In the sea of voices she remained silent;
Among the whining tunes, the screaming sounds.
She had always had a quiet soul;
She wept in the absence of anybody else;
Manned of her own will;
Laughed in her own freedom;
Loved in her silent heart.
She had faith in her own thoughts.
There were people she had not met for years,
There were those who had forgotten her,
There were those whom she had forgotten.
They brought this noise she had not comprehended;
The noise that had perforated her thoughts;
Punctured her vision;
Pricked her confidence;
Drugged her with poison.
She had never longed to look back;
This village had always been her nightmare
yet she had been compelled to return.
She had always preferred quiet time;
Her solitude, that she would feel free;
A seclusion, a noiselessness, a silence.
Surrounded by unsung melodies,
With her love for unwritten lines;
She would write poignant poems,
Dance to lively rhythms,
Live among scattered paint, and
be basked in her peripheral visions;
Her hearts touching the sweet roots of poetry
Swimming in the green arts they could not see.
Her arts were her honour, her triumph
As her fingers touched archaic poems;
But she found unjustness, danger in noise
That she had longed to go;
Not wanting  to hear their smug voice.
She would run away, she knew
and as she stayed, in the pouring seconds
Some talked to her, while some
Remained silent;
Some wept at her feet,
Some cursed her with hate,
Some pierced her ears with noise.
She remained silent still.
Now and ever.

Within the walls, I could hear
Those hums like they were near;
Hark! How the opulent skies
Fill with colours, cough up lies.

Within silence, I could listen
To dim words I had written;
And your breath by my side,
On a sweet autumn night.

Within the airs, their dramas;
All were stricken dormas,
I would have thee over;
Didst thou know where we were?

Within the wet nightfall;
About yonder blank hall,
I could feel twitching music,
Dancing to the flown week.

Within the burnt candle;
Thou be mine to ******,
To live, to bend to thee
Whilst youth’s last may scare me.

Within t’is solitude, love
Thou be more than enough;
These summers petrify me;
Peel my blood right out of me.

Within t’ese days, darling
Thou be the throne that rings
My mere haven of dreams;
Unlike their harried screams,

Within t’ese colds, my sweet
Shy me to thee, and read
The unsung of our fears;
Our abrupt weak tears.

Within t’is high snowfall;
May we meet, and house all,
May we herd the sublime,
May we slumber in time.

Within the dark, my frost;
Pick merely the black rose,
Lighten my most unsure;
Taint me, but keep me pure.

Within the insane gloss;
I knew my doors had closed,
My lyrics had made so wrong;
My poems, my lines, my songs.

Within the unsaid haze;
Memories in my face,
Their sobbing in such pain
I could not feel the rain.

Within the hoarse terror
Just like the sun before;
Thou come round to my room,
To sit, keep warm my poems.

Within the stiffened chords
Thou be the lyrics for;
Be May’s shard of light;
Make a way for its night.

Within the angered voice
Thou be the modest bliss;
Be such presence so quiet
Be thou the time, the first.

Within the adorned shades
Thou haileth from the West;
Enshrining flesh with mine,
Making true love so kind.

Within the adored love
Thou be given my half;
Thou be the lost way’s back
The first love I shall take.

What are the perks of speech?
My sound remains a low hum;
And tones make me numb,
Whilst noises bear signs of harm.

What are the perks of sound?
No speech may think twice,
No victory is vice, but wise—
Such tunes can hold sunrise.

What are the perks of light;
July has a chained melody,
And thus summer may not hear me,
Nor catch me close to the pear tree.

What are the perks of saying;
Out loud in grown daylight,
That reaches out not to the night,
Birthing only the skies, alight.

What are the perks of talking;
I am full of decayed words,
Alighted by unjust worlds,
That I can never be heard.

What are the perks of seeing;
Love slumbers in every part,
And resurrects until the last,
Enacted by a lonely heart.

What are the perks of living;
Dawning on me, but lies again;
All that is left is surging pain,
To die hard, to love in the rain.

What are the perks of breathing;
With a heartbeat made of pearls,
But that shall die for the world,
The fantasy and its dead sword.

