Coventry once I left behind and thee too;
But look: I wouldst sail the seas with thee alone!
Thee alone, Immortal, t'at other souls shall feel mocked;
Mine is the night ship and thine the dawn voyage;
Ah, t'at the blind earth knoweth our hearts are its enterprise;
T'at shall be empty not, even th' sun disappears and moonlig't dies.

To thee whom I once loved, and now still do;
To thee for whom t'is heart beats, and shall take revenge;
To thee for whom my soul was blown, and by whom I'th grown alone;
Ah, thee, bewildering me too much by thy passionate desire.
Ah, Immortal, talk me no love talk, but take my life-all of it;
As though all men's streams are but fused in thee, thee alone!
Ah, Immortal, t'at fierce scent of thy red summer skin,
Too is just one of tonight's rampage of flurry wind!

And t'ese lines of love hath thou laid onto me, within
The breath and warmth of so many pleasant places;
Immortal, Immortal, Immortal--and like the beauty of Sofia;
I believeth in thy loveliness, in thy kind and timeless fatamorgana.
Immortal, my mountain, my earth, my everything;
Immortal, the very birth yon icy oceans hath to sing!
Immortal, hath thou seen the decree of fate;
T'at love is still t'ere for us, for 'tis never late?

Thy eyes are like heavens' broad fields beneath, and ever rejoicing;
Ah, darling, for I canst but see all gold and silver--plain and honest in 'em;
A drama like a song, a stage play like a vanished poem;
But one t'at turns again brave and crimson;
Toward' th' very end of the dark season.
I'd love to see thee pry love into my hungry heart again;
To watch thee brutally scorn and defy peace t'at hath existed
Piercing such through thy lonesome heart; raised, but now denied.

Ah, Immortal, I blame th' sun for its gladness;
And raise my contempt toward' the unknowing skies;
Like blood flowers, my heart too is emptied with madness;
T'at one wonders why it exists still and cannot die.
I wanteth to take thee again through the city's old brakes;
And introduceth thee to the idle flames of my song;
As beautifully and vengefully as misty poetry by th' lake;
T'at none is to see--nor to steal from me, as t'ey may fly or pass along.

I found thee again this morning
Wand'ring peacefully through the drops
As I walked down by the bus stops
Next to the farm full of green crops

Thy naivety, and stares of love-
were like the flopping birds above!
How thy questioned my weary face-ah!
With signs as clear as thy blue eyes.

Alexander, Alexander
How thy eyes still wicked with wonder
Pity but I love thee no more
Nor as much as I did before

As now I'm painfully certain
That I'm in love with another
Yet our first meeting shalt remain-
strong, untouched and never alter.

How I gasped as our eyes met;
how thou rubbed thy hair when I greeted!
Ah! Thy golden hair-shone light and fair,
as I sat next to thy blue chair.

Alexander, Alexander
Let me show thee how cries can smile
and how sad tears can be joyful.
Let me teach thee that love is vile
and openness can be spiteful.

And when thou understand this then;
be glad and shed thy tears away.
For thee wilt come that joyous day-
the one our hearts might not know when.

Alexander, Alexander
Let me cherish thy remembrance
As I write here 'twixt the brown furze.
Let us cheer nature's prominence
With our stories' shifts and curves.

Forgive and forget, dear lover
as I turn right in yon corner.
For 'nother soul, is there for thee-
whilst my dream prince, there waits for me.

Whilst the nights look like his lips;
He, Vladimir, that I once loved,
And love still now, when I sleep;
And miss now, when I weep.

Whilst the skies look like his eyes;
He, Vladimir, that hath but left,
My soul at the rage of Leningrad;
His goodbyes then erased my heart.

And when I look into the sun, apart;
I cannot but see the naïve Jakarta,
Trembling and groaning and moaning by its heat--
that its brown rain is not too sweet.

And when I gaze into the sea, the ocean;
The sandy scene turns evil bliss,
With a vile scent that rips, and burns--
A part of me that was pleased.

And when I stare at the heat, and its meat;
My souls collapse, they cannot meet,
There are hazards in its singing;
Violence in its newborn spring.

Wha else is sweet but Vladimir’s hand;
There was art then, like that in the rain,
What cold I felt, but that of love--
The feelings then, were more than enough.

What else is love but Vladimir’s eyes;
That my mercy rises to live again,
What is triumph, what is victory;
And all, without my Vladimir in me.

What else is laugh but Vladimir’s gaze;
In there are so much laughter, and idyll,
The ones that speak--the grass feels,
The ones I sought from East to West!

What else are tears but Vladimir’s mad;
What is in love but my own joy;
A joy that is too sad, and now immune--
To this untouched love, the worlds’ tune.

Give me back, o my Vladimir to me;
He was too sweet, that I could not see--
And with a smile he opened my heart
To the cold curtains of Leningrad.

Bring me back, my Vladimir to me;
Tell the whole world look to look vintage,
For my flesh not to carry my age;
And for the Heat not to be seen.

And how can I but not love Leningrad?
With its water, sonorous past--
The magnolia tree there hath friended me;
And which sounds so sweet but she?

And how can I but not love Vladimir;
For his orotund and resonant clauses,
That the birds lakeside loved to hear
Beside the beds of daffodils and roses.

The grandiose melodies, I hear;
Those reminding me of his Light, and sleep--
The ones my heart turned to see,
And were so sweet as his lips.

The ornate feelings, I have here;
The feelings looking short and weird;
But the obedience of life, and Fate--
That we cannot reject, now or late.

The florid roses, and their music
They made my Vladimir looked too sleek;
And so clean as his sea of blue eyes;
Trembling my heart, soaking my nights.

The unsung chords, the lovely song
But nothing lasted a night, nor long;
My Vladimir hath gone from his dreams;
Nor could my other days see him.

The unheard love, the black poetry
That I writ here, oft’ with passion;
That my heart can again be free,
From this longing, from such poisons;

The unspoken, unwritten love;
My Vladimir hath yet to see,
That I hath not once left my thought
of him, and what Leningrad is to be;

The unsorted, untold stories;
I hath not forgiven my own sorry,
I cannot think behind the cold breeze--
My Vladimir might be there, might see me.

The pompous cheer, the fake chills
None is too genuine, and yet;
Why are those all Leningrad can feel,
Why do them make my hearts sad?

The painted hills, the brown forests
Why my heart cannot be at rest;
And why Leningrad can be scandalous
At the most obedient of times?

I cannot see you, but I still hear
Your moonlit voice that I feel near;
And your steps that made me sleep
Ringing loud in my soul so deep.

I cannot hear you, but I still feel
You are about me, my Vladimir;
And why this love seems so blue
Because ‘tis genuine, ‘tis true;

I cannot feel you, but I still sense
That such love too is insane;
That sanity too is my friend,
That we shall meet, and love again;

I cannot sense you, but I still see
That my heart seems to go that far;
To you, to bring you back to me
To our unsung hours in Leningrad.

I cannot see you, but I listen
To the city that makes love fair;
And the story that brought us there,
If only you could be here.

I cannot see you, but I recall
The loveliness there, down the halls;
And the forest--as we walked along,
And stopped by to hear their song.

I cannot see you, but you are here;
Calling out to me that you are near;
And to you, I shall come out
To say my love once more, out loud;

I cannot see you, but you are true
And without you, all hath been blue;
To be with you again, in my heart
To be back in love with Leningrad.

I cannot see you, but you are there
And your love makes Leningrad so fair;
To be your star, and your moonlight
To be in your arms at the gliding night.

I cannot see you, but you love me;
And your love shall make me see
To be my sky, and my rainforests;
To put my clouded heart to rest.

I cannot see you, but you want me
As much as love itself is true;
And as much as Leningrad is to be
As much as our love can be, anew.

I cannot see you, but I want you
And your time as much as mine;
You make me insane, and blind
You are unreal, but then true;

I cannot see you, but I love you
So much as Leningrad anew;
And your heart is what I have here;
And your song is what I hear.

May I call thee my darling?
As always, with thee here by my side
Though thou art not my lover yet
In dark abysses thou art the light
That I've admired since first we met.

May I call thee my lover?
Thou art as gentle as moonlight can be;
And as soon as thou talketh to me
In a lively and honest voice;
I'm dreaming only of thy kiss.

May I call thee my poetry?
Thy lips are just smooth like the sun;
Kissing thee was perhaps just too much fun
As we sat together over the sunny holiday
When dusk arrived and every blossom turned grey.

May I call thee my prayer?
To all I've asked God for; thou art the answer
Just like these lavenders of next summer
Thou held my hand and consoled me
When I was grim and alone under the tree.

May I call thee my winter?
To me thou art more than a friend
Thou art my dream lover and man
Soon as thou looked at me, I was dumb;
All my senses went cold and numb!

May I call thee my spring?
Thou art as shiny as those butterflies
All tender and splendidly sweet to my eyes
Thou art the ****** music of my poetry;
and the salvation of my misery.

But lastly, may I call thee my fate?
Thou art the flame of my fire,
and serene coldness of my ice.
Thou art the lamp that holds me lit,
epic words that I read and writ.

My love is somewhere I can't find,
and I'm wand'ring here like a ghost.
My heart that used to glow with shine,
now has been drowned, now has been lost.

Vladimir, Vladimir, oh my Vladimir
Cannot thou relieve my suff'ring
Thou who used to have me lying
By thee as I stroked thy bronze hair
Trapped in thy blue eyes, soft and fair.

Vladimir, Vladimir, oh my Vladimir
How could thou leave me in mis'ry
Whilst thy love's the one I longed for
And sweet like a chocolate candy;
of which I would always want more.

And just like all of my poetry
I'm left 'lone here with only me;
With all the lights that might have lit-
But died as I started to writ.

Layers of snow, layers of hate
Disdain that no-one should create.
Belied by falsehood and fake kings
Like birds that wounded their own wings.

My prince, my prince, where might thou be?
Bring th' poems thou want to tell me!
At this trivial, dark hour
When asleep are, leaves and flowers.

Strange why I keep calling thy name
As I've not thought of thee before.
Like blue starlight, chilly and damp,
like red moonlight, surly and sore.

I love him, I love him
Those are the words I can no more deny
I love him, I love him
My soul fights them; yet my heart rejoices in them
They are the veins, lungs and living blood
of my sky;
they are the mirth of my night; merit of my poems;
and conscience to my being.

I loved him yesterday;
As the warm clouds came to greet me night and day
I love him today;
With feelings that might just be too hard to say
And I'll love him tomorrow;
Where my breath will be bathed in chilly piles of snow

Then I'll love him endlessly
As long as I breathe; and my senses are but awake
When all the other lovers are fake!
My life is for him solely to take;
and my love born for him to make.
He whose charms are real, benign and tender
He who is my destiny and truest wonder
I loved him last night, this morning, and again
Beneath the fierce stars and the deep showering rain
I loved him that day, but still I love him now;
and amongst our young, bountiful grace
just like here and now; I shall but love him forever.

You enticed me
You trapped me in your arms
You filled my air
You strangled me with your love

You arrested my tears
You imprisoned my fears
You lived within my *******
You froze me through your jests

Your eyes full of queries
Morning questions and midnight worries
Your lips wet with sinister temptations
Your words a battle of naughty potions!

And then you skulked hurriedly away
Left me stranded here all night and day
Gliding farther and farther from my circle
Thinking that all we had were faint and feeble

But then you came back here
Your presence was as stately as before;
but your charms were not there anymore!
If only I could've understood it,
as when you left I cried no more.

Ah! and here I am,
imbued with thoughts and rich ballads,
but no lover's within my sight
All are gone off to day and night.

Ah! Ah! Ah!
But within me there's something new,
Of which I fancy I know almost none.
Among those few choices by the hue,
I figure now I know which one.

Which one is true,
the one who is not at all like you.
You are my gray, cynical past;
you were just waves of my dark lust.

Ah! Might now I know my direction,
to him I must now make my turn.
As the humble birds flop and sing,
through the barns with their pretty wings.

Oh! And in the farms he'll feed the horses,
whilst 'mongst the rushes I'll water the roses.
In the evening we'll cherish our new life
He the husband, and I the wife.

Human, itself being a founded note;
Born and dead on our short horizon,
And Time, our delusion and destination
That shall taint us, but blessed with Years.

