i.

for the past few weeks i've been doing an experiment,
thankfully philosophy allows such things,
of course, they're deviations from what i'm used to
in chemistry, they're less, what's the word?
spectacular - but they are nonetheless experiments,
and that's the beauty of being grounded in some sort
of science (trinity of biology, chemistry and physics
and that's the limit, beyond this there are only
pseudo-sciences)... medicine? that's the tsarina of
learning: like any tsarina: gets down and *****,
and yes: mathematics is the genteel queen.
philosophy on the other hand seems like a vagabond
in learning, never really pieced together,
never really sentenced to a single direction:
and for that matter, thought can become less narration
that stretches into the sort of philosophy that Sartre
embodied with his novel, and more into thought becoming
experimental...
you might be wondering what the experiment consisted
of... well, over the weeks i've been sadistic unto myself,
it's to do with trying to figure out the modern curse
that's the 3D's: debt, depression, dementia.
                i can't fall asleep without a bottle of whiskey
cigarettes, sleeping pills and music playing in the background:
which would make me a terrible partner, anyway.
   beyond that though, for weeks i repeated a pattern,
i fell asleep to the *hellraiser ii: hellbound soundtrack
by christopher young...
       day-in-day out: as if to pressurise the idea that
the faculty of dreaming could be censored in the same way
that thinking is censored in liberal speech
eroding people's vocabulary, **** included.
     what i mean by that: every day i woke up with 15 minutes
of despair, then the zenith came after i lay in bed
for 4 hours and felt too many leeches ******* at me...
   those 15 minutes of despair were always there,
but then i usually got up and went about my daily business...
i admit that whiskey could be to blame,
anyone could argue the alcohol-is-bad argument,
but arguing as R. D. Laing might have that it's
also a sedative if you don't include social adhesion to loosen
the tension of going out and dancing:
then i don't see the point of saying it's all bad.
         sleeping pills (i found) are not 100% active without
what the prescription states that you should do:
i exceed limits, but then i write during the night -
            create a balance and i'm sure any insomnia
might be made minimal... anyway:
so i've been doing this roundabout experiment,
listening to the above album while falling asleep,
but then yesterday i decided to fall asleep listening to
godspeed you! black emperor's album F♯ A♯ ∞,
and guess what the experiment proved:
  i felt little or no anguish for 15 minutes,
obviously the usual groggy of a pseudo-hangover,
  but that doesn't mean staying in bed for 4 hours
because you feel **** about life 'n' all...
                   as already stated there's what we call
a cartesian dichotomy, that somehow altered mental
states cannot be translated into a physicality -
depression in this sort of language becomes lethargy -
people never seemed to connect the dots that
state the monism of everything having a pairing either
side of Humpty-Dumpty sitting on the ergo fence
asking about a flying omelette... ergo is a variation
of what precipitates... depression = lethargy...
the purest kind of what i know (i have enough psychiatric
literature to redeem myself from what would
be deemed quack-medicine with their quack doctors) -
some say that taking the vitamin B12 supplement
could help you: or that weak digestion is to blame, too.
i would be quack doctor if i was in a position of power,
and since i am not really earning anything from my
"poems", what sort of power can i abuse? trust -
but then again these are thought experiments,
           i first experiment on myself, then note down
the observations i have accounted for.
               so what will my unconscious eat today while
i switch off my consciousness? i was thinking of
the cure's disintegration album,
         perhaps that's why i did weeks of falling asleep
to a horror movie soundtrack, to later move into
neo-prog "rock" and then into 80s goth melancholia...
    i'd say that pop ****** melancholics off...
and such a nicer word for depression...
                   it's not even close to compression and has
nothing to do with aviation or the Netherlands...
     melan, melan: ah! melanism - a certain darkness,
    choly -         condition of darkness...
       and that star of Bethlehem appeared at night...
man of sorrows, well that's just blatant;
           but for all the romanticisation about darkness
and the mysterious moon and all the insomnia,
i still prefer the anti-cartesian explanation of actually
creating the proper answer to what has become
a dichotomy between the physical sciences and
the pseudo sciences, given that ergo is a precipitation
then for the two opposite to become inseparable
depression must be equal to lethargy: which is a variation
of the grander genus (family): metabolism.
               is this the point where i re-quote that famous:
doctor! heal yourself!
                                      well, if there's anything to go by
i have in my mind, given my life a prolonging in a way,
what was it... amitriptyline?
                                         the new ******* for
the respectably prone to citizenship's serenity of leaving
other people to their own demises -
  i mean, look at all the teetotalers: hyperactive bunnies
with too much energy that translated into things like
the infamous pyramids and the doubly infamous chimneys.

ii. the danish girl

i would have never thought that the transgender movement
had such a puritanism about it,
such platonism - nearing martyrdom;
who could have thought?! i only managed to see the film
today... i'm a sentimental ******* and i was choking
on not crying at the end of the film
here was a true representation of an artist,
         there's he (einar wegenar): a successful local
artist, within the confines of Copenhagen,
modestly famous: primarily because of having
perfected a technique and sourced it in a childhood
memory that keeps haunting him,
    thus he keeps repeating it, although with slight
alternation to refresh it, but no photograph to work
from, hence my previous statement:
  memory is the best cinema or arts' gallery (this
is not a universal statement, memory doesn't always
heal, or fascinate or have the ability to revitalises itself
or become the most potent "hallucinogenic" experience);
and then she's there (gerda wegener), also
painting, but more in line with paying the rent
rather than appeal, rich people needing portraits to
hang on the walls of the future of their lineage
        in years to come so someone might boast:
that was my ancestor, who founded the first bank
of Copenhagen sort of stories -
and all she wants to do is be an artist like Einar;
and she keeps coming back from galleries with her
works and they never give the critics any appeal
at being original - they have a suggestive generic
quality to them: precisely because they've been painted
for money. art is cruel in that way,
  when critics reduce producing art like they might reduce
being a cashier in a supermarket on the basis of:
job done... then comes the offense from the artist.
the beauty of this film is the platonism that soon explodes,
the near innocence... i really don't know how
the transgender movement borrowed from this:
all those Baphomet ******* with too many parts,
silicon chests and ***** and what not?
       this is one of the finest forms of defamation -
these days the transgender movement is so sexually
potent it doesn't really deserve what can only appear
as a self-imposed crucifixion...
              this story predates the unearthing of the nag
hammadi scripts, it's intuitively bound to what was
unearthed in 1945...
      einar sees the desperation of gerda, he knows
that he'll simply remain a local artist,
    bound to a square mile of earth, local, provincial
even... what he decides on is best expressed
by Marilyn Manson's lyrics: now i'm not an artist
i'm a ******* work of art.
        how can not this resonate further into the film
if not by this motto:
it is a consecration of a memory, to invert it and
un-seize the moment long ago experienced and now
fuelling art, or the repetition of a safe technique established.
one man's frustration and a woman in a cage:
the potential seen - then a sudden bursting of madness,
the evident anti-cross -
                                  to say he had reached his limits
and she was kept frustrated and under-appreciated is
blatant enough, this self-sacrifice for a woman to
find her subject, was all too evident when she utters
the words that: the student overcomes the teacher,
and that's the whole story,
                       he has to walk into the canvas,
     in whatever way imaginable, and what a better way
than on a whim to escape the dreariness of parties
   by dressing up as a woman, after gerda's model
is late so she can continue a painting and einar
has to step in and wear a few female garments...
       to later realise the Dionysian consequence:
                                  only to the utmost excess, from here.
this could hardly be a propaganda movie for
the transgender movement... the "propaganda"
aspect ends when you hear children imitating this
artistic "prank" in today's society...
      it wasn't a prank in the slightest: but a profound
expression of love between two artists...
          outside of art the whole transgender movement
is still only ***** and silicon **** of Thailand's lady-boys:
that's not reality?        
although i actually did choke with nearing to cry
in the closing scene...
    unlike the Christ story... there was no resurrection.
so hans and gerda travel to the place where
einar depicted the landscape in his revisions,
       and both of them are standing there
        and it's ****** pulverising with so much depth
upon being so little when reduced to a canvas
but because you see the painting first, do you later
see the landscape with more emotion...
     and i thought to myself: gerda will recreate
the landscape in her own eyes, she'll what he saw
and what he gave up for her to paint him in his
transformative (transfigurative) state of becoming
lili elbe...
                     that's why i was about to cry -
     that she could put lili aside, and return to /
resurrect the memory of einar the locally famous
artist... that she would apply the same technique in
painting lili / einar but turn her attention to
landscapes... as if to imply that both of them became
reunited before all the madness of life came chasing them
into extremes.
          to my dissatisfaction? after the film ended
and before the credits started rolling... postscriptum facts
after these true events... she continued to paint
lili / einar as she did, which prompted her to fame
on the Parisian estrade; after seeing that, written down?
tears? what tears... i'm actually thankful that i choked
on them and didn't do an outburst necessarily...
thank **** i wasn't watching the film alone!
     i know that i might have invoked a sense of:
rough around the edges with this description, but i'm hoping
it's abstract enough to make the film more potent:
filling the blanks with images;
still, this was used for a transgender movement?
                                                did he make it plainly obvious
that this was a transcendental transgender iconoclasm?
         it's the platonic element in it that steers this whole
story, away from what 21st century movements regard
as prototype for their ******.