What are the perks of beating;
I shall keep thee from life and death;
To hold thee close, to beget,
To be loved, to be glad.

What are the perks of chanting;
There is no gold like that of thee,
There is no poetry in that tree,
Gentle miseries soar in threes.

What are the perks of feeling;
The rose’s colour turns violet blue,
I am waiting for thy morning dew,
To writ today, to love anew.

What are the perks of love;
This dream of thee pains like a mist;
And all thy moves dance to my breeze;
I want thus, only to taste thy wrist.

In the new being that dawns, must I
Console waste and falsehoods;
Used not to my romantic skies,
Nor my Victorian delight, tonight.

In the new human that lives, but I
Run like a murmur, and shadows;
Those misshapen, unnatural forms
Falling away into vernal decay.

In the new soul that breathes, yet I
Come to made solace and comfort;
With no romantic tenderness
And softness that tend to me.

In the new influence, the new smoke
But I taint my arts and visions;
And make blessed sonnets insincere,
Ridding of their appetite for me.

I was born in the modern, caught
Within the naught of being;
What carries this new feeling, I guess
My soul may not find rest.

I was urged to stay, and say
What the morose hold yet to tell
Not the honest of me; the truths
I may have fallen into silence.

I am only able to live at night;
Being true to dark, ******* sights,
That attract but no organism,
Nor living thoughts and modern insights.

I am only capable of misery;
Their arsons are killing to me,
I cannot paint all that rages in me,
They suspend my arts in dishonor.

Their poems bring about nothing;
My delights they have all killed,
Out of my aesthetic will,
Out of sane satire and parody.

Their art charters no bliss;
I am like the quiet of the sky,
In the midst of this war, I only say
None but the imagery of lies.

Their spouses enjoin ill kisses;
Coining sublime in our frights,
But never frightened like our tears,
Dwelling in our drained thoughts.

Their remarks make us dissolve;
Keeping art away like a spectre,
And dissect my love like a sombre,
Like they were the mere sober souls.

What if the poet in me, conformed
To those marks with no heartbeat;
And my angered words lost their form
Ending such good tones of their wit.

What if the worth in me, paid to them
The wanted chords and juggled songs;
For their ****** and erratic admission
But so not my final destination.

What if the written stopped to sing
To leave, and wish me just well;
How could I stay blind to frustration
How would I restrain such fevers?

What if the tune in me, made dead
By the modern’s hustled breath;
Sung by the engrained commonness,
Having lost its poetic madness.

What if the hours in me, silenced;
Made moroseness, and quiet
I have not been recalled anyway;
I have been silence like yesterday.

What if the seconds in me, tickled
And turned and bored me to dust
Would their hesitations ever last
Would they come to the truth?

What if the leaf in me, peopled
All of their impossible periled
To petrify and sicken my desire,
Shall I embrace mossy poems still?

What if the rose in me, tempted
To lose hold of trained purity;
Would my punishment rise in smoke,
Would I be chained to hell?

What if the love in me, stunned
To death, and its cordless vision;
I am never loved anyway,
Nor guarded, nor made of love.

Those fat beams of sunshine sickened me, and I felt as though my insides had been rotting quickly as I strode further. As much as I wanted to love the morning walk, I could not help feeling ill from the hot breeze licking at my face. It held me breathless, pulling me away from my sweet memories of winter, scratching at every mound of cleanliness that my early shower had given me. I hate being here, I whispered in silence. The sun has always been a sign of sickness to me; its hotness a disfigured existence that has been but a threat to my presence. As more shriveled dust traveled to my cheeks, all I could think of was running away as fast as I could, to the very place where the sun could no longer find me; where winter would be mine once more—and eternally this time. As much as I wanted to feel at home, my heart could lie to me no more; for it would not find its sojourn in the new Jakarta. I had to go again, this I knew at that very moment, to fly over the moon and retrieve my autumn from the stars.  