Birth, itself being a feat of nature;
Towering above our beats and vision
That binds our imagination, and be
The Perfumed Life that came true.

Life, itself being a precarious gift;
That shall disobey within its Time,
And its frame, a disgrace to us all
Shall befall us, halting all our Hearts.

Second, that comes within minutes;
And goes again by the end of the day
Admonished into the Wind, and see—
Time is too violent still, indeed!

Minutes, that injects made Hours into us;
That lingers by but too shall fade,
That all we have is a vivid parade,
And its notes a fake chain of choirs!

Hours, being the tomb of various lies,
And the secrets we have held now;
From the womb, and through our Years—
Witnessing all through our lapsed visions!

Days, being the chosen way to live;
And the present of Time to give,
We shall ignore all feverish truces,
But make the fruitful of all, peace!

Weeks, being the collective nights, ah!
With thousands of secrets and demerits,
That all we see may contain a pace;
In the worried maze of our world, again!

Months, being the rigorous catch alone;
That all champagne may sound forlorn,
For a melody is once, and then torn
We speed fast indeed, every morn!

Years, but we should be at Pace;
That our eyes be calm, and not wander,
After one another's wonder, and bliss,
For Peace do exists, within Life's ease!

Peace, and we all shall be Joy;
And such Joy we cannot destroy,
To live with sweat, and happy cheeks
To entertain brief Months, and Weeks!

Eyes, and in such Peace we see;
That not all souls provide their space,
But not to worry, and keep your pace
In the East and West, be a Heart at rest!

Chest, being the place where Heart rests;
And the emotions that Life tests,
Whether to be strong, or weak—
Whether to revenge, or to forgive!

Heart, itself being an obedient fun;
Healing again aft' broken by one,
Yet I do find t'is at times oblivious,
And such meant forgiveness is tedious!

Vein, itself being a remote rose;
That threads Life into all morning prose,
And kills all venom in naïve pores,
But too to die, amidst the chosen chores!

Age, being a sign of a frail human;
Neither majestic nor grandiose,
For there is no happiness lasting forever,
Neither does prejudice, but Time.

Blood, being alive only with beats;
Is not by anyone called merit,
But to speak of any Truth, it hurts,
And upon such pains, it freezes!

Skin, feel the touch of the good and beasts;
The sick of the flesh and hereafter,
And Faith, the one that should be longer,
Would you but ****, would you but ****?

Faith, feel the insane and harmony;
And in all arrays of immunity shall pray,
That all alive shall be golden, alone,
That all that breathes stays salubrious.

Fire, a blazing energy alone;
But not of a pleasing idea, indeed,
And who stays alive after doses of Fire—
Whose soul shall love, who shall admire?

Sun, spreading its abyss and sharp rays;
For Dark is violated in her, and see,
Everywhere we see but raging Fire,
And syringes of Fire, again, shall ****!

Dark, spreading its wings to raided pits;
But there is a little Light, dimly wit,
That we all should not leave tossed,
To find our way, not to get lost!

Cold, a blatant whisper, and fever;
That all human fleshes are feverish,
None is taken in everlasting bliss,
None encourages eternal blessings, ah!

Rage, an apparent command, and aye;
A weariness explained to all souls,
That tastes bitter at present, and later,
Living indeed, in here and the afterlife!

Anger, a feared one—a polar of tears;
Ice and Smoke blended into worn fits of fears,
A scream denied by what one hears,
A turmoil of scars boiling up high!

Laugh, a genuine smile, but hurts;
As though plainness was preferred,
But never true, for such views are
Provisions, to the normal communes' hearts!

Smile, the smothered voice, and bless;
Make all our veins worry much less,
And render all miseries, again, unhappy,
Bless your tender soul with fine poetry!

Tone, being the voice of its martyred soul;
Diving into the throats of fishy and foul,
Of which raging minds that we hold no clue,
Of the times of death—the ends of breath.

Chords, being the music of the tragic;
To some, whose magic sounds so meek,
Always buoyant, but ne'er sleek,
To the artist's challenged mind, watch!

Song, being the allergy of the night;
For such Hours prefer silence, alright,
Only to demerited souls, and again—
Such normal souls are barely our friends.

Poem, being the silence our souls seek;
Being the tightness to hold on to, see,
Being the Flawless Moon we fight to be,
Being the heart that keeps us alive.

Sweet, being the very art that awaits;
The pretty picture we see, and writ,
At the most romantic hours, and late
The most honest insight into my soul.

Words, being the art we move and paint;
So ardently, and within a housed vault,
That is at peace with those green bushes,
And the broad, frozen shoulders of Night!

Graphs, being the drawing of the artist;
Being the silent cold that we love,
Being a river as lovely as Vincent,
Being an adornment like a friend!

Lakes, being an admitted raindrop;
In which flow our dropped gloom and misery,
And Seas and Oceans wrapped in giggles,
That in their triumph spread, to all souls.

Seas, being an Ocean full of lives;
The hive of bees, sharks, and olives,
The knot of cries, screams, and laughter,
Growing as ever, together and forever.

Oceans, bearing waves of Sadness and Joys;
Of pains that were once solemnly borne,
Of anguish that hath somberly gone,
Of gladness of being sober, alone.

Sunset, being the edge of anxieties;
And when rain comes, all beings cheer,
Attending Midnight's capricious fair—
And the dance of spring sights, full of joy.

Night, being the love of all charities;
And the living forgiveness wished well,
The place where, anew, hopes are born;
The lodging where all dreams come true.

Dawn, being the sight of Newness;
Whenst all wakes up in sighs of happiness,
And celebrate living in frantic breaths,
Life stirred up once more, and be met.

Light, being the Aurora of Joy;
Like the one reborn in the universe,
That we oft' see in the skies of Helsinki,
Be the true love you and I can see.

Wind, being our own saluted breeze;
And to our charms is never late,
That, before the storm, shall kiss us,
With a stirring Warmth that shall last.

Haze, being the panorama of late;
The renewal of old, agitated Fate,
The forgiven sins we fluently see,
The most adored destiny we will be.

Fate, being the fullest of our dreams;
And more obvious than they seem,
That Fate is fair, and not a nightmare,
The one being true lovers shall share.

Mate, being the most advanced lover;
With deep passion shining forever,
And awake, in each other's slumber—
Not to betray, nor harm, never.

Joy, being the most prominent soul;
The core of all painters and poets,
The heart of all lovers and tales,
To wait for thee, to love me.

Warmth, being the most prudent of all;
The most sought in this crowded world,
And the Charms and Love that come with it,
Being the very Fate we have longed to greet.

Charm, being the Truthful of those;
With a heartbeat as grand as every prose,
And to wait for its eternal rose,
To forgive truly, to heal each loss.

Truth, being the most stellar itself;
In which Love forms its paradise,
And to wait for its longest bliss,
To enjoy all sights; embrace their mists.

Love, being the truest of all that rests;
The most desired in a human's chest,
And to wait for our true Love be,
To wait truly, and most patiently.

You are a summer sky on your own.
Funny as the stars.
Handsome like the moon above.
And in your eyes, there are a million little windows;
Bridges to all other worlds that I've never known.

I saw pearls and diamonds in your hands;
And your skin shines like one thousand starry nights.
Ah, perhaps I am being too deeply overthrown
by my own fantasies,
Fantasies that deceive and are just full of mysteries;
I am like a young little nymphet that craves for your stories.
But if I have trust in you, would you be my love?
My darling that hails from heaven and twin delights above.

I have never been to Lincolnshire at all;
But these feelings are again too strong.
There may be another maiden in thy heart, anyway,
For your love was nowhere and unseen to me.
I could not grasp it, for it was not there;
Although I stood and watched out for it everywhere.
It was like a lost story that had been told;
It was around me, but one you did not allow me to hold.
Perhaps your love was in your words;
Yet I could not see it--why anyway, when I should have seen?
I am a literary lass, with poems on my tongue;
With braids of love perched deep in my lungs.
But if the ivory rainbow emerges again tomorrow,
Would you wait for me behind the shady snow?

I'll look for you now, again, and again;
You whom I told my heart was a darling best friend;
But in whose soul dwells an idyllic nest of love.
I will pray again tonight, as you softly asked;
But I will think of you again and dream of you once more.
Perhaps I have been dreaming and all is not true;
Ah, Sebastian, you took all the answers away with you.

I want to taint the rose, but instead I cherish it
I want to bash the thought, but instead I relish it
I am feverish tonight
How I wish for your touch
I miss you, I miss you
Even in this unalterable delirium
Its little, unwavering sarcasm
Full of disgrace, stealth and denial
I want to rejoice it all
The merriment of yon notorious souls
I want to live the night
I want to dance out the very whole circle
Like a halo, and its listless shivering phantasm
Like a badger, in its soundless, sleepless cage
Oh I miss you
I miss you, I miss you

And the young poet is in love again;
She fell in love when she said your name;
She fell in love when she looked at you;
She fell in love and she knew that.

And the young poet has shyly smiled;
She fell in love when she caught your eyes;
She fell in love with your here and now;
She fell in love with your present.

And the young poet is wanting you;
She fell in love with your laugh and hate;
She fell in love with your air and breath;
She fell in love with your life and death;

And the young poet is dreaming of you;
She fell in love with your softness;
She fell in love with your madness;
She fell in love with your craziness;

And the young poet is thinking of you;
She wants you to come and be true;
She wants you to be her darling;
She wants you to be her everything.

And the young poet is waiting for you;
She wants you to live and be real;
She wants you to bring joy and heal;
She wants you to see how she feels.

To call you my past, my present
To embrace you as times last;
To drown in your recent moments
To drink in the love of your past.

To be the mist of your sunrise;
To be the dew of your music,
To be poetic, and not to be poetic;
To be the avant-garde of thy skies.

To delight you, to call you home;
To make you my Northern Light,
To hold you through my day and night;
To sail through you with my poems.

To be your lullaby in mind;
To call you my own, just mine,
To be your moon, my Toronto;
To be your winter, your snow.

I saw you among realms of light;
In everlasting radiance gleaming,
With those twinkling seraphs at night;
And pink sonnets in the morning.

I loved you at the first of sights;
More greatly than all yon loving,
With my desires wrapt in blue sighs;
With aurochs and angels singing.

You held me close with temptation;
And as a first love ne’er drowns,
You are my last destination;
The only one to love, alone.

You startled me with sensation;
You conquered me and my half,
Painting me and my vision;
Dazzling me and my love.

I dreamt of thee again last nite-
whenst I retreat'd to my chamber.
That thou sent to me an invite,
to play out under the bower.

And didst I sprint to the garden
Swing myself to thy very arms.
Kiss didst we by the bluish ferns
Whilst summer nights kept ourselves warm.

Rolled and sighed we amongst the bush;
thou stroked my cheeks and I reddened.
Thou caressed my hair and I blushed;
my heart thumped loud with wild passion!

We'd play over and over 'gain
Wrapped only by tranquil night air.
Not even one touch of the rain;
on thy white skin-how sleek and fair!

Thy blue eyes consoled my longing-
thy bronze hair sent my thoughts roaming!
Clouded by desires were we both-
without any soft naughty cloth.

Hark, how I cursed the vile morning!
Woke I again to this lone spring.
My soul afresh, is secluded;
my love anew, is deserted.

Too much noise, too much misery;
    Fake beauty, false flattery;
Feigned tears, faint hearts;
    Mock presents, dainty pasts.
Too much singing, too much song;
    Far too empty, too wrong.

Too regular, too feminine;
    Too much constancy seen.
Too insincere, too blind;
    Too raucous to one’s mind.
Unhearing, unloving;
    Unknowing, unseeing.

Inconsistent, ravaged, savage;
    Not aware of youth and age.
Not knowing sins are fatal;
    Not knowing worlds call chaos.
Not seeing lives are mortal;
    Not seeing value, nor loss.

Too defined, too thin, too fair;
    No curious touch nor flair;
Not jubilant, nor merciful;
    Not knowing arts are plentiful.
Not voice, nor titles, nor vice;
    Not pictures, nor pride, nor lies.

Too soothing, too tedious;
    Too apparent, too obvious;
Too gracious, too grainless;
    Not an emblem of happiness;
Not distinctive, nor charming;
    Not distinguished, nor loving.