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

(This poem may be considered as a dyptich / diptych / dipstick with "The Dreariness of Dawn")

                                   The Dreariness of Dusk

Anticipated no victories today
Expected no letters to be answered
Or packages of life to be delivered
Not given even the hope of a hope

But…

But, no, the weary hours were unrelieved
The weary, dreary hours of near-despair
Plodding like a mule harnessed to the past
And given only the ghost of a ghost

As was expected, the teapot was warm -
“Yes, but there ain’t going to be no tea” 1

1 Katherine Mansfield

The Dreariness of Dawn

“Carpe Diem.” Dawn, and all its cliches’
But what would one now seize? Unrequited dreams
That slouch in the corner filing their fingernails?
A cup of coffee at the kitchen door?

Dawn is the illusion that this day might
Be different from those that came before
Like advertisements promising happiness
And delivering failures postage-due

Well, you might as well get up, and get dressed
Dawn.  Because, maybe, this time, just maybe…

Breathing on the surface but smothering inside,
Pale face blue lips and wide open eyes.
Running desperately with no company and guide,
Too little time and too many disguise.

Like a lost site pervade with dreariness and spite.

Who would help you when they heard your yelp?
Hoped to be broach but no one to approach.
Who would love you when without the pure white dove?

Trapped in coach and let the soul slowly encroach.

How would you feel when no one to reach?
Stares at the window just to look for a shadow.
How would you feel when your heart starts to screech?
At last it became hollow slowly loaded with deep sorrow.

Like a letter unsent filled with unread content.

Holding on like a puppet being sway,
With those unsure senses and constraint.
Living faithlessly and ends up stray,
Nerves are brutally torn and mind gone insane.

The road marched on,
beside a beach it ran.
Hailing the sea and heeding its groan.
Walking along, I came into view.
Welcoming the sea with a smirk.
The rising sun gently pushed down the red's blue.
Blessing the world with a yellow tint it lit up the view.
Much closer than the sun, another glimmer grew.
Down on the beach and off the road was where my feet then flew.
Getting closer, slowly I advanced through the sand.
Still it glimmered, though its glimmer was but a con.
A bottle lay ahead of me, flirting playfully with the sea, as he caressed her gently with his waves.
She beckoned to my curious hands.
"Come forth and grab me like I was yours."
A cork and a paper were in the bottle.
You've already been used, filled and plugged; you come with a catch. I am to receive a message!
Hastily I scratched the cork off as my fingers took it out.
Now for the message, unrolling, my eyes caught sight of the first lines..

[I write to you from the shores of pessimism:
These shores are dark and dreary.
The waves here are slow and drowsy
The water is turbid and murky
Enthusiasm is a scarcity
and optimism was long ago banished from the land.
Pessimism and depression reign supreme and none can avoid their grip.
These shores have been the end of many a happy soul's journey.
This is where they all came to know the meaning of surrender.
And the satisfaction of despair.
All flames were put out and all their torches were thrown into the waters.
You won't be needing them anymore, they were told.
The reason for that is quite obvious, torches bring light and light mediates hope.
In a place where all hope must be extinguished and remain so.
No, your torches won't be needed here.
Here is where you wallow, in darkness and despair.
Where you sit is where you sink
Slowly the sands will drag you under.
After entering, the caretakers tie one's right ankle to a rock.
The pitiful lump of obsidian shall be your home. The caretakers stand you beside your rock and explain the rules to you.
"The rope is not forged of metal, thread or leather.
Its length is not fixed but it never breaks. If ever you tug on it, back on your rock is where it'll take you. Affixed to your rock it remains. On these shores only a pair of absolutes are recognized.. Darkness and negativity.
All else are subject to fate's scrutiny.
You came to us of your own will. and by coming here you shall realize your destiny.
If one exists for a soul such as yours.
If you wish not to sink in the sand, then stay on your rock or go for a swim.
Here you will remain, on these shores, this place shall be your prison and your safety net.
Departure is not an option until your destiny is realized, but we can't guarantee such an occurrence."
Having finished with the mandatory formalities, they take their leave of you and return to their posts.

On my first day, I noted that curiosity has very little power over the minds of the shore's inhabitants.
That no inhabitant may use another's rock without permission.
That the rope expands limitlessly and that moving lightly helps prevent sinking in the accursed sands.
Allowing me to roam far and wide, yet ensuring that I will always be roaming, belonging only in these shores, on my rock, amongst my shadowy brethren.
These shores have no real boundaries... An inhabitant may choose to stay and ponder or wander off and roam the land.
There are no secrets here.
All knowledge is readily provided by the caretakers, who say that very few ever choose to stay and ever fewer choose to combine the two.
Though time and time again they are dragged back to the rocks after having tugged on their ropes, they always choose to resume their roaming.
Expectations have no place here.
Ambition was long ago thrown off the pier.
Crucified and drowned in Poseidon's terrible dear.
The caretakers offered to read me tales from the shores' diary. They found my patience and lack of affect fitting.
On these shores I remained, listening to their tales for a time, sitting on my obsidian chair for a time, gliding on the sands and at times surrendering to their grip.
To all my fellow inhabitants I spoke in whispers and respect I paid in full to all the rules of the shores.
Then it was time to wander the land.
As I departed, knowing that I would return, I felt like crawling back into the pits of my soul but I also felt the shores' hold over my humanity fading, fading down to the feel of the rope's fabric around my ankle. A constant reminder that only I can see.
A constant reminder of where I belong, of the dreariness of my home and the darkness that always lies in wait for my return.

After leaving the shores, I wandered around the northern lowlands for sometime. Of course in such a state of mind time has no meaning for the wanderer. As time's passing loses its significance when all events are perceived as irrelevant and utterly meaningless. Thus I wandered the land, moving from village to town and from forest to desert. My journey was interrupted time and time again by the rope's influence, for sometimes I would grow weary of my surroundings and choose to retreat to my rock, there the darkness and despair provide safety. Observing then became the only promising investment of my attention, and throughout my roaming I would observe my surroundings, be they humans, critters, rocks or even machines. I resolved that empirical knowledge and logical analysis were the only relevant fields of reasoning.
In retrospect, I believe these were the only perspectives my dulled affect and cold impartial existence allowed at the time, but they were fields nonetheless, new areas that interested me, progress from the aimlessness. For now, I could say "I am here to observe. I do not belong, but that doesn't matter."
The times I spent back at the shores were getting progressively intense, though the emptiness soothed my longing, it seemed the more I saw, the deeper I would sink in the shores' sands before my rope would pull me back.
It seemed the more I observed and learned, the darker my rock became. It seems knowledge has its weight on these shores.
This isn't the time for simplification. The only way out of this rut is analysis, complexities and deduction. The way of the mind, for the sake of truth and meaning. If objectivity ever meant anything to you, you would not simplify, you would indulge in your eccentricities and gorge on analytical absurdity. Feed your hunger for details and complications.
Now the shores are far behind and I've gotten the hang of this accursed rope. I won't be dragged back there anytime soon. I may now keep record of whatever I wish.
This is but a mere transcript of my quest, my voyage, my journey, my pursuit of transcendence and my search for enlightenment, for enlightenment is my holy grail. My residence at the shores of pessimism mustn't last too long, for my light can lie dormant for only so long.
The stronger my thirst grows out here, the darker my lump of obsidian gets and the heavier my feet become on the shores sands. What's really curious though is how calm the sea has been since I started my journeys.

Silence now, enough has been said, recounting the details eventually becomes a bore rather than a bonus.
It is now time for the message to be sealed and sent off on its questionable journey, to a surely unexpecting reader. I wonder if it even holds any real meaning. Let this not be warning, but a minor eye opener. May it open someone's eyes to depression's grip on us.]

And it was there that the message ended. I raised my eyes from that piece of paper and looked to the sea, a storm was brewing on the horizon.

----------------

What the F. is this anyway?
Is it a test ?
a game ?
an empty picture frame ?
Curious since birth. Now drowning in knowledge of birth...
What's next ?
Why do I always have to wait and see ?
Whatever happened to flying free ?
Why can't I just flee ?
Forged of the earth and baked in the fire of God's oven.
Infused with God's divine breath.
If I've learned anything from my time on this pitiful lump of water and rock, it is that there is no plan, there is no grand scheme, there is no justice. Humanity's behavior will always be chaotic and unintelligible.
If there is a God, then that God has chosen to be a spectator. For this day and age, God has chosen to let the world sort itself out for a change. There shall be no more miracles, only human deeds and natural disasters.

Back again to where it all started.
What do I do now ? Focus!
Find myself ? Know myself ? Control myself ?
What good would that do ?
Who do you think I am ?
Do you think what I want is really relevant ?
Do you think you would like what I want ?
Born beautiful ? Good hearted ?
Not all are born beautiful and not all are good hearted.
Not everybody has an adequately functioning mind.
What's an adequately functioning mind anyway ?
If I've learned anything from medicine, it is that the study of human life holds the key to all our relevant questions. It is that details always matter. It is that in the real world, the only thing that truly matters is to be right.

We are born beautiful, untainted and simple. Though helpless and in desperate need of our supporters, it is actually these very providers who shape us. They complicate us and teach us their ways, they contaminate our minds with their view of reality, whether knowingly or ignorantly, they lead us astray from the simple truth, just like they were led astray.
And that's not to say that parents are evil or anything of that sort.
If that's what my words meant to you, then you're an idiot who shouldn't be reading this in the first place, so get the **** out!

