Now do our eyes behold
The tidings which were told:
Twin fallen kings, twin perished hopes to mourn,
The slayer, the slain,
The entangled doom forlorn
And ruinous end of twain.
Say, is not sorrow, is not sorrow's sum
On home and hearthstone come?
Oh, waft with sighs the sail from shore,
Oh, smite the *****, cadencing the oar
That rows beyond the rueful stream for aye
To the far strand,
The ship of souls, the dark,
The unreturning bark
Whereon light never falls nor foot of Day,
Even to the bourne of all, to the unbeholden land.

The shell of objects inwardly consumed
Will stand, till some convulsive wind awakes;
Such sense hath Fire to waste the heart of things,
Nature, such love to hold the form she makes.
Thus, wasted joys will show their early bloom,
Yet crumble at the breath of a caress;
The golden fruitage hides the scathèd bough,
****** it, thou scatterest wide its emptiness.
For pleasure bidden, I went forth last night
To where, thick hung, the festal torches gleamed;
Here were the flowers, the music, as of old,
Almost the very olden time it seemed.
For one with cheek unfaded, (though he brings
My buried brothers to me, in his look,)
Said, 'Will you dance?' At the accustomed words
I gave my hand, the old position took.
Sound, gladsome measure! at whose bidding once
I felt the flush of pleasure to my brow,
While my soul shook the burthen of the flesh,
And in its young pride said, 'Lie lightly thou!'

Then, like a gallant swimmer, flinging high
My breast against the golden waves of sound,
I rode the madd'ning tumult of the dance,
Mocking fatigue, that never could be found.

Chide not,--it was not vanity, nor sense,
(The brutish scorn such vaporous delight,)
But Nature, cadencing her joy of strength
To the harmonious limits of her right.

She gave her impulse to the dancing Hours,
To winds that sweep, to stars that noiseless turn;
She marked the measure rapid hearts must keep
Devised each pace that glancing feet should learn.

And sure, that prodigal o'erflow of life,
Unvow'd as yet to family or state,
Sweet sounds, white garments, flowery coronals
Make holy, in the pageant of our fate.

Sound, measure! but to stir my heart no more--
For, as I moved to join the dizzy race,
My youth fell from me; all its blooms were gone,
And others showed them, smiling, in my face.

Faintly I met the shock of circling forms
Linked each to other, Fashion's galley-slaves,
Dream-wondering, like an unaccustomed ghost
That starts, surprised, to stumble over graves.

For graves were 'neath my feet, whose placid masks
Smiled out upon my folly mournfully,
While all the host of the departed said,
'Tread lightly--thou art ashes, even as we.'

A favorite song is declaring its cadencing hope!


O broken-hearted!
Don't be saddened by the wording of your song!
Not all your skies are grey.

It is not according to your heart that the
outcome and influences settle for their peace!
Neither do they are enough for the one's phasing devastation.

In the room of ingenuous wonderment,
There is a little glint of light and a warm heart. I don't want darkness to win. For a while, tears can stay back instead of falling off!

Do you know a subtle thing about these teary eyes?
They seem to hope for the affection of your remedying voice.

In a song, I always want to know from the tears, their emotions!
And they have sung it too!

Do I want to separate its tune?
No!
I don't want to challenge an innocent, lowest-pitched string of tuning.
It is true.
You have indeed left me alone to sing the song by myself!
You have left me alone by closing your eyes and making me feel you still see me!
Where is my heart now?
It is busy and immersed in crying!

Sometimes all one can have is the rhythmic expansion and contracting of sadness for moving on!

It is a mega feeling when you own the voice. It is little more than just including it in our life.
Although there is a readiness of vocables to fill the empty spaces in the rhythm of this song, this tending and coloring sorrow will change too!
It is also true.
A song is just a song!
©️shivpoetesspriya

My love;
Do I dare drop another shrouded truth upon your eardrum...?
I left another footprint today, you know
...but those granules of concrete are still hollow,
still quiet;

I've hidden behind your golden dreadlocks too often,
and heard your contemptuous laughter echo,
the crooked whistle of another gunshot
piercing the silence, and a silhouette
-of course

....yet I can't let go.

You're so young, I tell myself;
Your bedsheets are still crisp, still odorless;
...this sleep does not trouble you, does it?
-with her kissing nightmares.

And I dread my toes slipping-into that cadencing abyss,
...the scattered doom of my growing death wish;
there's no one to hold me,
but you.

The pillowcases still hiss...
their fingers clench my hair, often;
and threads tie me to a new paranoia
every night.

And I know
these windows aren't clean
...they disgust me;
yet they're my only source of light,
and I choose to compromise;

It's left me with nothing,
but your rusted blood on my tongue
and these shadows formed on the wall,
by your electric blue flesh...

I'm tired, dearest
...your fumbling silence hurts me-
maybe another drop of ******,
will bring you back to life.

when i look at you
to say something in pace of rafts
on rivers,

cadencing
claptrap swerve of wording
in tongue's avenue

         is its nature—

    spreading contagion of ill pride.
seeking diadems in fields of night larks
   singing heavily, unapologetic, eulogizing
   mornings none we could take,

  whirling inside our bodies like
     stirred poisons in vials. past the unreadiness of moonlight waxing
    stellified are the waters now, clear
in first light,
    
      like fish underneath our bellies.