Too engaged, too dim, too forgetful;
    Too separate, too disgraceful;
Too priceless, too sensuous;
    No realness is to them, wondrous;
Too unbecoming, too wishful;
    Too known, too gay, too sinful.

Too delighted, but evil to me;
    Those boasting beauties of thee;
I am not part, nor flesh of thine;
    I live with the voice in my mind;
I love in silence, in seclusion;
    Only mirth salves my delusion;

Too sparkling, but mean still;
   Unknowing towards those I feel;
I cannot be, nor shall I be;
   I shall not place my soul in thee;
Thy voice remaineth loved still;
   But to love thee, I never will.

For Vincent van Gogh

Vincent! There is no living star so sweet
As that I saw at thy starry night;
And none bears such grand merits
As those I caught in your sights.

Vincent! There is no delicate air
As that around your auburn hair,
And another with sincere blue eyes;
With a love enough for the whole skies!

Vincent! There is no fairer paint
Than that of thee, o handsome friend;
And see, how thou hath drowned in me
A beauty more infinite than the sea.

Vincent! None is more conscious
And no crowded souls are ever alert;
Thou hath made the dark so spacious,
And sane voices more deeply heard.

Vincent! None is more innocuous
Than thy once tortured heart;
And thy prominence was virtuous
That they dared to tear apart!

Vincent! There is no faint dream today
Than that the world has coldly torn;
Now I hear what thou wanted to say
Back at that time, all alone.

Vincent! There was no colder wind
Than that thy mind had fondly seen;
And who but thou couldst love more gently
And see my fates more charmingly?

Vincent! I myself saith no poor voice
That creatures alike shan’t rejoice;
Who else but the Sun could be sour
At thy most romantic hours?

Vincent! I myself hark no shortest bliss
That such cynics feelest not at ease;
Who else but the Earth could not see
Our last wishes to be free?

Vincent! I myself had no southern time
Nor had my tales come true;
None but thou canst see our sublime
Ah, none but thou, anew!

Vincent! I myself had no eastern kiss
And those, solely wanting to fly my wings;
Away from me, and my latest wishes
Away from my grief, and its tears springing.

Ah, Vincent! Shall I paint again your gray sky;
And behold such lies slowly fade;
That my words can make thee fly;
And protect thee under their shade.

Ah, Vincent! Shall I relate to thy sad sighs,
And witness the winters rocket up high;
I cannot be with thee again, but now
I shall dream and fulfill hearts, tomorrow.

Vincent! And shall I remind myself of thee;
Of a friend that would confide in me;
Here, I want to look at you into the sky;
To be your poem and human goodbye;

Vincent! Shall I remember thou wert there;
Thou wert freedom, and thy confused stare;
Was but the virtue they could not tame,
The hidden love unworthy of your name.

Vincent! Shall I recall thy picture from nature;
Of a talent so precious and mature;
And I, for endless years would see
Such an odd, but kind creature like he.

Vincent! Shall I seek again such virtues;
That nowadays shan’t become true;
But be a discordant chord to the Night;
And the bliss above, but a fright!

Vincent! Shall I read again such blossoms;
Even more tender than that in my *****,
Although they said thou wert so frail
Thou wert a comforted, and silent well!

Vincent! Shall I catch again such martyrdom;
That is sweeter than my longest poem;
To recite glumly across the moors;
But to dream of at every door!

Vincent! Shall I bewitch again such a heart;
That I voice in silence and obscurity;
That such clear memories can be apart;
That these poems are as handsome as thee.

Vincent! Shall I witness again such souls;
That I oft’ writ of in ease and warmth;
That no such colours are as beautiful;
That I found only in your charms.

Vincent! Shall I speak again of the spell;
That thou breathed into the summer rose;
That thy colours are more than my prose;
That they sounded fine, and grew well.

Vincent! Shall I own again such fineness;
That I found even in thy demerit;
That I singled out in thy oneness;
That thou painted once, so sweet!

Vincent! Shall I hold again such sorrows;
That my poems can just shyly be;
That this remembrance shall be now;
That thou hath believed in me.

Vincent! Shall I have again such love;
That fate itself can manifest enough;
That thou drew sincerely those days;
That thou art real to me today.

A sweet, chirping grey jungle tree;
Stirring up bloodied doses within me,
I hath been abducted by morose darkness;
And its fetal, yet obnoxious messes,
For t'is flowered cave smelling just like death!
And to me, death is more like an obsession
In a glaze this phony, and dripping wet
Cold that I hath met about, in person.
One that hath fascinated me; with wronged tears
A single soul is not yet there to hear;
And lurking pools of fears, all blended
Into the versatile skin of the unfriended
Moon, being the beige universe, and evil—
Although he knows not how I should feel.

I, had been enslaved by the worst sun;
And tied to the post of unwanted salvation.
I, not being the privilege of Life now;
I shall go tonight, and not return tomorrow.
I had enough love, but with no love to be,
I shall not halt to see this side of me.
And hark! By the solitary lights of the moon;
The Earth was once my saluted destination;
But who could fight for a savage battle
In an attempt to experience rebirth,
Born with no contempt for the world;
But with Remorse bludgeoned, and hurt,
As though I had committed but treason;
And living was just to hold a vain reason.

For such reasons would be censured venom;
To them, who raved not at my longest poems,
And my guilt’s blood would be their songs,
They had committed justice, and no wrong;
Which a dour soul could adore at a lonely night,
Whilst being mute towards the shifting trees,
Torture and denial were the nail of Sunlight,
Waking me up to the enchantment of ragged bliss.
Had I, another day, woken up to another peril;
I acknowledged my embedded fate as an Evil,
To recite the spells that had infuriated me,
An indolent vice that had but been meant to be.
An insult, that such straggled **** may hate;
But so, forgiveness is far a threat too late.

Such fortuities, I hath not cornered to embrace;
And I shall not be back to sing conned waste,
And by being gratuitous and to *******,
I want to be the handsome rebellion to my fate;
Had I found myself trapped on the defunct floors;
I could not escape marked death at Midnight's door,
And at that sick moment I had been flawed,
Frightened, slackened to my rawest flesh,
By the metal edge of a cut sword, and then;
I was but Death at the rotten night, my friend!
Such fiends, such rage—were far in their summer bliss,
And yet I but grew as a faint shadow in peace;
I watched their flaked nostrils from inside my tomb,
My tomb, and its scraped walls—my quiet home,
I could not breathe now, nor bend towards a kiss;
I was the soul the Earth had forgot, had missed;

I, roused again now as a darling apparition;
I wear a black mask and utter repetitions,
No soul shall want to collapse in my steps—and bolt!
I hath entrapped many daydreaming in sloth,
Those with looser complacency, and breath
In their nostrils lives such straggly wrath;
And in such hair so ricocheted and unkempt,
How canst one but find a stranded scarf, a lamp?
With the odour of blood I can taste, and yet
Makes my hungered mouth groaning wet,
I hath drunk from too many souls, and I
That shan’t live any more, nor shall I die;
Ah! Now I shall ****, and begin with the dirt—
Cleansing such Earth off of malignant worlds!

What a disgrace, a scraggly—yet resilient disgrace!
A bend in the road had I been, and was I mean
To the world but sought not to know me?
And at times of need, their race but leaned to me;
And their fair promises, and royals, had not been true—
Unlike the verity of the justice I had found, and knew.
Unlike my bosoms, that had faced too much sorrow,
These ghastly sighs and temptations shall know now;
I hath found the world to lay my head silently,
With no love to be, and cut my love reverently;
That the stars should watch us meanly, but sure
They would not be a stale aura to my picture.
But to die, to cease demurely without a certain name
Shall be one that feels not my pool of shame;
And t’is crime is no exception, o my lover—
I am exempt now, from the insolent love, forever!

What an imbecile, that we embraced to softly!
What a butterfly that cannot fly in me;
Not a life that holds my chest, nor my blossom
Not a purity that holds clear my poem, o thee!
An ink on the page, but yet ‘tis my story
That I want freedom to writ my fierce destiny.
What a blurred visage to my vision such is,
What a menacing world to want a kneeling kiss!
With no love to see, and with no called name,
They hath no trifling tales nor misspelled shame;
That I had perhaps been too morally confused,
That Death was ethereal, but coldly infused;
Ah, thou, so to thee Death is no exception—
Having not thought of my hurt, my inflammation!

For a living fate can be unassuming, and uncertain;
For humans can die, and be nauseous;
For such lives are a demerit; and for a friend;
For a destiny that can be true, but tedious.
From a love that I am already free,
From a love so ubiquitous; and in unison,
I am obliged to no merits, nor tragic beauty;
I shall seek and give no compassion, nor reason.
And in a vain attempt had I hastily tried;
And in a vain triumph had I sullenly dried;
And in bewitching the silky skies had I died;
So shan’t I return to the boisterous Heavens,
The Lord bitterly misplaced me, and lied
To me behind the graves, and rained gardens.

For in the days that followed my death, hath I sworn
To kidnap back the life that had been blown;
And be the Black Spirit they would find pertinent
To hear the trespassing of death, and their moments
To crunch the life of the ones before me;
Amicable as they were in their apposite defence,
But not as the lush presentation of their beauty;
That I should entrance and ****** them, hence.
Who couldst defend my murdered youth but me;
Who couldst strongly step on my bursts of anger;
Who couldst restore my prone poetry but ******;
Who couldst live but I, who lives forever;
Who couldst separate my from my agony;
Who couldst live but with ill fate, and be?

For the age that I hath lost, and thoughtless’ burnt
And of being grace, and kind hath I not heard;
And with delight, shan’t I stop and turn;
For no obvious reason, for no maddened alert.
I am stronger in my rebirth, and with sharp, strident
Steps, hath I grown more braced and confident;
For no reason, for no further light hath I doubted;
For no marks, nor discourse hath I faulted;
For such apologies, and humility are obsolete,
For my imagination of such is clear, and yet;
I hath no more obligations so, to be met—
And with such unwavering strength crystal clear,
And everlasting sleep to me so near,
I am to grow out of the vines of my grave;
And descend carefully on the midnight’s cape.
And yet, who is sleeping sweetly in his wife’s bed;
I shall soon send him into delicious death.

For the life that had been obediently drawn;
For the miraculous night that turned to dawn,
For the life that had belonged to me, and so
I am to be above the stars, and ever in the know
All my victims so sternly, thoughtfully, and deeply
I am to **** reverently, and by sweetness, vigilantly:
“I am to drink the redness, and be the Sun’s equal”
My voice singing through the forest’s damp halls.
And now yet, with the futile man dead in my arm,
I fling myself into another chained woman’s charms!
With her blood so capricious dripping down my throat;
I can feel myself furiously sweat, and sweetly float;
I am to rouse in transparency through the roof;
And be the midnight, no more aloof!

And to be the Spear of the universe, and hell;
I would like to wish every fault and demerit well;
Soon, there shan’t be the raucous singing of jingle bells,
Death is in everyone—eating off of their shells.
Ah! My lover’s flesh, that I am devouring eagerly;
Now is but a piece of provision so sweet to me;
In which I canst indulge in but a locked pain;
Feeding off of his blood and its red rain;
Ah, I am so hungry, and those eyes are for me!
He gasps, and I am free now, as the flannel sky;
I am free to haunt and grasp all about me,
I can feel their smell descend about so nigh.
My lover, and his vain woman of the scorched past
Are now in death, far from their sly voices and hearts!

And to be the Sword of the Space, and devils;
I feel honoured to be part of the evils;
And be the taunt and haunting to all men,
To all this Earth’s visions, emblazoned fiends!
To me, all of their deaths hath been inscribed;
Ever since I was grown from dead, and my lungs
Hath been imbibed with more pronounced vibes,
And choruses more awesomely sung;
I am to assimilate those humans, now, ha-ha!—
And be a creature of the night, the Hailed One,
They shall bow to me in flash, and in my old Stanza;
All murders are to be spoken, to be done!
My enemy, and his once powerful screeching speech;
Gunned down into his last breath, the gospel’s ditch!

And the vitriolic dream, now, that is too high;
I shall not stop until all petrified souls shall die,
There, above me, the afterlife writing in agony,
Justified in every sense, and be the last poem
That I shall write in my dated prose of destiny;
I hath become the Satan to destroy, and numb
All the rhymed births and breaths of life, ah!
I hath been ****** into this fate, of my own;
And be I never a praised, nor a soft wife—
Yet I am impressed already, by closed immortality;
And my youth forever, with its endless passion
And latest bursts that happen in eternity,
I am to counter and cure all my halted questions;
I shall go and return, I hath all the time in me!