We tend to think of being lost as a bad thing, reasons have become a necessity for our kind and rational explanations have become our psyche's sole sustenance.
We as a species have proved our relentlessness, our strong-headedness, our ignorance and our stupidity.
Humanity is *******. Collectively, we would be regarded as the galaxy's idiot child. The down's syndrome stricken kid our galaxy had after several failed attempts when she got over 45.
So what the **** is this ?
The lay of the land ?
What's the reason for this verbal bombardment ?
Are these knowledge bombs ? Are they supposed to be words of wisdom ? Can any of the above be put to any use ?
Hah! I believe not, and I apologize if that's what I've led you to believe.
I don't think I'm special, no more than you are. I don't believe I know much.
And I sure as hell am not here to tell you how to live your life or to provide you with a lot of answers that you may or may not have been seeking.

I have but one small request however. I request an apology, I want an apology from our parents. I believe we all do, they brought us into this world against our will. Then lied to us about how terrible the world and the people in it are. Named us good people and gave us hope. Then planted ambition in our scalps and fertilized it with warmth and faith in our promise, while they played the game and knew the real deal.
If there is a grand scheme, then we are not part of it. If there is a plan, then we're simply going along for the ride, our deeds only affect us and we can never change the ride's course.
We were never part of the plan.
If enlightenment is what you seek, then the only hope for the success of such a quest is for us to know and accept our weakness, our irrelevance.
I like working my noodle
My hands love to doodle
and every question I google
As much as the next poodle.

Kind solace in a dying hour!
Such, father, is not (now) my theme—
I will not madly deem that power
Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
Unearthly pride hath revelled in—
I have no time to dote or dream:
You call it hope—that fire of fire!
It is but agony of desire:
If I can hope—O God! I can—
Its fount is holier—more divine—
I would not call thee fool, old man,
But such is not a gift of thine.

Know thou the secret of a spirit
Bowed from its wild pride into shame
O yearning heart! I did inherit
Thy withering portion with the fame,
The searing glory which hath shone
Amid the Jewels of my throne,
Halo of Hell! and with a pain
Not Hell shall make me fear again—
O craving heart, for the lost flowers
And sunshine of my summer hours!
The undying voice of that dead time,
With its interminable chime,
Rings, in the spirit of a spell,
Upon thy emptiness—a knell.

I have not always been as now:
The fevered diadem on my brow
I claimed and won usurpingly—
Hath not the same fierce heirdom given
Rome to the Caesar—this to me?
The heritage of a kingly mind,
And a proud spirit which hath striven
Triumphantly with human kind.
On mountain soil I first drew life:
The mists of the Taglay have shed
Nightly their dews upon my head,
And, I believe, the winged strife
And tumult of the headlong air
Have nestled in my very hair.

So late from Heaven—that dew—it fell
(’Mid dreams of an unholy night)
Upon me with the touch of Hell,
While the red flashing of the light
From clouds that hung, like banners, o’er,
Appeared to my half-closing eye
The pageantry of monarchy;
And the deep trumpet-thunder’s roar
Came hurriedly upon me, telling
Of human battle, where my voice,
My own voice, silly child!—was swelling
(O! how my spirit would rejoice,
And leap within me at the cry)
The battle-cry of Victory!

The rain came down upon my head
Unsheltered—and the heavy wind
Rendered me mad and deaf and blind.
It was but man, I thought, who shed
Laurels upon me: and the rush—
The torrent of the chilly air
Gurgled within my ear the crush
Of empires—with the captive’s prayer—
The hum of suitors—and the tone
Of flattery ’round a sovereign’s throne.

My passions, from that hapless hour,
Usurped a tyranny which men
Have deemed since I have reached to power,
My innate nature—be it so:
But, father, there lived one who, then,
Then—in my boyhood—when their fire
Burned with a still intenser glow
(For passion must, with youth, expire)
E’en then who knew this iron heart
In woman’s weakness had a part.

I have no words—alas!—to tell
The loveliness of loving well!
Nor would I now attempt to trace
The more than beauty of a face
Whose lineaments, upon my mind,
Are—shadows on th’ unstable wind:
Thus I remember having dwelt
Some page of early lore upon,
With loitering eye, till I have felt
The letters—with their meaning—melt
To fantasies—with none.

O, she was worthy of all love!
Love as in infancy was mine—
’Twas such as angel minds above
Might envy; her young heart the shrine
On which my every hope and thought
Were incense—then a goodly gift,
For they were childish and upright—
Pure—as her young example taught:
Why did I leave it, and, adrift,
Trust to the fire within, for light?

We grew in age—and love—together—
Roaming the forest, and the wild;
My breast her shield in wintry weather—
And, when the friendly sunshine smiled.
And she would mark the opening skies,
I saw no Heaven—but in her eyes.
Young Love’s first lesson is——the heart:
For ’mid that sunshine, and those smiles,
When, from our little cares apart,
And laughing at her girlish wiles,
I’d throw me on her throbbing breast,
And pour my spirit out in tears—
There was no need to speak the rest—
No need to quiet any fears
Of her—who asked no reason why,
But turned on me her quiet eye!

Yet more than worthy of the love
My spirit struggled with, and strove
When, on the mountain peak, alone,
Ambition lent it a new tone—
I had no being—but in thee:
The world, and all it did contain
In the earth—the air—the sea—
Its joy—its little lot of pain
That was new pleasure—the ideal,
Dim, vanities of dreams by night—
And dimmer nothings which were real—
(Shadows—and a more shadowy light!)
Parted upon their misty wings,
And, so, confusedly, became
Thine image and—a name—a name!
Two separate—yet most intimate things.

I was ambitious—have you known
The passion, father? You have not:
A cottager, I marked a throne
Of half the world as all my own,
And murmured at such lowly lot—
But, just like any other dream,
Upon the vapor of the dew
My own had past, did not the beam
Of beauty which did while it thro’
The minute—the hour—the day—oppress
My mind with double loveliness.

We walked together on the crown
Of a high mountain which looked down
Afar from its proud natural towers
Of rock and forest, on the hills—
The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers
And shouting with a thousand rills.

I spoke to her of power and pride,
But mystically—in such guise
That she might deem it nought beside
The moment’s converse; in her eyes
I read, perhaps too carelessly—
A mingled feeling with my own—
The flush on her bright cheek, to me
Seemed to become a queenly throne
Too well that I should let it be
Light in the wilderness alone.

I wrapped myself in grandeur then,
And donned a visionary crown—
Yet it was not that Fantasy
Had thrown her mantle over me—
But that, among the rabble—men,
Lion ambition is chained down—
And crouches to a keeper’s hand—
Not so in deserts where the grand—
The wild—the terrible conspire
With their own breath to fan his fire.

Look ’round thee now on Samarcand!—
Is she not queen of Earth? her pride
Above all cities? in her hand
Their destinies? in all beside
Of glory which the world hath known
Stands she not nobly and alone?
Falling—her veriest stepping-stone
Shall form the pedestal of a throne—
And who her sovereign? Timour—he
Whom the astonished people saw
Striding o’er empires haughtily
A diademed outlaw!

O, human love! thou spirit given,
On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!
Which fall’st into the soul like rain
Upon the Siroc-withered plain,
And, failing in thy power to bless,
But leav’st the heart a wilderness!
Idea! which bindest life around
With music of so strange a sound
And beauty of so wild a birth—
Farewell! for I have won the Earth.

When Hope, the eagle that towered, could see
No cliff beyond him in the sky,
His pinions were bent droopingly—
And homeward turned his softened eye.
’Twas sunset: When the sun will part
There comes a sullenness of heart
To him who still would look upon
The glory of the summer sun.
That soul will hate the ev’ning mist
So often lovely, and will list
To the sound of the coming darkness (known
To those whose spirits hearken) as one
Who, in a dream of night, would fly,
But cannot, from a danger nigh.

What tho’ the moon—tho’ the white moon
Shed all the splendor of her noon,
Her smile is chilly—and her beam,
In that time of dreariness, will seem
(So like you gather in your breath)
A portrait taken after death.
And boyhood is a summer sun
Whose waning is the dreariest one—
For all we live to know is known,
And all we seek to keep hath flown—
Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall
With the noon-day beauty—which is all.
I reached my home—my home no more—
For all had flown who made it so.
I passed from out its mossy door,
And, tho’ my tread was soft and low,
A voice came from the threshold stone
Of one whom I had earlier known—
O, I defy thee, Hell, to show
On beds of fire that burn below,
An humbler heart—a deeper woe.

Father, I firmly do believe—
I know—for Death who comes for me
From regions of the blest afar,
Where there is nothing to deceive,
Hath left his iron gate ajar.
And rays of truth you cannot see
Are flashing thro’ Eternity——
I do believe that Eblis hath
A snare in every human path—
Else how, when in the holy grove
I wandered of the idol, Love,—
Who daily scents his snowy wings
With incense of burnt-offerings
From the most unpolluted things,
Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
Above with trellised rays from Heaven
No mote may shun—no tiniest fly—
The light’ning of his eagle eye—
How was it that Ambition crept,
Unseen, amid the revels there,
Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
In the tangles of Love’s very hair!

