Words from the maker,
we hardly could ever hear,

Bereft of love and attention,
we see the diminishing concern and care.

We still pour our hearts
into this bastion we’ve held so dear.

But, alas, the kingdom and subjects,
have fallen into neglect and disrepair.

We were poets,
Once,
Hearts etched upon our sleeve
The lords of our intent,
Words bloomed for all to see.
Each branch of thought considered,
Chiseled,
Whittled to express.
Carving the forest in our likeness
We paved the landscape with our breath.
Woods would sway in idle days
Sunkissed glades lay bathed in gold.
Nights waylaid by dancing maids
Cheap ale and tales of old.
Fires burn, flames unfold.
Though
Embers remember
Tender clutch of the cold.
We tend to forget the bargained,
The sold.
Up rivers and creeks,
Paddles, disowned by the meek,
Cast away to distant shores.  
Glades decay,
Fade to grey.

We become poets once more.

I feel too much,
I care too much.

I see too much,
I hear too much,

Even a whisper,
is heard loud and clear,

Nothing goes unnoticed,
it feels like a curse - one that I fear.

I sense too much,
I hurt too much,

I cherish joy too much,
I remember too much.

Every word
that was ever said,

Tosses and turns
in my heart
and in my head.

I think too much,
I give too much,

I know too much,
I grow too much.

I evaluate my insecurities
everyday,

I punish myself
for turning out this way.

I never ask for much
I never take too much,

I never want too much,
my only real problem is ...
that I love--way, way too much.

~ I'm sorry.

By Lady R.F ©2017

The wind bears with it stories
of faces, bodies, and stillness,
It's graceful yet forceful touch ,
which carries the birds.
surfaces stretching seas,
and sends a breath of life
to the flowers, grass and trees.*

Amanda. F (c) 2017

The angelic silhouette of her intentions on paper,
fair with the golden fingerprints of the depths of her soul
so pure.
Her smile with the potential to light up a thousand dead cities in the blink of an eye,
So allure.
Her eyes play so convincing,
The calm detailed glisten in the sunlight and the sorrowful muted tone they become when her mind is far from bright.
Her idiosyncratic and highly distinctive attitude towards things never fails to amaze me,
Her heart silences her mind when only it feels what her mind can't see.
Rosalie is art
From her knowledge full and constantly absorbing mind, to her utterly beautiful heart.*

Amanda. F (c) 2017

She paints her world
According to her pure intention.
Pure in her own figure,
Not in someone else's.
She doesn't speak,
Of words in complex.
Her mouth but translates
Her minds complexity into simplicity.
She doesn't need to speak but rare.
You've read her words,
You've witnessed the paradox
Of her pen-to-paper.
You understand her terminology
Of no bad cause.
She wordlessly preaches her rootless existence
Through the essence of her eyes,
As she hides behind the smoke of her cigarette
Extraordinary, in disguise

Amanda. F (c) 2017

Tiny fragments
of me
now exist
within you,

They reside
in your memories;
we've made
more than a few.


Tiny fragments
of you
now exist
within me,

They remain
in my heart
indefinitely;
in my soul infinitely.

By Lady R.F ©2016

An innocent pure-white heart
does not see manipulation coming
from a distance,

It does not imagine such hurtful things
in its gentle empathetic existence.

It does not see the dark evil monsters
behind their masks--in disguise,

It does not recognise the difference
between genuine truth and shifty ***** lies.

By Lady R.F (c) 2017