All night my finery stirred to life;
And the satire I formerly loathed
I hath not hated again, but in haste
I hath been torn, I hath been faulted.
All night I adored the mystic words;
My love, that I had come to behold,
What is with the pain of this loving thee;
Perhaps no poet is as unsure as I am.
All night the arts were about me;
I saw pearls and jewels in the backyard
And bequeath the stones on the roads
To my startled darling, my dear;
All night the excitement was all here;
As a euphoria I could hear alone,
As a misery that was also delight,
For they could not see my ****** night.
All night my virginity was bare;
And my whole poems were laid here,
All of them sounded too weird,
All being constant madness, and tears.
All night I saw flawless snow grow;
And sadistic winter lasting longer,
I did not hear what the rest said,
My long poetry was all I had.
All night I spoke to my chaotic discourse,
All sounds being an unheard chorus,
And the earth a distorted choir
That I wanted not to peruse, nor hear.
All night I was in my deep delirium;
I heard not the nest, and walls of my room
But I should indeed not have cared,
They were not there, not too fair.
Who art thou, young bud, young star;
T’is melody but sees stars in thy hair,
Being a magnificent heir of the moon,
‘Tis a dream, to fade away too soon.
Who art thou, a malevolent voice;
To invite me into the air and its kiss,
When all in the room is frozen fits,
To be in a lovingly sung winter,
Who art thou, a translucent shadow;
Why am I here, but not in the know,
And t’is insanity is just not part of me,
My vivid fate, the last of thine to see,
Who art thou, a transformed beauty;
That I wish could not barely grow,
T’is insanity, that feeds off of me,
Waiting for thine, craving for thee,
Who art thou, a soundless presence;
I hath not batted away the very moment,
And who is here, to signal my audience,
I hath writ not a stern movement.
Who art thou, a voiceless ghost;
What is with the scout and pouting lips,
But handsome still, like an angel’s
Too handsome that thou amazed me.
Who art thou, a dizzy thought;
But a melancholy dream of my night,
I cannot see though thy abundance of lights,
Thou hath me wince, thou hath me taught.
Who art thou, a mad apparition;
Shalt thou sing to my new destination,
That the folded flutes hath to perch away,
Leaving us free, distant from today.
Who art thou, a disgraced grass;
For the whole of lone words is in line,
That blood of thine, and heart of mine,
That I cannot hear, nor wander at rest.
For a soliloquy tune is disgrace,
And a haloed shame to the sun;
Who cannot understand my tales,
And the speed within their calls.
For silence is gateless to all,
And them, the souls I care for;
For none like me was theirs before,
They can hear not when I call.
For the one I hath come for;
And to whom the draught is too much,
To whom who cannot see in March,
To whom who cannot see the light.
For the one I hath longed for;
And to whom I cannot belong,
I am too much weirdness for his song,
I am too much worry, too many chords.
For a breeze of morning moves was here;
With the moon gone on another errand,
And my clouded love was not at hand,
I could neither sing to square tunes, nor hear.
For a ray of morningness, that was yet to faint;
And to reminisce about thee, fiend,
Like to behold without my heart,
To drench me, and my weird love in haste.
I said to the sun, “There is but a pen
Whom my heart hath come to cheer,”
But then it left me alone to no friend,
The last echo of winter had dried away.
I said to the rose, “The brief cold goes
As the bloated dawn has caressed me,
But who shall see, and be in the know
I have not seen cold from my window.”
I said to the water, “The river seems cold
But not like the one I hath beheld,
Perhaps what looks cold, is not cold at all
Perhaps ‘tis not a darkling like me.”
I said to the tree, “The trees being shunned
Because I hath had them speak to me,
None is to be startled by my beauty,
Nor be excited by such wan poetry.”
From the black meadow hath risen a fate,
And a tale like me is perhaps too late,
They, at night, are wanting to go to bed
To be enhanced whilst they sleep, not live;
From the black shadow hath risen a twig;
Red in its vanity like streaming blood,
And perhaps I am drawn to such curse,
For in darkness I see, and be my own delight.