Boredom #2

I’ve never seen so many synonyms for one small noun,
Blocking maturation and enjoy-dom:
Boredom.
“Weariness, ennui: frustration;
Restlessness, dissatisfaction, unconcern: frustration;
Lethargy, lassitude, flatness and frustration;
Dreariness, repetitiveness, apathy: frustration;
Tedium, monotony, dullness. yes, frustration.”

Can it be overcome, this boredom?
No more war - the boredom won,
Exchanged for something more like fun?
It can.

A friend who, when we speak, says,
“It’s a part of nature…has no answer...”
Reasoning fallacious,
She is wrong as wrong can be
And her reasoning a fallacy.

Awake at night: hormones, full moons;
The glut of light: electric gadgets and devices,
Radios that play a song too strong, too long..

A trick I’ve learned that’s brought results;
A knack, a shortcut worth consulting
Is to train the brain to focus on/in/with the brain;
Travel round in, sense and feel…
Make it real – as if you really feel
The part you aim at, frame then tame.

In seconds you’ve an object that’s becomes a subject.
Boredom fled, you freed,
You and your mood well pleased, released
And taken places least expected,
Un-objected to by you,
The burden boredom’s through.
And doomed!

Boredom 11.24.2016/ #2 revised 2..16.2017
Revelations Big & Small; Definitely Didactic;
Arlene Corwin

You eventually get tired of seeking answers to all of your problems when
You've reached your seventeenth birthday and you're bored of trying to change
Because you've managed to convince yourself that it is alright to be an artist
With only a teacup as your motivation to actually have an aesthetic.
You reconciled a long time ago that it wasn't worth the trouble
roaming the streets and picking up inspirations from everything that you see.
You developed a longing for someone who wasn't there and now you're clinging
Onto the void they left as you watch the dreariness of your life
Pass through phases you're too exasperated with trying to describe
almost every time you find yourself alone without your intention.
Sometimes you try,
beginning with, "It's funny how the coldest people can make your heart feel the warmest."
or
"I wish I didn't need to spend my life relining structures of my own heartache just to be able to exist functionally," but,
the rest of what comes out doesn't really correlate with what you feel
and everything you beautify now becomes everything that stops being real.
You had to learn how to strip everything away.
Now you fill your bedroom with thoughts until the lights go off because you're too tired
To say darkness is an excuse. It's not what inspires you anymore.
So you've allowed yourself to only listen to artistic thoughts you experience when you're staring at your grandmothers teacup.
She gave it to you before you even knew how to make tea and now every night before you go to bed you stare at it like it can give you something the streets of capital cities with
big towers and dark skylines looked up on the internet past midnight when you were
miserable couldn't and wouldn't unless you actually went there.
You sit at your table and drop the teabag into the cup, just like your grandmother showed you. You have no image of what contents are supposed to dissolve,
But you watch the water as it changes colors so quickly. Clear to brown,
Clear to green, Clear to red.
You watch the ripples like sound waves,
affecting everything from the centre of the cup to the edge of it.
Those ripples are so small but they will affect everything eventually.
You imagine little people, colonies, not exactly living in the water but living
In their own version of reality where water is to them what sound is to humans.
"I wonder what happens when someone drinks all of the music out."
"Nobody lives. That's what happens."
You then imagine plummeting and the way teacups are a lot like rivers which people throw pebbles in.
You see the curve of the ceramic, the paleness of the white over the blackness of the stripes next to it and the way the bottom of the cup is rounded whilst visible even when it's filled with dark liquid...
You then think of human bodies plummeting into rivers.
In a way stones are sort of like teabags and when people's emotional burdens are materialized
They sometimes take the form of both.
(Here's a burden- put it in your pocket and jump into a river. Tie it around a string and dip it into your teacup.)
It's so whimsical how clear it is how you feel about people.
You wish you weren't as desperate as this- to think that it was artistic to think about ending
Your pain at a time where everybody wouldn't notice you're awake.
But you know that they also think these but don't express it because they don't have a pain their trying to destroy with revelations of meaninglessness.
You have now changed your aesthetic into your coping-mechanism,
And nobody needs to know.

Every single night you stare at teacups and think about why you're here and why you're not.
You still haven't found a reason and now you wish you never thought about rivers before you drank your tea or even got out the teabags.
Because now when you see teabags, you only see stones.
And instead of dropping them into boiling water you want to put them into your pockets.
But it's your aesthetic and it is your art.
And you'll never stop doing it,
You'll never stop doing it...

Savvy from a day of prerequisite joy
Cranked up like a wind-up toy
Dead in bed sick with grief
Happiness stolen by a ruthless thief
All I can offer is a comforting presence
A warm and friendly essence
To uplift  the dreariness returned in an empty stare
Of half a person steadily fading into thin air
Placing the label doesn't change the facts
Or contain the feelings that seep through vulnerable cracks.
Late at night when sleep is suggested
She stays up through lonely darkness,
while her days are well rested.
Something lurks in every corner of her mind, waiting...
To provoke regrets left amiss, full of condemned hating.
Here I sit helpless, uncertain of what I should do,
In my haste, harsh words slip
"What is wrong with you?!"
Too late, I've riled a beast inside
Unleashing demons that left me terrified
Flames flicker flecks of light in sullen eyes
Burning all hopes in a pit of demise.
She's enraged with destructive intent
Loosing the battle to an ocean of chaos
where no hope is dreamt
In an instant, the fire recedes and her eyes die,
She lies down, back to bed
hoists the blanket over her head
Only three words to reply:
'why even try?'

it is 12 pm and i'm trying not to smudge
the makeup my eyes adorn -
or rather, the eyes the makeup adorn.

i remember when my father told me
i'd have his eyes; bedroom blue
i never realized that one day, it'd be
the last thing left of him.

the ink spilling onto this paper
is made from my dreariness;
photos' nectar seeping from printers,
never going to match his ****** scars perfectly,
his crooked nose once sought wear.

i'm never scared of when he returns home
because i dislike being scolded -
i seek his acceptance;

it's now quiet in my head.

Even though your funeral was in the summer,
It felt like autumn the way the tears
Hung off Aunt Shelley's jawbone like cold raindrops
On the eaves of the old porch,
The way Grandpa's eyes were too red and wet and
A thousand years away,
The way Dad's sorrow poured out of folded arms and tight lips,
Soft like worn leather,
The way it rained too lightly to add any cliché dreariness.
I just couldn't think of that red granite box as you, even though I
Knew
It was the soft gray remains of your body.
Death is not like winter, cold and harsh
Death is autumn, life draining from bodies,
Life drip-dripping from stuttering lips and
Once-strong grips
Death is watching summers of laughter and hugs fade to
Hospital rooms and rain-grey skin and
Slow sad songs like wind in red-brown, dead-brown leaves
And feeling a slow, quiet loneliness invade your veins.
Your death was not cold, impersonal sterile white; it was the
Aching melancholy melody of removing
One shade of green
From a palette, not noticed in the painting at large
But felt  keenly in the way the artist's hand no longer
Cues that brushstroke.
Watching you die was watching all the green leach out of the leaves
And turn them briefly, painfully on fire,
Standing in a field of emerald grass and feeling it
Crinkle and turn yellow-orchre under cold fingers
Collapsing into mud.
Watching Death from the outside is the single
Most painful part of your painless process.
When you took your last breath, your features were a
Picture-perfect memory of peace, even as my face was a
Mask of confusion, my chest heaving with stale hospital air
The way yours would never again.
I wanted to run outside and imagine all the trees turning red-gold
In your honor, mimicking your final
Blaze of glory in that last smile.
Autumn came early that year, though no trees
Turned
Til October.
Even in the middle of spring I can smell the
Rain-woods-wind-wine scent of your autumn soul
And it makes me smile.

Most late summer days fade into night holding a tepid dreariness in their breath, beating away with the tedium of the sun from late July through early September.
Yet ephemeral as it may be, the life of early summer is purely sanguine in the face of its oncoming age, as willowy saplings sway in the blustering breezes of June, and sprouts of vivid animation appear all around.
This is when the soul heals, and out of the mulch rises new beginnings and the ripening fruit of various works.

In this early season of summer, many taciturn inhabitants of the flourishing earth made their home, and among them, Lily: a creature of reticence and intricacy.
She burgeoned in attitude and character as days crept forward, extending her limbs upwards in an eternal paean to the heavens― as such was her sinecure and quiet delight.

In this, she stood insular to her ubiquitous family, an outsider to the sisters who flitted about carelessly on the wind, satiny gowns of pink and yellow billowing as they twirled.
Always invited into the fray, Lily was evermore stalwart in her choice to keep out of their plainly sordid affairs.

Yet in her isolation, the night whispered to her many a berceuse.
The sleepy stars implored of Lily’s indolent nature as she gazed into their eyes, trailing across eternity into peaceful slumber.
The night sky held wonders and questions that filled her paltry existence but placed her in stasis with the decorated heavens of her dying season,
Left to wither away with the insidious heat and vibrant splendor of late summer evenings.