And Ruthlessness, then, that is too holy;
I hath admired thee with all the blood in me,
And to restore the humanity in me prominently;
I shall **** all, and make their deaths permanently!
For all deaths are idyll to me, and my abode,
An abundance as I roam, and float about!
What hath happened to my human, and bold songs,
For they hath not been a sky to me, all along;
What a condescending spirit a human is,
For they think what a fierce not is;
Whilst all that is thin is bold, and a rose;
What a singing displeasure to my prose!
Ah, to **** all, and cherish all their dyings,
I shall cut and devour with my heart singing!

Then, into the skies, as I ascend I hear
All flowered flesh is but towering so near;
They hath heartbeats and clueless rainbow;
They are not to fight me with violence,
They hath no tyranny, nor are above my shadow;
They hath no abode—but my impertinence!
Ah, and blessed am I, so meekly blessed;
This is but the best day I hath ever had,
For so anger and betrayal are not unwise at all;
And so holy are miseries, and miseries are ******.
I am to **** more, and bring my joys to Fall,
I am to eat, and devour more in summer.
I am to drink more, and bleed in winter;
To celebrate deaths, and merry more in my walls!

Then, into the Earth, as I descend I see
That I descend with a later moon, and be
For all who loved me, there shall still be death;
For I shall arise amidst these unhearing walls,
For the many teardrops that were shed,
For the shrieking pains I shared, and their toll;
For the world, that hath not been too exquisite,
For the crowds, that hath all along lacked such wit,
For the Sun, that hath ne’er been a soul sweet;
For a love that ne’er had a single beat!
For a love that I hath fragrantly cursed,
For a love I hath determined to make worst.
I am to eat, as though I am the Sun, the West;
I shall put its whole black pit to sleep, to eternal rest!

With all good cheer hath I spoken, and thus I turned
To see further stomachs and chests lying down, churned
And eating off of them is a swarm of butterflies
That were stirred to life by my own puke of frights;
And I, spitting out but flames and fires from within me
And my mouth that hath burnt thousands of thee,
I am not afraid to claim my rights, as I please;
And to destruct far more indeed, as I wish—
Which I celebrate as an ordinary gift, and yet
Hath made and shall render all conscious souls mad!
And all about me hath gone to precious sleep
In their admiration of my prominence, and weep;
And all about me hath turned to obstinate death;
Ripped down of breath, and any traces of life, of late.

With sainted grand glory hath I writ, and rejoiced
The merry and cordial pleasures of deathly bliss;
For such splendour, are not lovingly present every day,
And the vanished worlds have become dear to me today;
That now, as I devour another’s wrist, and arms
I am absorbed within death’s knocking charms;
And his limbs offer farther delicacy than the stars,
And his soul be a playful drink two worlds apart;
Another one, that tastes like those fine vines,
And grapes, and the fruits smelling like Truths.
Ah! I sit there, leaning softly against the Cedar Mine;
Sipping his blood by the humming Eolian lute;
His veins dry and graze me, sickly, too fast;
I hath not had a drink and feast too vast!

And with deadening love hath I lived, and existed
In the world into which Faith hath not fitted;
Like the ode in me, trying to tie the Moon
Whilst such dimmed favours laid in the Sun;
I had been crafted only, but in vain
I had been transmitted also, but in pain
And all despaired, with my talents, to death
To be woken again in renewed hate;
What a fault of thine, o thee, and perhaps mine;
At times a rustic stupor to me, and yet is fine!
I am the Evil to be, and Satan so free,
At peaceful hours shall I come to thee;
Finding my ecstasy in Death and ******;
My civilian songs to the Earth, forever.

There is no hesitation in my love, never;
Each promise is true, even to a liar,
Even to the sun that hath no wings,
I writ my words and stand to their singing.

Shall I die again today, my love?
Shall I die to gain back my serenity;
For I hath loved too dearly, and awfully still,
That heart of thine tells not how I could feel.

Shall I die again in our young haven?
And its loveliness as our own Coventry,
When I daydreamed by her spacious boughs,
Pondering the promises of our sweet love.

Shall I die again by the flirtatious sunlight?
That no sight of mine shall float through the night,
No flame nor fire shall sign my presence,
My doleful glee, that thou hath forsaken.

Shall I die again for thee, my darling?
Hark! The flute that I left wants to sing,
That my poems are read by the dark angels,
That such ceased desires can be aroused.

Shall I die again for thee, and thy lover?
That thou shan’t see me again in November,
Nor breathe my hair every dusky evening,
Like thou didst on Saturday, several times before.

Shall I die at last, by the stricken sun?
For my love struck me as I passed by;
An affection I had so genially thought of,
A warmth that filled me with hysteria of love.

Shall I die today, by her deathly burns?
That thou and thy lover shall scream with delight,
And my fluent poetry is killed in cryptic joy,
Like the abstruse cold thou feel about me.

Or shall I die tonight, by the moonlight?
That all shall chant with blunt amusements,
That the moon sparkles in his summer movements,
That their heated love is spread on to the night.

Shall I die again today, in my solemn haste?
I hath some errands to run and waste,
For what is love without thee, here and there;
For love, without thee, shall be absent everywhere.

Shall I die again at dusk, tonight?
Then I shall see the ragged men and their souls,
Forsaken by the worlds so fishy and foul,
With no winds to attend and cherish their tombs.

Shall I die again then, by today’s twilight?
Then I might meet thee in an ethereal light,
Thou, bathed in fleeting shadows and lethal sight,
Thou, the son of evil floating at dark nights!

And shall I but dream of thee again, o evil!
Thou, who hath mastered my mind and my love,
That I hath been killed by thy rusted sentiments,
And the love I felt hath gone from me again.

Shall I dream again, o thou, o peril!
Shall I witness again such that forsook me,
Shall I be a drink within such tragedy,
Shall I writ, and bequeath my spoiled poetry.

To thee, who hath forgot, and shall have forgotten;
To thee, who accrues from hate,
To thee, who accurses fate,
To thee, who yearns for arrogant love.

To thee, the devil’s son, the rough prince;
To thee, who hath arrayed a tide of sins,
To thee, who loves in hate and hates love,
To thee, who loves in haste and hastens love.

To thee, for whom my love awoke;
To thee, to whom love is a joke,
To thee, to whom a heart is futile,
To thee, who smiles and jokes all the while.

To thee, for whom my love turned awake;
To thee, whom I awaited by the lake,
To thee, for whom I raised my tears,
To thee, by whom I erased my fears.

To thee, whom my desires found true;
To thee, by whom such wishes are never truer,
To thee, by whom visions are clear,
To thee, whom I wish was here.

To thee, whom I hath loved, and still do;
To thee, for whom love hath renewed,
To thee, for whom there shall be tomorrow,
To thee, for whom stands the here and now.

To thee, whom I dearly loved, and still do;
To thee, whom I am about to love now,
To thee, whose love was once so true,
To thee, to whom rage is not rue.

To thee, whom I loved dearly then;
To thee, whom I loved wholly and ardently;
To thee, for whom I drained my heart,
To thee, for whom I tainted my love.

To thee, for whom I could have died;
To thee, for whom the world hath lied,
To thee, my eyes and lips are able to say,
To thee, for whom I awoke silently today.

To thee, for whom I faint with delight;
To thee, for whom there is but no day and night,
To thee, for whom all the wrong seem right,
To thee, for whom fear is not fright.

To thee, for whom idleness is love;
To thee, by whom kisses are not enough,
To thee, who sees into the ****** my soul,
To thee, who listens into my heat, and cold.

To thee, on whom I hath laid my love;
To thee, in whom my past is asleep,
To thee, granted by the One above,
To thee, for none else is t’is love so deep.

To thee, to whom I hath pledged my soul;
To thee, for whom I shall still die,
To thee, who knows not buoyant death,
To thee, who knows only the youth of breath.

To thee, to whom merit shan’t be merit;
To thee, to whom greed is not foul,
To thee, to whom misery is a lie,
To thee, to whom joy is in flesh.

To thee, to whom love is a burden;
To thee, to whom love is a sin,
To thee, to whom scars are not mean,
To thee, to whom the grass is not green.

To thee, to whom words hath no name;
To thee, to whom life bears no song,
To thee, to whom love shall not stay the same,
To thee, to whom all the good might be wrong.

To thee, to whom swords bear no name;
To thee, for whom such stories are told,
To thee, for whom lovesick lines are writ,
To thee, for whom silent pages are read.

To thee, to whom sounds bear but rage;
To thee, to whom love dies by age.
To thee, to whom mortal is love,
To thee, to whom affection shall die.

To thee, to whom there is no avail;
To thee, to whom joy hath died,
To thee, to whom love is a fail,
To thee, to whom love is a lie.

Rippled outside, and slit open the evening
Like a sword tearing the skin of a badger
Gone upon the arrival of the morning
In peace lingered out of the bedchamber

Out the young maiden walked
An angry light shines on her hand
Bright the green grass thus she trodded
Into the bland scene she blended

Like a piece of wild thunderstorm
She cried and whined and wailed
In all silence and no sounding of a horn
Tore farther afield and waited and waited

Never did her little love appear
All to her doubt and fury and dismay
And smote herself with a shady spear
Whilst the other roses bloomed, lifeless she lay.

Tell me, then, how shall I spend t'is azure night without thee?
Without thee, querida, my soul is but solemn and vain;
just as though I've lost my brain-and my soul's bout
to drain-yes, in here where no delight-but worries,
are in me. And no shield is to protect that-
as thou, my love, art in a dream, but far-far away.
I am consoled only by t'ese fragments-and remarks,
of t'is silly infatuation-that brings thee into life;
t'is dream of my forbidden, unrequited love, for thee!
I am but without thee-my lover, my solitary prince-
wherefore can thou be? My darling-can thou hear me
wail? All day and all night, o but I long for thee,
I crave for thee only-my dear, my dear. But thou
art not here-and can't ever be here-as thou but
belong to some other's charms-how peaceful would
thou sleep in her arms-and t'is is my agony-
killing me from inside, as a lover-a lost lover from
afar. For I can only console thee by my words-a poet
as I am, and thou art a prince from a distant land-
but still I adore thee! I love thee tenderly, and most
devotedly, over the morning dews of the river, my love for
thee could not help-still it dwells, in its but serene profusion.

There was a soulful melody;
springs to my heart dwells inside me.
It was soon stopped short by sunshine;
but still roams the walls of my mind.

The song that has always been there;
I realised it just yesterday.
The moment I started to care-
about your image night and day.

I am entrapped in your picture,
keep wanting to touch it once more.
Of these feelings still I'm not sure;
within my heart, and its frail core.

This is a feeling so absurd-
For I've not thought of you before!
When I was grim and deeply hurt-
It was just him that I adored!

I keep pretending to know not;
about this churn in my heart's lot.
Yet as I write by my teapot-
it's you that steals my hasty plot.

You are my rain and its faint glow;
you are my sun and fierce rainbow.
I denied it but now it's true;
that I want no-one else but you.

You caught my heart you trapped my love
Just like the grounded morning dove
Not knowing where to go but lie-
in its own cage doth it feel shy.

As when the birch tree gleams again
My true love shall always remain;
in t'is spring with leaves crystal clear
I shalt sing but to you, my dear.

Yes, how thou hath, with holiness, touched and entrapped my amorous passion, my love! In these dreams-flourishing dreams, just like the pond and its superficial foliage outside, I shalt but walk by thy moonlight and be blessed in thy fascination.

I keep your picture in a frame
So in my heart shall dwell your name
Your smile is brighter than summers
Your love is dearer than flowers
But what is it you'll tell me now?
Please let me know please show me how
To be your only dear princess
And the envied future mistress

I smile to myself on your thought
Dancing about in my best frock
Want to meet you now and again
Try forgetting you but in vain
I keep glancing at the cold dew
Hoping you to bounce into view
Rob me of this grim loveless blue
And say to me your love is true

I keep gazing at the mirror
As the snow starts to drop faster
Writing poems of you in my book
I'm the duchess and you're the duke
I imagine our fairylands
With gems and treasures in our hands
With endless love and affection
That is our last destination

I think smilingly to myself
As I devour by my bookshelf
Old story of a warrior
Saving his princess from terrors
I chuckle quietly in my room
Melodies I begin to hum
That I love you and only you
But shy to admit that it's true

I supplicate throughout the day
So that you could hear what I say
And how I hope you'd always stay
Paint my days sweet, rosy, and gay
I pray that God could send you here
The one whom to my heart's so near
By whose side I'd feel no more fear
By whose love there'd be no more tear.

