pendulum
mocks.

Gazing in your eyes, I think to myself,
the cascades of lies that my lips will sell.

Tick, tock,
the pendulum
stops.

Tick, tock,

the pendulum’s

lost.
Robin Goodfellow Feb 2017
A tiny boy races through a village, with
fragile arms carrying books, papers, 
maybe a pencil or two. He's hugging
the world with bright eyes, while
stumbling through the morning light,
traveling aimlessly in a field of 

ash.

Never looking down at animals'
hopeless faces, flesh blown away 
by the bombs of freedom, the
scorching heat smearing morality,
changing what should be,

what shouldn't be.

But here he is still, his shadow in the
haunts from forgotten tears

no older than I.
Robin Goodfellow Aug 2016
Where are you?

Are you here, hidden away behind
the blossoms? Are the petals kissing
you now? Are the vines sheltering
you from the world and every cruelty
in it? Are the branches giving way to
your loveliness, burdened by a light
heart, a heavy soul? Are the sun’s rays
adorning you, never giving your eyelids
blessed shadows? Will I find you,
amongst the willows?

No, I do not.

I see you sitting right here
next to me,
your cheek on my shoulder.
Robin Goodfellow Feb 2017
You look up with those big eyes
of yours, while talking about the
things you

once loved

while hiding promises you’ve
recklessly made to others. Then
secrets spill into your

heart.

And with a mischievous
gleam in your smile, you list the
ways you’ll conquer the world, all
with the

eloquence of a child.

But you still cling to everything
and nothing, as if you’ve lived for
a very
long
time.
Robin Goodfellow Jan 2017
Blessings whisper amongst our sorrow,
though kingdoms erode into corrupt golden,
and oceans bleed in shame.
Robin Goodfellow Jul 2016
Prayers amongst the cold
ash-stricken
skies.

I saw you there
weaving pretty lies
along edges of night,
with all your hellish plights,
as you lose sight,
of your innocent light.

Prayers amongst the cold
eve of unquiet
dead.

I saw you there,
screaming your past regrets,
crying out what needed to be said,
while following the blood you've bled,
as you dye your childhood red.

Prayers amongst the cold
words of forgotten
tales.

I saw you there,
with your abandoned sails,
your dreams and everything you've failed,
neglecting the praises you've hailed,
while traveling the icy gales.

Prayers amongst the cold,
for the weeping stories
untold.
Robin Goodfellow Aug 2016
The Court Jester

Spinning
twirling
with you by
my side.
Within the elegance of mirrors and
reflections only the graceless could
see. Skirts and suites and smiles and
masks, many, many masks, with finery
of the aristocrats, the lovelessness of
the gentry.
Dancing
laughing
with you as
my guide.
Ballroom floors are marred by
glistening fans and jewels, adorning
elites and children, the adults joking
and the innocent conversing seriously,
with their hands carefully crafting the
facade only dreams
can bring.
Embracing
kissing
your light-hearted sighs
while writing

our simple end.
Robin Goodfellow Aug 2016
Sing to me a song of fear,
for all the lovers you've held so dear.
You'll listen and watch their fallen tears
and call their names, not knowing they're near.

Sing to me a song of shame,
for all the blissful sins you've named;
wallow in burdens and sorrow and pain
and crimson from which you've carelessly stained.

Sing to me a song of night,
for all the times you've tried to hide
from the truth and reality of all your lies
as you see them now; your angels all die.

Sing to me a song of love,
as you walk away, unscathed from above.
You fly, now free, now white as a dove.
But you smile, and know

you've had enough.
Robin Goodfellow Aug 2016
With your cheek against
covers of lonely, ethereal
clouds, the  shimmering
lines of your silhouette
within gentle caresses of
moonlight.
I see you there,
without misfortune.
Entwined in your restless
wishes, your fairytales
embrace golden light, from
the promises you’ve once
written - the sailing of ships,
fields of fairies, kindness
of ignorance, and melodies
within lullabies- you compose
them.
I see you there,
away from harm.
I’ve seen you cry, but you
endeavor to hide it. No, you
simply fall asleep in your
clouds, with stars and moons
singing your endless slumber.
And then you dream with
your blessings, yours and my
own, traveling blissfully to worlds
unknown, dancing along heaven’s
sweet meadows, while walking
along spring’s lovely breeze,
with silver and pearls at your
feet.

I see you there,

dancing quietly,

raised by sweet words,
in a garden of light,
with prayers to caress
you.

I only sit,
and watch,
as you smile at
me,
before vanishing
to your world
of dreams.
From the Quiet Blessings Chapbook
Robin Goodfellow Jul 2016
Sweet laughter waltzes around
the fires, the warmth of hearths
inviting darkness to sleep. Quiet
traces of foolishness calmly
shroud the night air, hazy smoke
arising from the embers. Singing
and dancing in sanctified light, the
tall oak trees whisper stories to
withered leaves, the vines carefully
sheltering innocent buds from boorish
chaos.
Shadows dance to time’s youth, their
pendulums swinging to the beats of
tambourines and drums, warm drinks
along the fray. Music abounds, with
fresh basil hanging from the
windows. The feast is here, and the
winter storm fiercely blows.
Ivory towers, through the wood,

castles from afar,

kings and queens and

knights and princesses,

with a dragon,

waiting to be slain;


But won’t you stay,

and play,

for just a little

while?
Robin Goodfellow May 2017
Is there a reason
for
prayers?

Scared beyond the deepest
depths
of
sanity,

while clinging to thoughts
known
as

despair.

Laughter dissolves into mayhem,
the chaos tamed to a dull glow
within a hearth of memories, as if the
madness had hesitated to even
touch them, touch you, and everyone
that had ever appeared before you.
Happily, sorrowfully, singing to

children,
losing themselves to harsh innocence

adults,
relishing within the corruption of twilight

lovers,
betrayed through truth and fluttery vows

families,
lusting after loneliness of an empty hearth

friends,
crying upon cliffs of nostalgia

enemies,
silently stitching hollow smiles

allies,
violently tugging at their skulls

strangers,
anchoring to drowning seas.

So tell me, my weary fellow,
who’s seen flowers wither and grow,
who’s scandals blissful maidens know,
who’s loveless acts saints still sow,
who’s playing kings, both high and low,
who’s wandered fairytales, to and fro,
with a heavy, burdened soul in tow,

Will you search for the right spell,
mend the words, with only Death to tell,
while listening to bells of time knell,
upon the sake
of my
sinful
wishing
well?

— The End —