Peter built a paper boat
To set afloat upon the sea
And visit spots of hidden coast
Where not a ghost of man would be
He painted letters on her bow
Which soon would plough and skip and trot
Between the waves which rose and fell
The letters spelled ‘Forget Me Not’

He bid his love a fond goodbye
The tide was high when he embarked
And drifted from his lonely cove
While weather drove and seagulls larked
His course was set, horizon bound
For solid ground and ****** shore
When darkness fell he made a bed
'Goodnight' he said and nothing more

His fast was broken elegantly
Delicately poached, his eggs
His freshly laundered morning clothes
Were hung in rows on paper pegs
He cut a furrow, straight and true
Across the blue, towards the sun
But in the distance, lightning spat
As thunder rattled, eddies spun

The tempest threw a wall of ice
Like careless dice, they clattered down
The sails dropped amid the squall
The hatches all were battened down
A curse was uttered through the storm
Its evil born on salty spray
With gusting arms of icy wet
It threw Forget Me Not away

He coughed awake, all caked in sand
Upon a strand of desert beach
Forget Me Not had run a-ground
But safely found the water's reach
He walked ashore and found a glade
Within it, made a paper home
And origami wings, he built
To never wilt and ever roam

He felled the tree and smote the ground
A frame, he wound of paper string
His garden flourished all around
Each sight and sound of ever-spring
The flowers jostled in their beds
And turned their heads to follow him
He kept his distance from the blue
In case the view should swallow him

An evil creature stalked the trees
It dined on bees and butterflies
On owls and cats, it liked to sup
To gobble up and gluttonize
With paper sword, he killed the beast
And cooked a feast to celebrate
A rain cloud sought to disagree
But quick was he to remonstrate

He flew his island, shore to shore
And kept a score of fire flies
They hung imprisoned in a glass
The light they cast could hypnotise
With nothing left to see or do
He flew up to the highest spot
And carved into a single tree
Remember me, forget me not

His boat remade and set a-sail
The heavens pale with early dawn
Upon his bed, he sat inert
With paper curtains neatly drawn
His charts uncharted, compass blunt
A currant bun, to satiate
A world of peril out to sea
To skillfully negotiate

Some time to contemplate the past
And backward cast the here and now
The Merfolk sang a siren song
And leapt along beside his bough
They guided him to foreign ports
Where shady sorts in cider soak
The tales they told were sizeable
And risible, the words they spoke

He folded down his paper boat
Into a coat of paper lace
And set the ocean to his back
The open track, he turned to face
The way he took was through a copse
The swaying tops of mighty pines
Leant form and rhythm to his pace
Upon his face were thoughtful lines

To either side, the shadows grew
No more, the blue shone through the boughs
And branch and bracken, driven wide
Were cast aside as careless vows
He chanced upon a quiet nook
A winding brook, it scurried by
It seemed a place where time would bide
While either side it hurried by

So dining sparse on only bread
He laid his head upon the ground
A lullaby the branches sighed
Was far and wide, the only sound
He deftly pitched a paper tent
And in it, spent a weary night
A whisper echoed in his ear
It lingered near, beyond his sight

So many weeks of rambling
Through bramble and through briar patch
And pausing for an hour at best
With feet to rest and breath to catch
The summer season on the wane
With autumn rain, attention pinned
To pounce on unsuspecting shoulder
Ever colder rose the wind

Above the adolescent fruit
Fed by the roots of ancient trees
Gave promise of a juicy crop
But yet to drop, they simply tease
Upon a morning laced with dew
A shadow grew and fell across
The spongy ground rose underfoot
And boulders jutted through the moss

The space between the trunks expanded
Saplings stranded on the scree
And whispers carried on the air
From places where they couldn't be
A sheer cliff now blocked the way
A ***** gray and smothering
Against, there thrived a mess of vines
With jagged spines their covering

He found a cave and ventured in
A desperate grin upon his lips
His chattering of nervous teeth
Was lost beneath the endless drips
Reverberating ceaselessly
Increasing with each fall of foot
A passageway and crooked path
By wrath of ancient water, cut

The arid air was felt to shift
And Peter sniffed a musky trace
The passage opened wide and tall
It sprawled into a massive space
The walls were smooth as beetle hide
But all inside was bathed in black
The flies were putting up a fight
But solid night was biting back

A tower carved from stalactite
In spite of probability
Was looming from the cavern top
And from it dropped futility
A spring of purest liquid gloom
Within, there bloomed an evil thirst
For those who drank a thimble worth
Would tread the earth, forever cursed

The cavern floor was laced with dust
A powdered crust of rotted skin
As Peter neared the central spire
The fire flies grew weak and thin
But all across the distant dark
There lit a spark and sprang a flame
That burst from ancient blackened lamp
To banish damp and shadow shame

A scrabbling amid the murk
As forward, lurked a breaking wave
Of decomposing denizens
The citizens of Evergrave
With sinew bared through rotted hide
The flesh inside was yellowing
From every throat that still remained
There shot a baneful bellowing

They forced him to the tower's tip
From which the drip of night was thrown
Gruesome stairs he climbed in haste
Of interlaced and knotted bone
A dire tunnel led within
The light was thin and shadow thick
A deathly door he tumbled through
And fell into a bloodied slick

Within was rank and heavy air
Like foxes lair where hunters slept
The walls, from living flesh, were stitched
The carpet twitched as Peter stepped
The Zombie Queen sat on her throne
Of flesh and bone of Underlands
She rested on its gory arms
Which raised their palms and held her hands

The creature laughed and cocked her head
A single thread of drool there hung
Between her lips and fear crowned
The single sound which echoes sung
The living walls, they tensed and strained
As terror reigned and ichor dripped
And when the monarch of the dead
Inclined her head, the stitches ripped

She spoke in harsh and bitter tones
As withered crones do curses bloom
The fate of Peter turned to dread
His soul, the dead would soon entomb
A single card he had to play
On such a day, in such a spot
He grinned and bid the rotting queen
‘Your time has been, forget me not’

His folded coat he casted wide
And from inside, a paper storm
Within the flurry, shapes were made
As wings were splayed and talons formed
A paper dragon rustled forth
And in his jaws, the queen he caught
He turned on the assembled dead
Within his head, a single thought

Peter climbed between the wings
Where paper rings he’d fastened there
Gave safety for the coming fight
And all the night, he nestled there
Until the dragon fell asleep
Upon a heap of smitten foes
And Peter robbed the deathly hoard
Each room explored on stealthy toes

He shunned the dark and met the day
And made away for higher ground
Along a path of narrow ledges
Razor edges, upwards wound
A trail, he scaled around the peak
Of Raven’s Beak the mighty mount
Up slopes which claimed so many lives
And widowed wives beyond his count

He stood atop the pinnacle
Where clinical, the ****** snow
Reflecting in the autumn light
Lent all a white and eerie glow
The frost had chilled his fleshy core
His eyes absorbed the scenery
A distant shoreline tugged his soul
A long unfolding memory

Of home and of his fireside
His future bride would tarry there
The tiny church upon the sand
He’d always planned to marry there
He took his dagger from his sock
Into the rock at just that spot
He carved upon the highest stone
I turn to home, forget me not

The knotted land that lay between
Had never been abode to man
The name it took was infamous
And ominous: The Neverspan
Its valleys tinkered with the eye
A fractured sky shone crookedly
Above a wood of vacant trees
That clawed the breezes hookedly

The setting sun would lead the way
Through lands which lay in wait for him
To bare him forth, a paper horse
To keep a course and gait for him
The blackness trickled from the bark
The  tangled dark enshrouded him
And songs in long forgotten tongues
About him hung and clouded him

He journeyed through the Ebonmire
Though fire failed to kindle there
His breath before him writhed in blight
And turned to fight the rancid air
Through many months of loneliness
And bitterness of solitude
He conquered the abandoned wood
And silent stood in gratitude

He forayed through the hill and plain
As on the wane the winters hold
The grass had shaken off the snow
Its Icy glow had turned to gold
A paper hat he now prepared
For as he fared, the rain endured
His horse was crumpled in the wet
No living vet would see it cured

The seasons tumbled mindlessly
And rivalry removed his haste
A sallow band of Neverbeast
By shadow greased and interlaced
With paper sword, he lay in wait
To penetrate each haggard hide
And when their blood was deftly spilled
A phial he filled for sake of pride

The sun became his only guide
His face belied his weariness
With little left to raise his soul
Above the cold and dreariness
Until the second summer passed
And sunset cast a silhouette
The outline of a tiny church
Was perched beside a maisonette

A flutter leapt about his heart
And wide apart, his eyes were flung
As Peter ran with tired limbs
The heavens dimmed and crickets sung
He reached his open garden gate
His face elated, turned to woe
As through the window he could see
His bride to be would not be so

A gentleman stood at her side
His bride adorned in happiness
And though it burned in Peter’s chest
His wrath would rest in idleness
So with a final fleeting peek
He turned to seek a worthy cause
Before he left he knelt before
His former door and seemed to pause

He fled upon his paper wings
As many things he’d yet to see
A myriad of foreign faces
Distant places he should be
He sailed the sky and sought the sand
His native land he soon forgot
Behind, he left a single note
And on it wrote: Forget me not

My heart now aches with sleepy dreariness:
    A dreamy wake from whose dull, soothing spell
I can’t awake, nor can I sleep to bless
    My dreams with profound ecstasy as well
    For all recurring visions, sweet and deep,
         Have turnéd to a black and empty void,
               And all the stepping stones of pale night
         Are clouded by the mists of murky sleep,
     Bedewed with memories that I enjoyed:
The visions with which I can’t reunite.  