'Tis getting late, and I miss you,
I miss you like I used to do
Your cold and clear and fair air;
The winds that followed me everywhere

'Tis not fate, but there was a poem,
I used to read at night in my room
Summer was gone, and I looked at the sky;
You were there to me, to my sight

Coventry, why did you falter me;
Why did you take it all away
You are not here to see me write;
You are not here to comfort my fright

Coventry, why did you love me,
Why did you make me go away
There was more love I wanted to give
There was a life I wanted to live.

Coventry, why did you touch my heart
With such a fatal and hard song;
That I could not take in return
That I had no voice to sing all apart.

Coventry, why did you burn me
And sink my white love back in the sun
And my cold winter, my solid night
My justice, all that had seemed right

Coventry, why did you **** me
Why did you peel my love at once,
And used a sword to seal my words,
To break astray from my whole world.

Coventry, why did you forget me
Why was all to you a lie
And was my love but a faint shadow,
In the white meadow, like one that has no tears

Coventry, why did you drown me,
With a lie that has grown false
Have you forgot the words you perused,
The poems of love, my soul's wisdom.

Coventry, why did you fail me,
Was I but an absurd flute to thee?
A flute that has in its chest no song,
Did I love thee for too long?

Coventry, why did you lie,
And make me look at the murky sky?
That day there was no cloud in sight,
None to be, and none to love again.

Coventry, why did you go,
I am not free, and I cannot be,
There is too much darkness, to be here
Too much that I shall not hear.

Coventry, why did you turn,
There was but none new to burn
And you could have loved me,
I was like a lost bird in the fir tree

Coventry, why did not you forgive,
Had I been mistaken much to live?
Had I been unloved too much,
Had I come from too far away.

Coventry, why was there no reason,
At summer, there was no more season
And why did you bring me back,
Why did you not wait for me.

Coventry, why did you make me cry,
When I had too much love to give,
And all of my heart has rusted away
Just like you want it to have, today.

Coventry, why did you make me sad
And it feels like there is no more to read,
And no more blood in my heartbeat;
All was sorely left in my last poem.

Coventry, why did you alter me,
That I had nowhere else to be
I had no other poetry to love in sight;
In my conscience, at the truest nights.

Coventry, why did you leave me;
Why did you steal my voice today,
You tore my rains and kisses away,
You made me cease to love.

This love I canna bear it,
It cheats me night and day;
This love I canna wear it,
It sins my heart and soul away.

This love was once a bud
A lovely seed; a peeping thorn;
This love was once untouched
Light as the night; lithe as the morn.

This love it was a flower
Like a secret unknown to me,
Like a dream in a tame hour
Like a bird's nest within a tree.

This love, was a childhood
Warm as the sun, vain as the moon.
This love, was plain and blind
Now blossoms wild, hear its cheers mild.

With smug delight have I loved thee;
With pride, with confidence.
With joy, with finery;
With hope, with a coincidence.

With tears have I wanted;
With feelings have I failed.
I was too young to have a wit;
To fall in love, from my shell.

Thou, strained outside the brook;
With glittery eyes glancing past;
Meeting mine, drawn to look;
Kneeling on the green grass.

Sensing me, my young fabric;
And the perfume of my love,
I was strong, yet too weak;
My love was keen and lunatic.

I grew awake at midnight hours;
But not that my heart ever slept,
Nearing to me, my quiet slumbers;
Thou came by to sit, and wept.

I grew idyllic, and sang;
Then thy voice rang through
The hot night, and sprang
On to my silent summer hue.

I looked at thee, and stumbled
Upon my own lulled, mumbling words;
How couldst a soul be so humbled
Amongst the busied human worlds?

I was the Mermaid; that was all
Nobody came to me but at nightfall;
But how couldst they be charmed by me?
The ivy thought, my name was awry

Inhuman, toxicated, amiss;
Never wouldst I deserve a kiss,
Not even one on my behalf;
I learned to love just behind the walls.

Those of the lake, before thou came;
And the grand of thine appeared in time,
For thee, that I wouldst feel the same;
Thou saw me through, called out my name.

Those of the water, as I had tasted;
With lilies and rosebuds to my right,
Oft’ at night, I swam to the surface
To the hauntingly fierce nights.

Love sounded sordid, that I knew;
I didst not believe it all anew,
Myths had it that thou wouldst not see—
Nor hear, nor hold any faith in me.

Love sounded true, in the heavens;
The human realms I imagined,
Not that of my brethren,
Not the one that I had seen.

Tales had it that thou could see;
For it wouldst be too much disgust,
To watch my deserted land, to be
In a love that wouldst not last.

But thou caught me in that lilac stream;
A stream filled with young lavenders,
And their naked, infatuated dreams,
West to my natural heavens, ever.

But thou didst, that thou listened;
Within my fears, thy eyes glistened,
And I couldst locate but the scars—
Those remnants pottering thy hearts.

That I wouldst dearly heal, my love;
An injury that had been buried;
The dismembered once enough;
The despaired of a heartbeat.

That I wouldst listen, as thou spoke;
To cure the devils of all shock;
To return thy heart to what should be;
To stir thy love just for me.

What if my hours pierced the night;
And injured me again tonight;
Wouldst thou be my lover still,
Be a danger to what I feel.

What if my lungs felt thy voice;
To send thee to a stern standstill;
From this cursed being, and heal;
To forget me, back in human bliss.

What if I console, and thou refuse;
What if thy world without my poems,
What is my chorus, is it of use?
What is the melody of my doom?

What if I dance to unborn stars,
What if I wished to heal thy scars,
What if we battled in all wars,
What if we loved with all our hearts?

And thou, lamenting there every night;
Listening to me ‘till sunlight;
And flew away on summer mornings;
To retreat more, on beloved evenings.

And thou, being the hymn of all roses;
The moss, the found, the lost;
Thou read to me, on those hot days;
Thou heard my words close, every day.

The stubborn dose of blue eyes;
Bewitching to the counting skies;
Resembling all my lonely nights,
Burning the wrong, turning all right;

That handful of red lips;
Scratching at my beds of tulips;
Like the scorching gloss of sunset;
Red but defined, just mad.

That hand, that flesh, those cheeks;
Mine in my mind and all those weeks;
My human friend, my love
Having him was solitude enough.

That kiss, that warmth, were fluid;
I had plenty of them, my sweet;
He smelled like the moon, my prince—
He was mine, he had been.

The lightning ruined it for me;
On a day of summer sunshine;
Clawing into the pure skyline,
Making all too broken to see.

The sun made its way, and killed
My shielding of all was displaced;
She struck the birch trees on the hill;
“T’is is not over,” she said.

She moved to the lake, and all—
Ran as waters moved on to fall;
Then she startled my lover, lazing
On my lap, flirting and singing.

And I heard his scream, his death
Approaching him from gurgling earth;
The sun prodded his life, his breath
Shrinking him into frosted dirt;

The sun shrieked in jubilance;
Enraging my disgusted stance;
Laying my lover’s tossed head;
I squeezed and whined, hoping for death;

A few hours passed, the sun won
Flocking to welcome dawn again;
The night watched dead, with air torn
Leaving me spread in passing pain.

Five minutes passed; the dawning air
A guiltless foul, but naïve and fair
Carrying her rose in a dead odour;
With a stained presence, emptied colour.

I was wicked, I was angered;
I rose from busted land, and water;
Dragging along my pointed soul
I stood unfazed; perched in the cold.

I clicked my fingers and opened blood;
Then dawn bled from its heart;
The wound, piercing its sonorous veins
Watching her out and about in pain.

I rubbed my palms, and thick streams
Shot at the sun’s paled surface;
I killed in arrays of white dreams,
I destroyed in horror, in haste.

I touched the ground, and strokes of mud
Launch their ways to the skies, out loud;
Washing all brown earth off summers,
And all its threats and sworn powers;

Around my arms were they;
Those humans, having none to say,
But to run, to their human lovers;
They couldst—and wouldst be together.

My immense rage bottled me,
And I ended those lovers to be;
Leaving the cold universe to my own
And my bloodied moors, my lake alone;

And I was there, that death passed by;
A curse that wouldst see me lie—
By the raised legend of the sky,
That I couldst **** then I wouldst die.

And I was there, that he came round;
My dying body that he found;
In a gone soul, a friction;
An oval ghost, an apparition.

And I lay there, with him;
Welcoming death to our dreams;
And our lips, in thrumming kisses;
By our dead hearts, dead impulses.

And I lay there, by his side;
Basking in the life of the night;
Blending our arts, our idyll—
Celebrating what we couldst feel.

And I slept there, with my whole;
I didst not feel all that was cold;
Running my hand through his bronze hair
All of a sudden; all felt fair.

And I lived there, with my love;
He was ever my spirit and laugh,
He was ever my sweet, my loving;
He was to me my everything.

I would hate climbing, standing here
Straining myself that you would hear;
Amongst the blanks across the banks;
Atop timber, roofs, wooden planks,
About the soreness of green grass;
About their love, about their hearts.

I would loathe the spine of the bridge;
Nearing the bumpy, soapy ridge;
I might let hold of my life, now;
By the screeching teas and willows;
To part my way, to say goodbye;
The meaning of love was, to die.

Look at the flies across the night;
Alight by shadows of mights;
She might tease you, and dream of you,
Her love may pierce your sorted truths.
What am I though, to your romance;
Am I a secret to your stance?

Look at the rain, the Northern Lights;
The hopes I had long held, upright;
For your unknowing heart, my sweet,
I had loved you in one heartbeat;
Watch! The bronze gardens of my love,
For you here; for yourself, enough.

The humming moon, the skirted breeze;
Twinkling like melancholy bliss;
Heaved into me when I saw you,
At that moist night, before I knew
You were entrenched in her, in she
I would love; but you were not free.

I greeted the rose, “The brief night runs
In rubble and tosses and rain.”
The rose replied, “Then go and shun
Those who have left thee in their gain.”
She would stay awake to the sun,
And I would sleep, and love in vain.

I cried to the moors, “Your air smells just
The fine ground water of the pool.”
The green grass hummed, “Your heart must
Be breaking; your voice is fretful.”
The little waves said this would pass
But my mind was far too hateful.

He was coming, my dove, my dear;
Never had charms been about here;
And yet he came late, though was near,
He was late to my youth and tears,
The larkspur, and the eagle learned
You were only a truth, to her.

He was panting, my sick, my ill;
Wandering the grounds that I could feel,
And beads of sweat separating him
From the health of mortals and dreams;
But on a night of jewels and pearls;
He pranced with drinks and other girls.

But he might not die, he might soon;
He might be idle to the moon,
That the universe must distract;
Forgiving what he shall yet take;
To be the joy of another—
This world is too unfair, ever;

But he might not seek, he might then;
He has not learned my shriveled song;
Like I have not been singing along;
Like I have been a music in vain,
Knowing your promise to her, sane;
I might just not have lived, by then;

There have been shredded, splendid tears
That were made dead, at times of night;
For years now, that they have been slain
I have strikingly shrieked in pain;
Shrinking into eternal rest;
I shan’t know the last days of West.

There have been shrugged, dusted fears
That were made mere, in ruins of love;
I cut my veins, and blood claimed clear
Striking my bones, bursting both halves.
I peered last at the weeping birds—
‘Till my last breath, I remained unheard.

I see you, just who I am;  
Then your lips touch my glass,
To glide to your side as hours last,  
To die today, to find you in my name.

You see me, just who you are;    
I am fine here, and in my heart,  
That I sing your song and you sing mine,  
You are my soul, my wish, my sign.

I see you here, and your apparition;
Your shadow at those bland hours,
Our lives are but a shared petition,
Grow as a leaf, but of separate flowers.

You see me there, you talk to me;
Always wanting to be by your side,
Entwined with you but I am free,
To raise your voice, to hold your sight.

