Would you love me?
If I was a storm so strong my name would be carved into history
Would you love me?
If I was fire that burned your home as I was called a calamity
Would you love me?
If I was a plague so deadly that could endanger and kill all of humanity
“Would you love me?” She asked bearing the final question.
“No” He replied. “I’ll love you even more”
Closing rifts in hatred can kill a monarchy,
But morale grows to kill it anyhow, you see...
A year can pass like light through glass,
But still you’ll never see...
Can only make debris,
Of what will never be…
To how they speak,
Of listless killing sprees,
Or whisper to the trees and croon,
Their sacrilegious plea…
Still you haunt these rigid spores,
Of flowered enemies,
But dawn’s wreath may only cometh,
When your heart concedes,
To crooked tales and bloodied gales,
Of life amongst the free…
O, Dear Soletta, have I failed you,
The King is dead,
Now, let us kill the Queen...
I’m not afraid of evil
that makes the demons thrive.
I’m not afraid of plagues
and diseases that will deprive.
I’m not afraid of death
or what happens when we leave behind our skin.
I’m afraid of people
because we created every sin.
I don’t have trust issues,
I’m just not foolish enough to ever let anyone in.
I am sickly, weak and broken,
From all the words I leave unspoken.
I am plagued, hurt and deranged,
From the curses I leave unchanged.
I am full of expectations,
I have fully crafted plans.
I have names for operations,
I won't achieve with my own hands.
I walk through worlds and I'm displeased,
But it isn't these lands that are diseased.
Yes, you can go near "them"
and talk to "them"
and be nice to "them"
and, god forbid, treat "them" like they're human.
Surely, you aren't stupid enough to think,
that crazy is contagious
and that insanity is catching.
Well if you're not,
why are you acting as though they are plagued?
Why are you calling those people,
who are just like you and me,
"them" as if they're from another planet?
Wherever he went the visitor left a note
A small one, barely a centimetre long,
Beneath a glass or jug, on which he wrote
The same incomprehensible song.
Oh yes! It made no sense. Not a bit.
Which is why he left it
The town became used to his fleeting presence
A joke, a laugh, a drink, then gone
It didn’t matter that he made no sense
Or that his odour, also left behind, was so wrong.
It didn’t matter one little bit;
Which is why he did it.
He floated in with the sunshine and dust
Not by the door. They quickly forgot what he looked like,
His name, if he possessed one; precise objects of his lust;
The tone of his voice; whether his build was heavy or light,
He had no substance or distinguishing features
In the usual manner of such invisible creatures.
He left only a memory, flaky as rust
The half-remembered shades of those with diminishing sight
The first kiss, a balloon that goes bust,
The unseen hand that turns out the light.
Like aging, he unravelled each mind, stitch by stitch,
An accident waiting to happen, disease, misfortune or glitch.
If he visits, struggle to recall something
When he’s gone. He will take part of you with him.
Changes will be rung, sans mind, soul, sans everything,
Disposed of through time, fate or whim.
He freely comes, unrecognised
Unnamed, unknown, unexorcised.
A girl of thirteen or fourteen, sickly and pale,
carries water from the well. Her brother is
dying. He is six months old. The girl (whose
hair is red, looking boldly like fire in the afternoon
sun, and whose eyes are the grain and the rain
and the river) is aware that her days, too, may be
few. It is a secret she keeps from her mother:
the ache she feels with every movement, every
movement the lifting of the tremendous weight
that is her skeletal body; her fever; the poems
she has left out on her dresser so that a part of
her may remain with the world when she is