My mind now pines for all those moments when
    Endured had love and bliss before slow time
Had bound such moments once and then again
    Shall bind more dreams and memories, sublime
    Oh, vista of my dreams, unseen, unheard
        Your brow is laid with shawls of quietness
            Your pinions are held tight with the chain
        Of all my visions; fly then, flame-plumed bird
    And sing such sacred song you can’t express
Once I now free you from my wilting brain

My tears are of ripe joy and bliss’s ruth
    And though my days are thus outright expelled
I shall keep in my core, the flames of youth
    Which once I had in early years, beheld
    Sweet memories, ye shaking leaves, adieu
        I bid you well in winter and in spring
            A-flickering before fate’s icy breath
        And though, no longer, shall I see all you
    I’m glad you flew upon nostalgia’s wing
And warméd my cold heart before my death

Christmas is the loneliest time of year
Christmas is the loneliest time of year
A time when all the wrapping and bows
Can't hide the pain you try not to show
Christmas is the loneliest time of year

Christmas is the loneliest time of year
Christmas is the loneliest time of year
The kids are grown and all moved away
They've all grown and can't come to stay
Christmas is the loneliest time of year

You think of all the Christmas' past
Some are blurred the memories don't last
You try to keep the feeling inside your heart
But wishing this just won't make it so
The sky is grey with clouds full of snow
The dreariness is where loneliness gets it's start


Christmas is the loneliest time of year
Christmas is the loneliest time of year
TV specials are not the same
You don't know anybody by name
Christmas is the loneliest time of year

Christmas is the loneliest time of year
Christmas is the loneliest time of year
The mantle has some cards, maybe three
You're all alone, you don't need a tree
Christmas is the loneliest time of year

You think of all the Christmas' past
Some are blurred the memories don't last
You try to keep the feeling inside your heart
But wishing this just won't make it so
The sky is grey with clouds full of snow
The dreariness is where loneliness gets it's start

Down through the ancient Strand
The spirit of October, mild and boon
And sauntering, takes his way
This golden end of afternoon,
As though the corn stood yellow in all the land,
And the ripe apples dropped to the harvest-moon.

Lo! the round sun, half-down the western *****--
Seen as along an unglazed telescope--
Lingers and lolls, loth to be done with day:
Gifting the long, lean, lanky street
And its abounding confluences of being
With aspects generous and bland;
Making a thousand harnesses to shine
As with new ore from some enchanted mine,
And every horse's coat so full of sheen
He looks new-tailored, and every 'bus feels clean,
And never a hansom but is worth the feeing;
And every jeweller within the pale
Offers a real Arabian Night for sale;
And even the roar
Of the strong streams of toil, that pause and pour
Eastward and westward, sounds suffused--
Seems as it were bemused
And blurred, and like the speech
Of lazy seas on a lotus-haunted beach--
With this enchanted lustrousness,
This mellow magic, that (as a man's caress
Brings back to some faded face, beloved before,
A heavenly shadow of the grace it wore
Ere the poor eyes were minded to beseech)
Old things transfigures, and you hail and bless
Their looks of long-lapsed loveliness once more:
Till Clement's, angular and cold and staid,
Gleams forth in glamour's very stuffs arrayed;
And Bride's, her aery, unsubstantial charm
Through flight on flight of springing, soaring stone
Grown flushed and warm,
Laughs into life full-mooded and fresh-blown;
And the high majesty of Paul's
Uplifts a voice of living light, and calls--
Calls to his millions to behold and see
How goodly this his London Town can be!

For earth and sky and air
Are golden everywhere,
And golden with a gold so suave and fine
The looking on it lifts the heart like wine.
Trafalgar Square
(The fountains volleying golden glaze)
Shines like an angel-market.  High aloft
Over his couchant Lions, in a haze
Shimmering and bland and soft,
A dust of chrysoprase,
Our Sailor takes the golden gaze
Of the saluting sun, and flames superb,
As once he flamed it on his ocean round.
The dingy dreariness of the picture-place,
Turned very nearly bright,
Takes on a luminous transiency of grace,
And shows no more a scandal to the ground.
The very blind man pottering on the kerb,
Among the posies and the ostrich feathers
And the rude voices touched with all the weathers
Of the long, varying year,
Shares in the universal alms of light.
The windows, with their fleeting, flickering fires,
The height and spread of frontage shining sheer,
The quiring signs, the rejoicing roofs and spires--
'Tis El Dorado--El Dorado plain,
The Golden City!  And when a girl goes by,
Look! as she turns her glancing head,
A call of gold is floated from her ear!
Golden, all golden!  In a golden glory,
Long-lapsing down a golden coasted sky,
The day, not dies but, seems
Dispersed in wafts and drifts of gold, and shed
Upon a past of golden song and story
And memories of gold and golden dreams.

consider
the field is never always smooth;
there are times that the grass turns brown
and the flowers wilt and their petals
return to the ground
…consider these things…
what was a frolicing maid becomes a hag;
the virulent man shrivels and becomes incapable
and so the sky, never always clear and boundless
and so the clouds, not always childhood pleasantries
but they come into chaos and dreariness
and pile dollops of dark humor
and so our lives,
darlings, O sweet ones -
regard these things well -
and so our lives too pass from radiant days
to gasp below dreary shades
from a happy, happy song to a dirge over the dale –
and not all our rosaries and beads and prayers and faith
nothing will halt, in spite of stories they recite,
nothing will halt the sun and the passage of time
and so like the artist it is best to observe
like the artist in the field
capture the moment, savor the life
and if anything, make of one’s life a beauty
that others may pause to gaze at
as pausing to gaze at a rose, the cherry blossoms…
be you makers of beauty,
darlings, O darlings, consider these things
O sweet ones…

Oh, I am destroyed!
My soul is in uncertainty; moving about has it been,
in awesome dreariness!
I hath been like this since yesterday afternoon,
and whenever I think of that scene again,
my soul blasts with fury;
as I am naturally entitled to no right to his love,
or whatever this yearning feeling is deemed to be called.
He who in nature now belongs to someone else;
cannot stop wander aimlessly the exiled layers of my mind;
how cruel!
This is absurd indeed!
For I had kept no such desires towards him since
the very outset; no movement of his startled my *****;
no shadows of him ever shrouded my mind!
But why should I feel this envy now?
This gritting pang of jealousy,
oh, how despicable to me!
To my elegant and eloquent ****** soul,
how detestable it hath been!
Yet its infamous flame would not just burneth away;
this agonizing envy, hatred for my frantically oppressed
passion, for my inability to seal it away, forever!
Oh, how I dread to even recall
the very mention of her name: the presence of
another female creature like me,
crowned in dull whiteness, blessed in stony praise and laudation,
yet cheeky in her own very world of mirth, charm, and
indulgence. Another venerable being loved, so entirely
loved, by his *****!
How cherished and fulfilled my love would be,
if that gift hath been bestowed onto me,
I that so tenderly long for his touch, just one small
look of admiration, and I would fly!
I who can love him more fervently, and ardently
nurse him in the wreaths of this murky winter,
in my mind is this
picturesque glance
of us relating stories to each other, of our distinct life
histories, in the brisk, glittering snowy evenings!
I who can gaze at his perfection from afar, and
would still shower him with my sweetest bliss of
happiness. My fabulous, precious treasure forever!
Yet how distant is he from me now, how unreachable!
What a fortunate woman, what a foolish wretch
I am, to long for this claimed treasure! What a
poignant mistake of mine, to recognise the flawlessness
of this prince just now; whilst I hath been chanced to know
him for a series of fortnights; how ill, narrow, and
imbecile I am! How unworthy I am of him! He is
everything, and hast everything already; in his little, yet
impeccable realm - alas, I am only to celebrate the
entirety of my poetry, nothing else! My words, that shoulder and
perseveringly witness all my unspoken love for him day and night.
Nevertheless I blest thee, my love, may my grace be
with thee, thou art the sole king to whom I am
mostly devoted! Thou art the embodiment, and the
completion of my ever wildest imagination, thou art
the vivid realisation of my solitary soul! Thou art the
secondeth half of my body, thou art my blood, and my very
truest womanly essence: thou art part of my all senses and the
whole of my being.
In my bones flow thy veins; their natural greenness
melt perfectly with my remote and lonely profusion. Thou art
the first man I hath loved sinceth my initial steps
onto this foreign region, thy smile is all brighter than a very
shimmer of truth. Our short meetings procure merriment, and
delight, in my life, in the worst times of my turmoil and
devastation. Thou hath made my study days - the
hectic ones, confined to the pale shades of my books
and their anxious words - sheer and jubilant. As
astonishing as it hath been, my heart gleamed and
glowed towards thee - oh, if only thou wert free,
to entwine thy love onto mine! I would never once
hesitate to return it, I would welcome it, rejoice in it,
the most yearned, longed, missed, and sought-after
present on this idle earth! Oh, how through these decent words
I wish thou could hear, and comprehend my deepest
feelings; I love thee, not, and no longer as how a
desirous tutee should look up to her guide; but as
how a woman is bound to sincerely love a man. My heart was
crafted for thee, I wasth born for thee, and in it does thee perfectly dwell; thy most
reliable source of love, dreams, and tenderest affection.
I love no-one else but thee.
I love thee, I love thee, I love thee.