I watch you laugh, I hear you say;
I catch your dates and months away,
To feel your pulse, your soaked breaths,
The best inclusion I have ever felt.

You see me smile, you hug me;
Through these seething sun and stardom,
And their sweet drama and poem,
As the night spins around to see.

I pass you by, draw you close;
Too afraid that you may be lost,
To keep you so sweet as the night,
And its mystery forms, alright.

You stride along, and roam by me;
Too scared that I may not see,
To be the joy about the bliss,
To be the wind around the breeze.

I write your poems, fill your rhymes;
That you may have me in your times,
To chain your airs, but cheer your lips,
Surround your solid fingertips.  

You write my tales, frame my lines;
That I myself shall not resist,
All this is joy and awkward signs,
That we embrace, we heart, we miss.

I hold your hands, bring you heat;
Colour your ******* and your heartbeat,
And put your silky mind to rest,
Keeping you flavoured and chaste.

You hold my palm, give me love;
Bathe me in braids and bold of blood,
Fill me with life and veins of laugh,
You are half of me, and my heart.

On a wintry morning back then,
I met thy handsome eyes again;
Wand'ring close to blinding blue lights
Looking as lovely as cold nights.

On a wintry morning like that,
I walked' fast as charms could have made;
Eyeing thee there sent my cheeks red;
Filling my ***** with hot sweat!

Thou were glossed in a black jacket;
Striped leather boots, and a brown shawl!
With hands locked tight in both pockets;
onto the sleepy moors thou rolled.

Then in one breadth of lazy breath,
Thou caught my shades among those groves;
Thy charm as immortal as death;
Thy spell as eternal as love.

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.

In t'is warmth, with th' sun glistening outside,
retreated I into th' magnanimous background,
hoping to absorb some air-scented like fruits, and
t'at but satisfied my soul! Chuckled I to myself,
upon t'is prosaic, but audacious discovery-and
proceeded I into th' wooden distance. But disdained
was I, that even in t'at leafy silence, in which I conjectured
swarms of love must've been present, still absent wert
thou-no matter how hard I insisted, I was not chanced
to set my gaze on th' very loveliness I was seeking-I was
shrunk into th' cruelth abode of mystery-hence, once more!
And saunter did I-forward and forward, looking like a
sun-drenched fir fr'm head t' toe, but still didst I do 't in
vain-still I couldn't find thee, querida.

Pieces of the night fly through the air;
And dawn on me did the dry morning;
A flaccid one with no creative fair
And, in that noise, I found myself drowning.

Where is my love and his madness young;
For all he thinks of has been lost long;
My ******'s soul has been provoked
So I must **** to relieve the shock.

With these vitriolic beasts by my side,
I can laugh but with a millstone heart;
And see them with a rancorous sight
In search of the poems t'at were burnt apart.

With the brutal sun upon my hair;
I can but think of drowning somewhere;
T'at some scorching fire shall eat of my remains;
I want not to live, nor t' be seen again.

Like a ghastly shadow, growing and fleeting and fading;
Like a curse t'at blows through my head;
Like there is stay no more, but escape
Like there is love no more, but ****.

Like there is life no more, but death;
Like there is hope no more, but grief;
Like life within the trolley of silence
Like joy within the cold arms of abstinence.

Like cries encompassed by withered tears;
Like a true love that has to crawl through sorry fears.
Like a ****** by that one insisting charm of thee;
Like the loveliness thou awakened within me.

Like a piece of letter so warm as poetry;
Like its magnificent sight, that is fuller than I am.
Like a snowfall whose beauty never dies;
Like the conceited sun, who shuts down in its own lies.

Like tears that have been too much;
And the delight that was once too brief.
Like my languid soul, feeling too short of breath;
Like a dead tree, not too content in its death.

Like summertime's egregious armour;
Who favours evil and amorous glamour;
I have always hated the sun, I truly have;
I detest it for its futile destiny and mirth.

I have always hated the sun's offspring;
For they are perpendicularly singing;
A song that my heart wants not to hear
A haughty melody I never wrote.

I have always hated its dull crimson lights;
And the yellow codes in its circles;
And so I'll never allow it into my heart
In life and in death, united or apart.

Like the heavens' bountiful delight;
I shall wait for thee in thy wise daylight;
I shall come again, I shall come back
I shall step up from t'is wretched wreck.

I shall return to my immortality;
Like t'ose in my dearest tales and poetry;
In the beauty of old stories told;
I am a creature of the night and cold.

But not that of the morning and sun;
All is folly by the sickly moon;
Pampered just like their sickly wordlings;
Evil in their mouths and wrongdoings.

To them there is no sleep between life and death;
Nor there is peace in their realms of slumber;
And their rivalry, which ends at their tombs
Among those who have retreated, back home.

Where is my lover now? My dreams are bad;
And so is my saddening soliloquy;
For it tells not of my solitary silence
I would want not to see it in person.

Where is my lover now? My dreams are mad;
There is no meaning within all these songs;
For my story lies just in thee
'Tis crying out not to them, not anymore;

Where is my lover now? My dreams are sad;
They could but here my hoarse voice;
T'is world is but vileness and evils
And the real me is not here, but there.

Where is my lover now? I am dreaming too late;
But that my heart shan't cry any more;
There are, though, more dancing legs on the moors
And so my gardens are by thy frozen doors.

I am trapped, but not afraid that it shall last;
For the ice and snow shall come to free me;
I left my sunny past and shall leave again
To meet you again in thy most beautiful seasons.

Below me, there is yet a tower fat and small;
But stands not in it a quiet reading hall;
Whose soul says as many lies as the emeralds
With such immeasurable words but false.

As my love for thee is the one wild reason;
For me to wait for the fall season;
In which the pink buds shall again turn grey
Like the love I've felt again for thee, today.

As my love for thee is the foolish sin;
For me to wait while 'tis not seen;
Where I but glimpse just the sunny leaves
That breathes not so long as poetry lives;

As my love for thee is the maddest thought;
For me to wait whilst there is no hope;
That I feel still, when my heart is broken
That I long still, when no love is given;

As my love for thee is the breakthrough;
For me to seek when I shan't see through
To long for fall where all is green
To dream of a far visage, unseen;

As my love for thee is immortal;
For 'tis love is as undead as you are;
And I love thee in each wind and breath
Just like I'll love thee in life and death.

Take me, my love, right behind the curtain
Wherein the sun streams bright but the grass looks plain
Like a passionate young kiss in the rain
There shalt we remain; with all the images,
sacrifices, and the deep secrets of pain
And there thou shalt also sing with me,
until my stern heart
melts to love again.

Yet
Ere th' season dies a-cold
And cold winds return to howl,
I shall rise through th' violette sky,
Telling t'at my love for thee has died.

May Lawes and Jenkyns shield its rest,
In green skies' bosoms, on dribbling rains' chest,
With a solid poem t'at as ever be my guest,
Back, back my dead love is, in whose nest.

And my heart, once its merited soliloquy,
Cursest thee like a fetished beast,
Bearing all onto the zephyr's shoulder,
Hopping through all past enigmas.

Hath it tampered with my viol's wood,
Hath it grinned over through my sins,
Throwing the grievous and the acute,
Breaking my febrile Eolian lute,

Hast it fashioned so airy a mood,
Hast it carved so spacious a fire,
Hast it drawn stealth leaves from my roots,
Hast it seemed neither mist nor shades,

Then release me, fly me outrite,
To new freedom t'is benevolent night,
With thy grim anew bride and suit,
Wed her away with thy colourless love,

My love is dead, dead, dead, and grim,
A stranger to me and my volatile dreams,
Unlike a cloud t'at once seemed so light,
Casting a shade beyond one's porous fright,

My love's as dead, dead, dead, as it may seem,
The subtlety of my eyes hath drifted,
The congested breath of mine hath lifted,
And I hath now seen what t'is world means.

My love is dead, dead, dead, as t'at of thine,
Thou art a dead soul to my lonely wine,
I'd watch thee bleed profusely on the floor,
I'd close the windows and smile over the door.

I want thee dead, dead, dead, and hastily step away,
I hath no other words for thee, I hath no more t' say,
I'd stop by as thy heartbeat grew weak,
And hear the last words thou wouldst speak.

I'd seize the blood right out of you,
and hold you lifeless in my arms.
So I could trust that you'd be true,
and not leave me for others' charms.

I'd drain the strife out from your heart,
smile at you when you'd start wailing.
So we'd no longer be apart,
and you'd not betray my feeling.

I'd watch you writhe in agony,
see how you gasped for your last air.
So that you'd always be with me,
even at those hours of despair.

-adapted from K. M.'s  'Love Eternal', 2011
with some revisions

When my heart loves not and tears cry no more,
I know I have loved England not any more,
The crush I felt for thee has passed away,
Drowned and died out by the dawn of today,

And inside of me lives a green turmoil,
A venomous desire to ****** away and ****,
I shall be satisfied when there is blood,
The red liquid pouring out from your heart,

And I shall but **** cruelly and madly,
The souls who have stolen my sanity,
Those who falsely flattered my poetry,
Those who have torn my dream and beauty,

And I shall once more be Estefannia,
The heart and soul of evil Jakarta,
One whose heart shows no tinge of mercy,
Who preys on the weak and not feels sorry.

In yon wintry morning back then,
I caught thy handsome eyes again.
Thou wert wan'dring behind th' shades,
with pond'ring eyes and smile so glad.

On a wintry morning like t'at,
I walk'd fast as I could have made.
But seeing thee sent my cheeks red,
and gave my body shrilling sweat.

Thou wert within a black jacket,
and around thy neck a brown shawl.
With thy hands clasped in lil' pocket,
into th' sleepy moors thou crawled.

And in one cloud of hazy breath
Thou captured me among th' groves.
Thy charm as immortal as death;
thy spell as eternal as love.

What is love, and what is love not;
I cannot feel love any more,
I am asleep in my sick conscience,
I feel dead when it can but breathe.

What is a heart, what is it not;
When my sight is but bathed in pain,
In grief, for no more love hath recognised me;
Nor bribed me for the sake of lust.

What is poetry, and what are words;
For I am not seen within their worlds,
What hath caused me to be so weak,
What hath now ceased to be my love.

What is sane, and what is sane not;
For I hath had my story short,
I am insane in a place I cannot see,
Where my steps cannot place their whereabouts.

Ah, I cannot even feel the air;
My lungs are stuck in such unwavering heat,
My heart is devoid of its past midnight bliss;
I am longing for what used to be me again.

Ah, I cannot even feel such love;
There raised a longing for my lost poetry,
All is not settled and I feel but angry,
I cannot smell and taste the summer rose.

Ah, I am now blind to such delight;
The delight that once carried me to moonlight,
And the butterflies that hummed in my dreams
That I saw them live as I writ.

Ah, I am now blind to such joy!
I cannot mime the animated old song,
For all is greed here—and tainted by greed,
For speed is prime, and conscience is vain.

Ah, I feel weary too much now!
For tomorrows are heavy, and lights are violent,
For on the roads are but violent tumults,
And all the cheeky hot breeze they raise,
I cannot live, nor do I see in such rage.

Ah, I feel savage in too many ways!
The green gardens stay but to mock me,
They are a low illusion to my presence,
An image too unreal to reveal my fate.

Ah, I feel distorted in my imagination;
Even my universe cannot keep its way now,
And I cannot feel my feet steady,
Its hysteria spilling all over me.

Ah, I cannot but feel thirsty;
The sun is too bright that I cannot see,
The moon is too vague that I cannot feel,
My destiny lay too briefly in my arms.

Ah, I cannot feel comforted, no more;
For none in t’eir slumbers shalt hear my word,
They are too busy with their talk, and legs,
Aptly storming about with ugly chores.

Ah, I cannot see in such dry moonlight;
I hath not a soul to fight, but read—
And none bears but a piece of word about me,
With too much to say, too many tongues to feed.

Ah, I cannot but remember the forgot;
To endear to thee like my arms did,
To read and lay about the upcoming moors,
To feel the urge to lay still, like an awed child.

Ah, I cannot but remember my dreams;
The ones so wild that the vibrant remain,
A remembrance of which shalt become my character,
And my character thus, shalt stand not in vain.

Ah, I cannot but long for my shore;
A long shore so cold like that in England,
When ‘tis a shore not, aye, but a solitude,
One I am not to find in such hearts unlike mine.