From the black moors hath risen a ghost;
Running against me whilst all is quiet,
And the sun is raging, at fierce speed,
My love for literature is not seen, unlit.
From the black grass hath risen snow;
The fantasy only I could know,
And I, startled by the menacing heat,
Untouched by the cold, and its field.
I hath had too much of the sun, and yet;
No promise hath been formed in my head,
I hath longed to leave, but yet
I hath to swim still towards the sunset.
I hath had too much of holes;
That none is too spacious, no more,
I hath had scars and tears to count,
I hath sinned against the foster moon.
For every morningness, hath I had
A doze of morning breeze, hath not met
With such loving eyes of thine;
Those bitter memories I hath in mind,
For every bitterness, hath I heard
A sliver of darklings towards my face,
I am not so sour nor icy as my words,
Still, they shalt see not my haste.
For every sullenness, hath I feared
My books shall adorn just displeased tears,
They are in idyll, yet shalt still not know
They left me then, and live not now.
For every cursed fate, hath I laughed
Misery is just not more a tear enough;
I hath dwelled in sorrows yet to come,
I hath not lived, nor called theirs home.
For every cursed life, hath I felt
With sane words drunk and misplaced,
I hath not been loved, just hated
For my poor insanities, of late.
For every cursed sigh, hath I feared
All such teasing hath hurt so weird
What is there in the cult of a pain;
Is there a consolation, a friend?
For every cursed sight, hath I told
The riddles and threads thou shan’t behold,
I am neither fierce nor too strong,
But who shall listen, or hear my song?
For every cursed light, hath I seen
A fate so awkward and truly mean;
Behind the burns and oaks and trickles,
At my miseries hath they giggled.
For every cursed poem, hath I writ
And left my untold discourse unfit;
And who are they, with insolent merits,
Yet too souls with insolent demerits,
For every cursed word, hath I seemed
Too disobeying and lustful for one,
But what am I without my frantic dreams;
And a page of failed lunatic desires?
For every cursed soul, hath I screamed
‘Tis a world so cloudless and limb,
They hath all words spoken too loud,
And sweetness feels like a nightmare.
For every cursed ink, hath I dreamed
Of wandering my sweet solitary nights
Beyond the crescent shape of my room;
I hath enough insanities to writ my poems.
For every cursed call, hath I writ
That to be in love again is not to meet,
For who am I, a maddened bard;
I hath no charm, I hath no heart,
For every cursed tale, hath I met
Stories of all dryness and wet,
That clutch to my hearts and hands;
Wanting to be my sands again.
For every cursed love, hath I slept
And in a hurled little dream wept,
Who shall want to break me free;
Who shall trace the beauty of me.
For every cursed heart, hath I hoped
And in a quiet little tune I sung,
Who shall see that I am proud;
Who shall read my words out loud.
For every cursed rhyme, hath I said
With written words that are too late,
Who shall be the one in sight;
Who shall retreat to my troubled nights.
For every cursed pen, hath I waited
For a love painstakingly late,
And who shall be my comfort;
Who shall be mine, my lord;
For every cursed page, hath I kissed
Silence by ‘tis own western feast,
And who shall say my remnants of bliss;
Who shall recite my words in threes?
For every cursed line, hath I missed
And since I may never be his
Who shall see me and fallen worlds,
Who shall be kind to my words?
For every cursed touch, hath I been
Hath I been there, and in love
Who shall see me in my thousand skies;
Who shall be mine, and as wise,
For every cursed past, hath I gone
And returned back with my ale alone;
Who shall be here to here me pray,
Who shall be here for what I say,
For every cursed soul, hath I loved
And in a murmuring smile I prayed,
Who shall see me as I am today;
Who shall love me still, every day.
For all my fellow poets and artists; you are way more special than society thinks you are. <3