(Graphic erotica 18 or older)
Set me free --
I’ve been waiting for you to,
These nights in the castle                    
You’re too distant.                                
It’s too easy.
I’m afraid to tell you                                          
what I’ll allow -- what I crave.                                    
We read,
We talk -- I sing for you.
I love you, even.
But you’re holding back,
I don’t know why.
My family is gone,
No one is coming for me.
I’m afraid only to tell you --
There’s more to me --
Wildness, wretchedness, and pain without end.
I'm not afraid of the darkness,
From it, together we have everything
To gain.

I’m caged as well, I want to break out,
Eat raw meat, and breathe
In all life has to offer.
Pain has defined me.
The bars are strong on
Your cage and I see your
pain...I want to touch
It, and make it go away.
**** it far away,
Mine as well, does love even exist?
My childhood was a horror show of
Apathy, money, and privilege;
But no smiles or touch.
Debauchery surrounded me,
People were to be used for our
Base desires.
I will punish us both for being born.

Maybe you want a simple girl
Extravagant dinners and clean laundry
Such things bore me, I’m afraid
You might think me monstrous
All I’ve done is toil away,
Giving myself over to Sisyphean labors, and
Endless inhuman favors
Surrendered to unfit Masters
Who paid for their titles, treating
Me like a commodity to use up,
Beat down, and throw away. I
Indict my own male relatives
Who should have protected me,
And beseech God for a remedy
To my loneliness and misery.
My gratitude overwhelms
For this interlude in the castle.
You’ve been good to me so far —
Your care is starting to show, yet I
Am electric at a dream I have of
How much further we could go, still
You seem reluctant, what must I do...

I need a monster in that
Bed, but not in my heart.                      
I want to ******* hard                          
And drive the                                                  
Demons out,                                                             ­                 
Drowned in the pink.
Pound it dripping home
To the core of the tulips,
To the bottom of the
Swollen rose.
Love is a rotten pig
In the dung heap of life.
I want no part of
It ever again.

I see you looking at me
With a different energy      
it scares me in the exact way                      
I want to be.
The day stretches long,
With an endless banal sun.
I’m molten inside --
Tropical, with inhibitions
Melting down.
You can save me
Right now,
As I kneel in front of you,
I open my mouth, and
Feel the cage
Door opening.

Freedom,
As you take my ****
Into your mouth --
Do you feel the heat, and
The power?

I feel it all at once,
Like a conquistador
But benevolent.
I keep my eyes open,
The world blooms
From simple
To magnificent.
I’m not like
The other maids,
I’m not sure if you knew.
I do everything
Oh so happily
Like it’s forever new.  
******* being
My favorite feast, so
Please! Pull my hair!
Don’t be gentle!
Make me drink it.

You ***** ****.
I’m taken to new
Heights with this
Different side of you.
My precious darling,
Take all of me, as I ****
your mouth.
I feel like the Marquis De
Sade seducing the
Chambermaid.
Let me taste
Your juice.
Lie back and
Spread your legs.
Your ***** is divine.
Like ambrosia, your
Swollen **** begs for
My tongue,
Do you feel the edge of
Death as I close my hand
Around your throat?
*** my sweet angel.
*** Venus, ***.

I’m relieved
You’re pleased
With my new attitude.
Yet on the edge of release,
A hint of boredom creeps in --
Will it always be this easy
To ****** my Master?
Is it over already?  
I need something darker - more fantastical              
A slight dreariness creeps in                        
As I feel my ****** coming,                                                          ­  
But just before it breaks
So does the boredom!
I realize my heart is pounding
I’m struggling to breathe --
You’re choking me!
Holding me down with one arm,
I try to struggle and squeal,
Electricity of fear!
But I’m immobilized, dumbfounded
Kind sir, please!
Not like this!
You said you loved me!
I loathe to leave
That hot mouth on me
But you look up and break your grip,
So I sit up, renounce your deliverance
And flee!

Where have you gone
My dark angel,
My Babylonian imp?
Are you afraid?
It’s just a little death,
So you value                                      
Life more.                                            
I will find you, and when                                          
I do, My *** will swim in your
Veins, it will be your
Food and Oxygen, our
*** will be your new melody,
The rhythm by which you walk and
Move through life.
Come out my Nymph,
Come to your new Master.

From my hiding place
I see
A vision of Beauty
Your eyes smiling
Back at me
You see me — Truly.  
You read my mind even!
How rash my fear!
After all I desired
The moment is here!
I’m ready, it’s real,
I want to show you what I’m made of
So I step out and bow my head
Revealing my submission
No more mercy - please
Take me and my
Weak knees
Oh! My darling sir!
Take me all the way, please!

I gaze at your tremendous light
And passion. Your heart beats like a
Deer after the chase.
I can smell your musty ****
From the *** you want
So I signal the chambermaid
And the gardener to
Seize you, ah, and then,
While he forces your legs apart
I tie your wrists over your head
You won't be escaping again!
You naughty *****!
I have you now!
While he leers hungrily
Up your skirts
I take my knife and slit your dress --
So close to your throat
And all the way down the corset
I signal to the gardener and the
Brute tears it off you
Leaving you bleeding
As his rough hands scratch your flesh
We all look at you trembling,
Flushed, drawn out, and naked --
That's when the chambermaid
Pulls a long feather from her apron
And runs it over your eyebrows.
Then around your mouth, open in fear.
While the Gardener looks at me hopefully.
I nod, so he takes his big dumb hands
And squeezes your ******* hard
Moaning like a feral dog.
Failing to look at his Master again
He slips his night shirt off
Leans forward and shoves
A hard **** in your open mouth
Growling "**** on it, you filthy ****!"
With utter, savage delight.
You take the head of it in your mouth
Whimpering, yet ******* it tightly.
He moans louder, thrusting violently,
With sweat from his forehead
Dripping on your face as
You look to me for mercy.
You find none, so he takes license
And ***** your mouth so hard
Writhing his hips, as your poor lips
Begin to bruise and your throat is sore
The maid gets down
Between your legs and
Licks your swollen ****,
Your hips rise to the
Darting of her tongue.
She slips a finger in
Your tight *****, so juicy
And ***** it hard and fast
As she ***** your ****.
You lie back, letting yourself
Be taken and consumed.

What have I done,
I’m helpless now!
You’ve gone very much too far!
The fear is as delicious as
That mouth on me —
Yet I'm pinned and immobile.
The Brute’s **** is strangling me,
Even as I begin to revel in the taste
Of his lust, I can’t breathe!
I wanted you, not these brutes!
You stand far off - aloof and I’m
Crying as I explode
The brute laughs and then
Grunts and moans as he
Lets forth his sickening load.
I’m forced to swallow, he won’t get up
Instead he’s twisting and shoving
His pulsing **** on my tongue,
Barking "drink it, ****!" and laughing
As he drives his ****** home.

The ambivalence is driving me
Mad, I can’t stand to watch this brute
Handle you this way, yet there is a
Strange sense of pleasure.
Love is changing me, I see you
As a poor wretch that craves
Love, I also need love,
And this brute didn’t ask permission!
I make my decision quickly.
I pull my rigging knife from
Its sheath and walk behind
The filthy *******, grab his greasy                      
Hair and slice his jugular, as his                                
Heart pumps its last beats, blood                                    
Spurts all over your *** and back.
I have finally met my match —
I grab your hair and pull you back to
Meet my raging hard ****.
The ***** has made your ***** sloppy wet
And I slap your **** with my shaft.

So I was right to be afraid! But I know
You love me truly
You’d never hurt me - would you?
The chambermaid runs out and it’s just
You and me - ******* wild and free.
Suddenly you slow yourself
And cradle me so tenderly.
Your face in my hair, you pull me close,
Then everything goes slow.
You hold me a long moment
But then your energy
Is ferocious all over again —
You ****** into me harder
It hurts me and I cry out —
"I’m yours forever!
Even if I die!”

If you die my darling, I die as well,
My love for you transcends the ***.
I weep as we come together,
Ecstasy, rapture,
I’ve passed your ******,
I’m in your soul.
And you in mine.
I know we should flee,
But I need a few moments more
Inside of you, looking
Into your safe eyes.
Footsteps approach, like the
Black horse of destiny.
A wretched voice calls out --
“He’s the one!”

With agony in my heart
I realize it's too late
You captured my soul while
Death stood at the gate.
Despondent, I release you,
Desperate, I rise up.
Naked and ******,
My Glory shining through
"Gentlemen!" I cry, with anguish in my voice
"I lit the flame myself!
I carried the brutal torch!
I kneeled before my Beloved
To worship his throbbing ****
You mustn't judge me, sirs!
A simple maid I am not!
I stirred him to untamed lust
Gave into delicious
Humiliation -- splayed out for
The household to see
My unbridled flirtations,
We played with death!
I led him on!
I wanted Love more than Life!
If you must hang him,
Hang me as well
For Death must need a Wife!

She knows not what she says.
We are drunk on love.
I did the crime, a brute kills a brute.
Nothing more. I’m your man, take me,
And leave my poor angel alone.
I would die for her,
But I’d rather live,
So here is your chance to
Holster your weapons and go
Home to your families.
No, you say?
Then I shall send you
To hell.
Join all the rest of the brutes
Gentlemen, and
Join me as well.

