"It has been weeks, since our last discourse,
The sound of muttered sketch;
Rain-burnt,stained, and course... They are,
So lively, so weighed, and rich...
These pale yellow long faces,
‘fore lamp lit well traces,
seem rigid...Unlike my fingertips...
How the days still pass, so right here on course,
Like a steady pool in stream,
Of all our thoughts; our solemn oughts’,
of what might, and should have been.
And do you know?
O' what do you know?
of when darkness settles in...
There are from the edges of a turning page,
A distant woe and dew,
Of the mornings when, our nights grew thin,
And my thoughts would be of you!
O' dare I how, do dare I speak,
of songs that sound of you...
From far away, O' dare I say,
these times were so but few...
I'd linger in rhyme,
In meadows of chime,
In Arts, in words,and songs,
Of revolt and freedom..
Of satire and reason,
On dance, on tempo and cue..
But none of them dear,
I solemnly hear,
Do sing my old nightmares adieu ...
But O' do they pry,
My heart for goodbye,
And for parting hereon forgo,
Where there is no reason,
For heartache or treason,
To devil with hearts on in on toe..
So 'wards them sea chamber,
To see mine own paper,
Wet soaked to marrow and stone...
How waters would carry,
The heartaches we'd bury,
To surface, when all else is gone.."
A.r. Bazian
*May 18th, 2014