Ah, I cannot but long for my old oak;
In Coventry, that I saw by pitiful daylight,
But oft’ smiled to me during the hazy winter,
Hanging to me like my dear sweet old friend.

Ah, and I cannot help but writ about thee;
And sing the same cheerful song again,
A song of innocence and lethal youth,
That my midnight sleeps in colours again.

Ah, I cannot but miss that wry smile;
That such crooked lips shalt by satiated by none else,
That such mirth is but to lie within thee alone,
That such joy is not present in thy absence.

Ah, so I cannot but long for thee again;
My moonlit light and twilight friend,
My dark poetry as winter began,
I felt it light on my naked hands.

Ah, so I cannot but feel thee here;
On whom are all my guts and verdant desire,
Whom hath I sweetly, and purely loved,
That I hath loved with unknown bareness, and chastity.

Ah, so I cannot but miss t’at season of thine;
Thy blooming cheeks and lush lavenders,
Those we strolled by in the vigilant autumn,
The ones that would soon die, and wake in a daze.

Ah, I cannot but rest in my dreams again;
My slumbers are now about yon blue fall,
Too sophisticated for a sophomore like me,
In that image too, thou wouldst be by my side.

Ah, I cannot but resent the sun once more;
But it understands not my resenting,
Like a joyless bud it shimmers no joy,
Like every summer that is void of love.

Ah, I cannot but resent its tears;
For such gurgling tears I am not made of,
I am a being of my immortal poetry,
And so my youthful joy too is eternal.

Ah, I cannot but favour thee again;
I feel too chaste for the absent-minded sun,
Too spirited for its imbecile heat,
Too womanly for its sordid jubilee.

Ah, I cannot but resort to thee once more;
I feel too wasted by the impatient wind,
Horrendous and frivolous in its wake,
Hot and sultry to my conscience.

Ah, so I cannot but seek my sweet fall again;
For t’is heat is too godless to share,
For a youthful maiden like me,
All is blind to me, for I cannot stay awake.

Ah, I cannot but seek my same old love;
My solitude is rigid and tough,
Fake in its meridian and lame singing,
And its heated leaves smelling sour.

Ah, I cannot but yearn for my rhymes;
Filled in fall with sweet grapes and thyme,
I used to write by the old lime tree,
The ice and cold washing all over me.

Ah, I cannot but long for long writ;
By the golden brass and old riverbanks,
Where all goes dark and becomes dusk too soon,
When clean, free air but satiates my mouth.

Ah, I can but feel such love now, and longer;
There exist too many tales to tell,
My heart hath fallen to Coventry’s midnight grass,
And with its existence, cometh again the image of thee.

Ah, I cannot but tame such love, no more;
To spend every word at the same old pace,
Bear my flavour in darkness and haze,
Writ damp poetry by the bashful chest.

I've dreamt of a day and night I'll meet thee again;
By th' immortal moon and his starry friends;
Sweet like t'ese very days of our loving youth;
Shy like th' songs of thy Eolian lute;

I've dreamt of a day and night by a far bridge;
A place just for th' pious, serious and th' rich;
A place where my heart shalt but love again;
A place where all t'ese dreams may make sense;

I've dreamt of a day and night by thy side;
A dream t'at sees through me bare and wide;
T'at a poet like me should go craft and write;
By my fiercest sense, through th' day and night.

I've dreamt of a day where there'll be rain;
T'at a touch of thine shalt make me insane;
T'at walking away shalt but seem too insidious;
Within a curious dream so fast and luminous.

I've dreamt of a night where all is fantasy;
T'at reality shan't again make us come back;
T'at all sadness' dead as it should be;
T'at tears of joys are all t'ere is to take;

I've dreamt of a day thou shalt stand by me;
Seeing me through words, poems, and memory;
T'at thy hands shall be th' only I long to hold;
So far God canst see; so far eyes canst behold.

Here I am! Elevated to a sordid state of mind;
And about my surroundings I claim no clue;
I just awoke from a kindred nightmare, true;
That I had had of late, ah! And I was blind;
Perhaps there ain’t a lovely creature around;
To t’is fate I hath been forcefully bound.

Here I was! As deranged as I may be now;
That I hath loved and vowed on the down low;
As much as I used to do, and again today;
The finished worlds spoke to me like yesterday;
And the dead, descending in smoke on me;
Seem even more real than yon living tree.

And so, far from the bulging little lilac;
All hath been too demanding and tough;
That all hath been terse under the sunlight;
I pretty much am frightened not by the night;
But I, seeking not the morning of the hand;
I only find my love in words, and paint;

And being far, behind in the know;
I wish I could understand today and tomorrow;
That they shan’t stare at me with rugged fright;
That I can still share their gift for the light;
But so, they cannot see my calm and anger;
I hath grown out of them, forever.

To those whom I once loved, and now still do;
To those whom I hath found in my chest, anew;
To those in whom I once engrossed my faith;
To those that hath hurt me, of late;
To those, to whom Midnight is wrong poetry;
To those, to whom my love remains yet for me.

To those, to whom love bears another form;
To those, to whom Lavender is barely a poem;
To those, who threads not enough love to love me;
To those, to whom my herd is not yet born;
To those, to whom such singing is not what I see;
To those, to whom my applause is but my own.

To those, to whom darkness is not fair;
To those, to whom joys ought not to be shared;
To those, to whom May is May, and hark!
To those, to whom tears are in the park;
To those, to whom depression is laughter;
To those, to whom laughter is bland anger!

To those, to whom tears are a strand of love;
To those, to whom scars are not enough;
To those, to whom coarseness is strength;
To those, to whom care is not in length;
To those, to whom loving is not to be gently;
To those, to whom wrong is fate, and hate is me!

For such sadness is gloom, and gloom is joy;
To me that joy has flown, and misery borne still,
And misery that carries happiness to feel;
Misery that itself remains an elegant coy;
And there is no place on earth for us to roam;
No glance at our rights, no words for our poems!

For such sorrow is true, and sick am I;
I am a stranded fool to the simmering sky;
That even the Sun shall render me wrong;
I am not to enchant its unwavering songs;
And so all my poems be a string of hate;
None has cursed me, but strained me of late.

For such tears are faint, and weak am I;
I am a disillusion to the enlightened lie;
A disgust to the retraced steps and roads;
I am a disturbed one to the minds of both;
I am diseased, a sick to the brain and cold;
I am a heartless litter, a stained cloth.

For such illness, and tortured am I;
They shan’t know me, even my lies;
That in the graveyard that we could stay
Holding hands at the passing of awkward days;
I am too delighted at the bribed night;
I am alone, a solitaire under daylight.

For such disgrace, and hateful lesions;
For such talent is but an illusion;
That in the tomb that only they surrender;
Asking that the slyness shan’t last forever;
That they shall ask us to forgive, and hear
What they all now seek, and have here.

For such hallucinations, and thoughts;
For such merits, and feelings, are locked;
That I can see not the soil gray today;
Tramped on by their noisy feet, and say;
That even such a modest fate they deny;
That all that exist are a lie.

And who shall be me, who shall see?
I live in a poem, and die in paint;
That they shall seek not the quiet of me;
I smell like grass myself, and turpentine;
I shall grow and die both in the shadows;
And cease on the halo of tomorrows.

And who shall seek me, who shall care?
These months hath been depressed and unfair;
Ere such days, there were lonely winds;
The most severed hauling I’d ever seen;
And with them were sane, pitiful torments;
Sending me off into sad, consumed moments;

And who shall be with me, who shall comfort;
I hath been warded off by my cruel Lord;
‘Hind the shades, I can only hear weeping screams;
Yet not so beauteous as the raging beams;
And who shall hide within my slumber’s visions;
For I hath no pleasure, nor divine provisions;

And who shall be by my side, who shall sleep;
For these dreams hath no notions to keep;
And whose disdained wisdom shall fight to stay;
Whilst they hath words no more, not to say;
And who shall sleep amongst they frayed wise;
None to live under them, nor be their disguise;

And who shall be my darling, be my gloom;
I hath no more wit left, not to meet;
Nor discomfort, nor to see my light poem;
I am not entertained by their sullen bits;
For such laughs are tears, and insincere;
For such songs are bitter, none that I hear;

And who shall be my heart, be my truth;
Who shall be grief to play my Eolian lute;
I hath seen none else among this seared grass;
And my winters shall go, and for fires to last;
They made me leave my heart in the sick past;
They hath made me and my chest apart;

And who shall be my tree, be my kind;
My poem is in good and evil and their lines;
For no dearer has sought me, by mean peril;
They’ve wished to run me into an Evil;
Ah! But whose love can be, to love me;
I am a literal madness no soul would be;

And who shall be my tree, be my lover;
Perhaps this sadness shall last forever;
And such joys shall sleep in demerits;
And the weathered daydreams, shan’t meet;
Perhaps I am meant to be my sweetheart—
Nor my darling, a thousand worlds apart.

I have not been awake, and again
In a trembling word, I have written.
I have a sweet song, not worthy of you,
If you were true, you could be untrue.
But who is your soul so clear,
Who were you, why would you hear?

O, sweet soul, hath thou but no glory over me,
Such a misery ain’t more mysterious than the sun;
More furious than hells can be,
But who says I shall understand thee
Who says I shall stay dumped,
Who says I shall stay trapped?

Perhaps, upon the death of such winds
T’is sad love is to be made unseen,
For like a battled desire
That ever floats about captivating raided skies,
Such a love never catches the rain,
but dances and falls into the sun.

Perhaps, upon the dying of the night
‘Tis the sun that shall rise,
And like a pictured light that dies
I could not meet you again in the skies,
To hail you back into my arms,
To wound myself, to live the evil past.

For a breeze of morning lights,
The planet of Love is on high,
But have you not, have you seen me?
I am like a lonely star in the rain,
And that bed of daffodil skies,
That clutches my single dose of cries,
Holier that they wanted to be,
But not a faint one to thee.

To dance with the drugged jasmine,
To dance in crowned loneliness.
To be tied to worried heat,
By  the mirth of a golden summer,
To laugh, but not in freedom,
To scold the unknowing nights.

To be in love, but not to love,
And to feel, but not to feel,
To feel not a whole, but half
Of my heart has been like a tattered sky
And soundly tears are not even there, no more.

I said to the rose, “The brief noon
Has gone, and so have its hairs.”
I heard no more, and thought ‘twas silly
To question its red poetry,
Whose sighs were those, and
Would thine ever be mine?

For such sworn words are bashful,
They cling to but avert me
Through the obnoxious night and day.
Such vanished worlds existed to me
Back then, in the rolled vine forest
But all hath now gone, scorching
Themselves in everlasting rest.

And whose promise was given to me
For none was like it at the brief night,
Nothing much of a rustling delight
When I had had a young day in wine,
And I had betrayed all in disguise,
Whose love is there now, to catch me wise?

And the soul of your height was in my blood,
And so was your skin, your fleshy touch
As the music of winter rang in the hall,
And long by the petrified garden I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall,
I heard your memories twinkling on my road,
About my asleep, unconscious reveries.
Who would say I had not called your name,
Your name that is the dearest of all.

On the grass your steps are seen so clear
As those perfumes on the street stones,
I have never smelled any so dear,
My love, my sweet, my young heart.
My heart, that hath swollen in t’is heat
My darling, that I have left, but merry meet.

In the meadow then, your love so sweet
In the eerie untouched March wind,
Just like when we had met in November,
By the amber wood brown as your eyes,
The hollow gravel road that followed,
Meeting your gleeful shade tomorrow.

Our slender, our slender winter,
Full of milk, and magnolia trees in white,
You have hunted me again at eerie nights,
Even by the crying lights that have loved me,
A ghastly shadow that shall not leave.
Knowing your promise to me,
The lilies and roses are all awake,
They have sighed for me and melted for thee.

Our taller, our taller moon
Full of yellowness, and glinting green
You have haunted me and my weight of sins,
And made of me what I want not to see,
To apply the sun to my face, and blood
To apply such sins back again to my heart.

There has fallen a splendid star
From the grinning flower at the gate,
He is coming, my dove, my heart,
And the white leaves cries, “He’s late,”
And tells me I should not wait,
To turn around the bush then go,
Leaving his careless face, in the know.

There has gone a sweet universe,
A parting of my lover and verse,
He whose soul was uniquely sweet,
And ever is as, again, I remember,
I remember the days in cold and heat,
I do remember the memories, forever.