My day started in a daze; the steps I took to the workroom felt nearly weightless. I did not take a glimpse of a single thing along the stairway; in unconsciousness did I slide my chair away from my desk and sit in an awkward position. I was a piece of exhaust, haunted by the sun’s angry rays; the sun brought not light but blindness to my sight. However, this was what happened every morning since I had returned; too often that I was almost unable to identify who I was anymore. All the moves around me seemed like a dream. Yet, now I realise that even though they had been a reality, I would still have considered them a dream. I opened my laptop and started typing into the keyboard. Typing the words that I did not even want to read. Typing into the unknown universe that I would not seek myself in. The universe that I would never find in literature; and so would never be mine.

I had never lived a reality since I had seen Jakarta back again, this is the truth. I daydreamed about a distant place often; one that would not expose me to dire rays of sunshine nor plaster me to the routines I could never fit myself in. The bitterness of having left England washed over me once more this morning. Perhaps I could never win my winter back. Perhaps I would never return. Perhaps it all has left, once and for all. Perhaps I would always be alone. I had but lived in my literature, my poetry, the stories I wrote, all along; and theirs was the only air that keeps me breathing. I would think of the moors of Yorkshire once more, beside the cold boughs of Warwickshire that I had known—and let myself dance through the greenness that I would never forget.

I heard but I did not see you;
I knew you came, that you were there.

Your quaint shadow, just by my side;
I felt you close, just like that night.

The night we met, I remember;
The night that cajoled forever.

The night that consumed me enough;
The night that burnt away my love.

You are a living moon to me;
With a charm that could set me free.

You are a violent air that speaks;
The watered paint my dry soul seeks.

You held the sweet simmering cloud;
Yet you could not find me, out loud;

You own the lethal love of mine;
I cannot keep you off my mind.

The skies were lit, blue as your eyes;
The whole moment felt like sunrise.

The moon shines ******* your cold skin;
Though I remained to thee, unseen.

Why, why did you light up too late;
At least hear some of my sonnets!

Why, why did you run way too fast;
You had not found me in your heart!

You faded right before the breeze;
Having heard none else but false bliss;

You stormed away at the first sign;
Leaving the fortress of my mind.

You were too senseless to believe;
Too blind to give, too young to live.

You melted right in front of me;
Bathed in the stars of the sea.

Lies, compliant lies, that spell
Our names and wish us well;
But hidden in whose blood is war –
Subpar but harsh to understand.

Lies, such lies are possible;
All within the broke world’s trouble,
What is love without loveliness,
What are tears without sadness;

Lies, such lies do exist;
But be seen through happy mist,
The mildest one felt at heart,
Tearing at us, consumes our blood;

Lies, such lies are ever born;
Unblinking amongst God’s thorns,
That He dies in its shrine;
Frayed in the morning sunshine.

That yon life of ours is scratched;
Not even when truths are fetched,
Growing into the skies of autumn,
That look like those radiant poems;

That the grass shall not be green;
And the midnight is not seen,
Though lovelier than summers,
Washed with ****** thunders.

And poems lie not, they shan’t;
They are what the heart wants,
The words of despaired justice,
The divided bliss, soaked kiss.

And the poet is right – of warmth;
Only to be found in real charms,
And their dignity that all knew—
Lies are undignified, untrue.

What is it with violent hearts;
Those that make our souls cry,
And tear our feelings apart,
But tears are true to the sky.

What is it with untouched lies;
The lies that thread us but tore,
As though there was no more,
When truth finally dies.

What is it with unheard death;
As we deepen our last breath,
Will we find love, and comfort;
Unnamed tales that were cut short.

What is it with lovely riddles;
Dwindling our minds to tears,
Ridding our eyes of fears,
Peering through rough scraggle.  

And the poet shall know better;
That honesty has died alone,
Not much of Desire is known,
No truth shall last forever.

And the poem shall read longer;
That grass is blue, and green rain
Are what is to happen ever,
Pain is normal at all, again;

And the poet shall have left;
To be just but to be unjust,
Moments are never to last,
Love is not what hearts have.

And the poem shall have caved;
In to the pain ‘tis meant to be,
That no more bears meanings to see,
No more love shall be saved.