He is coming, my love, my sweet,
The air here is no more real,
Were it more than a spacious threat,
I would still hear no more, but hate,
To call out to the unheard name,
To call out to the fallen fall.

He is coming, my blood, my dear,
He is to love, to be back here.
And I am to love, to be again in love,
I have been in love in these four years;
Never have all these been so true,
Never have I heard, but it will be new.

And who says a lot about the tangled rose,
Now that the setting moon is gone,
That I have loved still the mist,
That I have believed in such bliss.
Cursed is the sun, and I believe it sobs
I heard the night sever its hopes.

I said to the Moon, “Gi’ me back my love,”
It told me it was dawn now,
And then dawn approached, I knew,
Turning all ripped anguishes to spring.
I could not sob, I could not sing,
I was not to long for everything.

I said to the Sky, “How gullible you are,”
But he said to me I would still love,
That I would not care, but to write
I would still care for your silent nights,
I would foster away my solitude
And read aloud my sober thoughts.

I said to the Stars, “How far you are,”
But they told me they wanted to write,
That to excite poetry here with me,
And such arts, to them, ne’er sleep;
The Stars are offspring to my lips,
Gasping words at my fingertips.

I said to the Rain, “How tame you are,”
It gave me a clear reason to behold,
For such a shower can be more daunting,
I have none in sight, none to hold.
All the risks I have taken in me,
All those sighs, smiles that I can be.

Hence! Even then I love you still,
And to see your smile, o my darling,
New joys are born, and stirred to life,
Bending towards me, singing,
Climbing their way into my thoughts,
And from the valleys underneath
Overcoming altogether t’ese bitter joys.

Hence! Even then I fancy you,
Speaking to me in shadow and flesh,
Although through a red flushed face,
And all is false, trembling in weird lies.
Coming to me in death’s daily form,
Having you by my side feels warm,
And to cuddle you here, in my arms,
Unlike the other bloodless, friendless nights.

Hence! Even then you live in me,
As you will always continue to be,
With a trickling love ever fresh to me,
With a hollow cheek and faded eye,
Like the chatter that shuns,
A hatred that sleeps while ‘tis awake.
I am lost here, with thoughts I yielded
And the dreams my rose shielded.

Hence! Even then you, a loving sight
Dearer to me than all hushed nights,
With one green sparkle and beyond
You remain as my everlasting song,
To make me write all over the morn
I have loved you still, all along.

A poet like me, disdained and condemned by the world,
Disfigured by its face, made sealed and melancholy by my own,
As if today, there is nothing else more temporary than words;
I need to survive while standing on my feet alone.

I dislike mud and earth, unlike them all;
I think death is divine and life is temporal;
But I know not, why others declare it is magnificent;
For it is but a gulf of disgust, made of enemies and no friend.

Once I fell in love, within our last winter; 
I saw him again and again during the rest of November;
He was my Sofian star, across the days of December;
He was the charm of my life, with whom I imagined life together.

He had poems on his tongue, and sweet was his mouth;
While his solemn breath was as smooth as yon farm's berries;
He was ageing, but rich and adequate in his youth;
His songs were as innocent as spring's red cherries.

Ah, but why idyll needed to go, and but sulkily swifted away;
When I was consumed, and only greed was in my chest;
Perhaps as a poet I should have had more to say;
And then, should I have said more, would he have stayed and rested?

He is jailed now, in his own Paris' shrubs and sins;
He is a detached monster too arrogant and mean;
And in that tragic summer he caught the arms of a white lady;
One selfish lady of Paris, the daughter of a plain bourgeois;

A lady with round snowy curls of brown hair;
Which blew like an evil tempest among the winds;
For she cared only for the world's primmest affairs;
She was the most brutal such pious souls have seen.

And to me now, that there is no more reason to be in love;
I shall hibernate 'till else might come and make me laugh;
For yon last one though, this should be his last stanza;
I shall burn his memory by tonight's red fatamorgana;

And run, run, run, my darling, into the rain;
Hope thy wife will defile you and put you into stains.
Perhaps you shall enjoy such delicate years in hell;
Whatever it takes, I wish you good luck and hope all is well.

And let her **** you by a midnight's swords;
When you walk out to watch more feeding swans;
She shall laugh and giggle as you leave these worlds;
She shall grab your purse and quickly hide behind;

And grin over your pulse as it grows weak;
She shall be the last to hear you speak.
But as you die, she shall not hold your hand;
She shall play with the cheeks and hairs of another man.

And let you be buried, buried, buried in my past;
Now you can taste her skin while being filled with lust;
Make her **** you into shreds and lure you into disgrace;
While you think she is the sweetest of all embrace.

Emotions stirred me;
Flew into me, burning me;
All that were dark were clear and pure to me
that inevitable day.

And the mere sight of you
Consumed me, tasted to me
Like the stars;
You stole my sanity
and never returned it back.

My tunes, all melt
In the light of the moon;
The light in your eyes
That told me of your tale
and your history.

You, when the skies turned gray;
Welcomed me in felicity
That day, that very day;
You were a friend of daylight
and ecstatic spirits.

You, when March ended,
Made me long for more;
For a sigh of love and desire,
Invite and touch me,
Caress me through your lyrics.

Your moonlight and my poetry;
Tear the skies in haste;
Splitting the universe in two.
Our universe, who knows nothing
about love.

Your verses, and my words;
Expound all songs sweet in the air;
The most serene, yet the farthest;
Almost the hardest
that I cannot yet play.

Your silence, that addresses me
With utter clarity
Touches my heart and my days;
Speaking to me
of these powerful feelings.

Your light, that flows through me
Enchants me throughout the day
and the sordid night;
'Tis cold but all I feel is warmth
when I am in your arms.

And t'ere I stood, still as a statue,
fascinated more, and againeth -- at th' light
t'at streamed naughtily from th' sea of
thy eyes -- which t'is time resembled t'ose vivid rays
of th' harvest moon. My love, my love! Come to me
but once more, so t'at I could cherish thee,
tenderly and warmingly,
in my arms.

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.

I paint the night, the ******* gloss;
Colouring the grass and their floss;
Keeping watch o'er the careful storm;
The air of the night is clear and warm.

I sketch again, the reddened corpse;
To colour it black, on purpose;
Laid dead in a battered light;
The awful course of his smug fright.

I pat again the pouring rain;
Hiding the hideous battle scene;
And yellow for the beaming sands;
The soft canvas, the howling wind.

I touch the graying lithe flowers;
Pictured wet by unheard showers;
And so their drizzles hath softened;
Leaving the slaughtered stones fastened.

Who says I'll hide my greasy face;
The painter that hath done his best;
I hath not the tears of a beast--
I hath found my ill soul, at least;

Who says I eat flowing water;
For rivers can be disobedient;
For greenness can keep a hound
On the sunburnt higher grounds.

Who says turpentine is a rose;
For 'tis but shorter than a prose;
And whose leaves can be shaky;
To the wind that once set me free.

Who says that love shall cure, and mess
With my boisterous, dainty rest;
Who says they hath a soul, this beast
That unites souls on the rose's feast.

Who says the grass hath sought much growth
When it hath but fainted three times;
Under the hot sun, grown rainbows
More than they would be pleased to show.

And who says I shall paint with love;
Love be ease, but a curse to me;
A sordid spell I shan't welcome
The erased song I shan't become.

And who says I ought yet to freeze;
To be foolish, and to be told
To be free like a lazy breeze
I hath my own truth to behold;

And who says I shall cut my skin
To entrance them, and to be seen
For what a love may falsely mean;
What hath an insincere dream been?

And who says I shall paint lithe lies
To further stretch my long night skies;
That I paint with enhanced delight
In a demure beige, sweet daylight;

And who says I shall be with thee
That I can fake ponderous lights;
For the mornings are not in me;
Neither are their hours, nor green light.

And who says I shall not be free;
For freedom too is not idyll;
For normal is not what I see;
For common is not what I feel.

In my dreams, your picture was intact: from your hair there was a reckless shine. Brightening my skin; as sweet and delicate as apple fruits. Sometimes I thought you were guiltless; a soulless devil who is no longer capable of deceit; you were wan, listless, and shy. You are my sin, my soul. The tip of my tongue could not help pronouncing your name; you were my the light of my life, fire of my *****. Flame of by bones, air to my breathlessness. My sole yearning, the only earnest hope that I long to come true. Relief of my pain. Cure for my loneliness. Sweetness in the midst of bitterness; breeze amidst the shards of eternal sunlight. You were wearing your favourite shirt, your lips were in ecstasy; as splendid as yesterday's evening candy. You were lonesome and yet as pure as a baby. I hath always dreamed of you that way, in some of the recent days; but I was indeed wrong. It was the silliest of dreams! I was deceived by your superficial gentleness! You are nothing but a creature of malevolence; you conquered my love and walked out on me; you do not deserve me! You are none but a demonic fault in my romance; a hassle, an insignificant, a vile mist of shadow that I ought to leave behind as an indignant trace of my past! I despise you, my love.

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.

O my love!
In my hate I shall miss thee,
in my mind I shall keep thee!
In disdain still I think of thee,
and in sorrow I shall praise thee!
Ah, and in drought I shall drink of thee,
but in t'is snow I'll draw of thee!
In summers I'll yearn for thee,
and in t'eir warmth I'll dreameth of thee!
To my readers I'll tell of thee,
in my poems I'll write of thee.
Thy innocence, thy innocence t'at shall
never fade!
O, in my songs I'll sing of thee,
and in my plays I'll imagine thee.
How in the mornings thou'lt sit beside me,
and whispereth that thy heart needst me.
For in my heart I want only thee;
and in my soul do I crave thee!
Because thou art the kingst of my longing,
and the hero of my dreaming!
Ah! Thus thy presence my everything,
yes-everything, my love!
Just like the giggling stars
to the moon above.

I saw my love in 'other world,
By the sides of a damp city,
By the barns of faithless forests,
Under the name of Coventry,

I stared deeply into his eyes,
Scared of finding unconscious lies,
I told him scriptures of past tales,
Behind three cups of wine and ale,

He parted and left all alone,
Burning aside all single words,
In love with the sickly false worlds,
Dismantling spirits he had borne,

I was demolished and lonely,
Smothered by violet solitude,
Not one loveliness could heal me,
Not even my Eolian flute,

But soon I found my honest Lord,
Left adrift by disruptive worlds,
I saw Him in sleep and poetry,
I felt His words strongly in me,

I learned and read with two red eyes,
With a rage on furious evenings,
I squinted into the dried tepid skies,
Firm to thunder and music sounds,

I tore through my religion,
I passed by lone oblivions,
All were plain and spiritual,
All were lurid and magical,

All was poetry, that one of mine,
I was stunned, my idioms were blind,
I had found the scent of my soul,
A faithful show I'd strained to hold,

And all was neither silent nor drowned,
But a reality that never frowned,
A frugality that had found its league,
My heart healed and got no longer sick,

And all sprinted towards another way,
A way to which I had none to say,
A delight like the sun's violent rays,
Vanished worlds were real to me that day,

And there was the music of the stars,
The swift dance of the heavens' bars,
I knew my God was not that far,
I could see Him with my heart ajar,

And I too danced to a fairy song,
That I'd drained to sing all along,
To bow and thrill by my poetry,
To hail His instance there with me,

And the world too was dressed in rags,
A dead end blinding to their age,
And their worries and frayed hustles,
Mocked by their cloaks and green barrels,

And all mornings would sound empty,
For as far as my eyes could see,
I would dream in my shy prayers,
Asking bounties from the Giver,

And feel the salt among the sea,
Witness the cupboards of the stars,
Watch the moon take its long night walk,
Hear dusk and clouds hold their late talk,

And kiss the sands within my hands,
Cherish the flower of my senses,
Shine like the sun all over again,
Be relieved from heartaches and pains,

Be healed from wounds and agonies,
Be free as grouse and butterflies,
Be pure and free and fair and clean,
Bear forgiveness to thy worst sins,

Be hefty and feisty and sweet,
Be witty and solid and bold,
Be tough in rain and bloodied heat,
Be hardy in illness and cold,

And to seal comfort on my chest,
To my senses in the whole round,
Whilst no wind yet brewed in the West,
And the lost bits were to be found.