The man rushes the authorities,
And a shot rings out.
His new heart is fatally
Shattered this time,
He drops with a thud to the floor.
She wails and runs to him.
She kneels and clutches him to
Her breast, weeping,
You can’t die,
I love you,
She whispers.
I love you too, my angel,
Now go and love some more.
These are his last words, and a
Smile lies dead on his
Pallid face.

She screams at the apathetic soldiers,
You took my soul and my life!
It is you that deserve to die!
And now -- this very night!
The breath is leaving my body,
I long for obliteration
Life is now impossible
An ugly abomination
I cannot bear his last words,
Go and love some more, he said!
Ah, but my passion has turned murderous
Now that Love itself lies dead!
Reaching out one last time
It appears, for her lover’s hand
She quickly took the knife from him
Turned, and charged the men.
Her glorious warrior’s cry, and
Her unashamed nakedness,
Aroused anger in the soldiers
With their predictable expectations
In the final ****** their guns convulsed,
Delivering her with a volley of bullets
Into her waiting lover’s arms,
Their blood flowing together
In rich, loving rivulets  
Of passionate dark red
Flowing together, briefly
Warming the concrete floor.

There we were.
A dozen and a half middle-class white kids from Chelsea, Michigan
Who had convinced our parents to pay $175 to let us go down to Chicago and help homeless people in the name of God.
There we were.
Including the tall, gangly kid who had never been out Michigan and who held
His backpack in front of him as if he
Thought it might make a good weapon,
The ****** girl who was only there because her mom ran the church office,
And me, there because I honestly had nothing better to do over spring break
And I thought it might look good on a college application someday.

The soup kitchen was a place I would have never eaten uin a million years.
The ceilings were low, too low, oppressing the already oppressed with their
Chip board panels and bright, sterile lighting,
Table of sticky Formica that had clearly seen better days  
Surrounded by hard, plastic mismatched chairs, and
The food was no better,
Number 10 cans of dreariness and shame and just-one-more-day-til-I-can-get-a-job.
We were instructed to sit at a table where we didn't know anybody.
The gangly boy held his backpack on his lap as he sat with a group of grey-haired old men reminiscing about having
A great life, a good life, a better life, a not-terrible life, a life at all.
****** girl sat at a table with a collection of ***** children, and was instantaneously on her phone.
And I went to a table with a middle-aged black woman with a little boy.
I sat down.
The plastic chair dug into the backs of my thighs and the lighting units hummed and flickered like a
Hoard of discontented bees.
The woman looked at me, then at the bowl of soup, grey-brown with un-identified meat.
She was overweight, and she smelled. I almost choked on the
Scent of body odor and oil, cigarettes, alcohol, city streets, homelessness, despair.
She looked at me again.
My name is Josie Gonzalez.
I know that sounds Mexican but I ain't no Hispanic, she said.  
She went back to eating.
Silence.
Uncomfortable, awkward.
Silence.
I looked at her little boy, joyous, handsome, and
She looked too,
And I have never seen a person change as much as she did when she looked at her little boy
From a sad, lonely, homeless woman she became the proudest mother in the whole world.
She was the most beautiful person I've ever seen.
Her eyes lit up and I saw that they were the
Prettiest chocolate brown.
She smiled,
And far from noticing the stained, yellowed tombstones of her teeth
I saw how wide and honest that smile seemed.
I smiled too, I couldn't help it and suddenly
I felt like I'd known her my entire life.
We are all human. We will at one point all be
Homeless, lost, lovelorn, broken, or confused,
Stranded in a bad place with almost no options.
So be forgiving.
Share a meal, share a hug, share a smile.
Share hope, share love.
Share life.
Here we are.

You are a sincere lover
I'm afraid to hold you tighter
And break your innocence
Just to fill someone's absence

I'm happy in this madness
But I felt your sadness
You're the rainbow that brings colors
I'm the ashes who compels horrors

I wander in my dreariness
I travel in my loneliness
You fly in inspiration
And sailed in your hopeful anticipation

I'm in the long journey of mountains of apathy
Perhaps I'm tired of my lunacy
I want to take rest in your benevolence
And cherish your presence

'Was built a wall of loneliness
The blocks were made of hopelessness
No door, no gate, no openings
A moat within the inner ring
The sides sloped down to emptiness

'Was kept away the happiness
With salty tears so copious
The songbirds cried and took to wing
'Was built a wall of loneliness

The sky lay down in weariness
Grey clouds did tire of dreariness
So steep the walls no vine could cling
So cold the wall kept out the spring
All hearts cried out in brokenness
'Was built a wall of loneliness.

r ~ 26Mar14

It is the jovial, gentle gradient of your first love
Transcending from the kind of blue that swims under a blanket of flesh on the topmost part of her wrist
Into an orange so pale it could just be pink;
Reminiscent of the peach of her cheeks
Dampered by the dreariness of a stormy Sunday noon
Light shrouded in the mysticism of "what if's" and "why"
It is the turbulence of heartbreak
Escaping with the breath you held in too long
Sighing a song of failed attempts and discarded hope
Dressed in the melancholy of grey-blue, exasperatingly clouding over in surrender;
The kind of dark that makes you wonder if it is pathetic fallacy
Or maybe just a coincidence that the sky can seem so sad.
All at once placid
Milky and cold and fresh as the first glass of Bessie's byproducts
It is the clarity accompanying self assurance
The comfort in the knowledge that blue is just a shade away from blue-grey
Cotton ***** on a sheet of glassy water
Just enough to get you through midday
Until scorching it sets, and your cat nap is marked with a rigid back and stood-up hairs
It is a blaze of passionate glory
The first crimson drop from the blood orange
Only to dilute before you into a tangerine so vivid you have to question if maybe your eyes are just over-dramatizing its hue.

I finally allow myself to be this
peaceful
Floating in a bath
of liquid bliss                                           s
I drained my tub of tears                e
weeks ago                                    l
And now above suds               b
of sarcasm                              b
and coping comedic       u
prism rainbow              b
I let my healthy glowing body
be clean
of all those days
***** with dreariness
I ring out
my cleansed tresses
That used to be
waterlogged with weighted worry
Warm and right out of the tumble dry
of your airy love
I wrap our soft yellow world
around my dripping body
and the fresh beauty
of your devotion
sits, settled along my
purified pores

You have allowed a baptism of brightness
into my life.

schemes of naked solitude
engraved in storyline
as broken wings unsure
of blizzards lost in time

in different senses we
find dreariness alone
how ficklest root of us
strikes wilderness unknown

and know how hard it seems
to let go of your eyes
in mind of throbbing veins
in sifted crimson smile

feels as blessed we were
or cheated if it be
fallen to tricks of time
as treasures rest in sea

Post from the unknown
Deliberate awkward scrawl filled the page what did it say what could it mean it had the feel as if you
Were looking into a dark shroud you were filled with foreboding that was tinged in disgust but still
Intriguing so it always is with destructive forces bolder than normal existence it toys and is playful just
Enough to seize the outer fringe of curiosity like the outer edge of a pond that holds your weight builds
Trust offers possibility of greater fun farthest from the shore beckoning all you need is the courage to
Venture out just a little more maybe danger and death or maybe just fabulous fun who can resist such
An offer light recedes darkness told in wonderful mystery what boundaries can be trifled with the pit
Will dissolve the known ever has been the quest to find out what more exist at the end of self lies the
Beginning of excitement dreariness for once and for all will be consumed with thrills intoxication
Boundless will be described in ultimate detail like ancient writings that need to be deciphered and you
Alone hold the key walls with designs that are foreign hold clues to hidden passages that lead to private
Chambers blue white light glows from one your new birth is being told the next the rarest green you
Have crossed a great frontier just with a few steps the next red seems to seep from a black center your
On the greatest adventure or on a terrifying misadventure you have struck and entered the midnight
Hour the quizzical always find their way here welcome you not in a maze you have friends druids
Witches warlocks sorcerers and your intimate guide is no less than Edgar Allen Poe himself welcome to
Halloween enjoy the night as well as a vampire might it all disappears with day lights blinding sight

I. nope.



II.
long-windedness verbosity
diffuseness prolixity
wordiness rambli­ng
circuity discursiveness
redundancy tautology
tediousness verbi­age
verboseness length
longevity permanence
garrulity windiness
v­olubility circumlocution
expansiveness babbling
periphrasis gushi­ng
blathering protractedness
waffling lengthiness
iteration repet­ition
prating prattling
jabbering digressiveness
dreariness tediu­m
deadliness wandering
repetitiousness repetitiveness
pleonasm co­nvolution
logorrhoea boringness
maundering superfluity
duplicatio­n tiresomeness
monotony reiteration
gabbiness informality
mouthin­ess diffusion
logorrhea wordage
blah-blah dryness
dullness boredo­m
sameness loquaciousness
talkativeness loquacity
freeness orotun­dity
roundaboutness breadth
gobbledegook gassiness
wittering mult­iloquence
perissology big mouth
gift of the gab garrulousness
staleness tallness

For once, the day was okay.
For once, my soul wasn't at dismay.
For once, the sky wasn't gray.

The darkness had faded into happiness,
And the sun came back to life.
The garden was no longer filled with dreariness,


And I
Began to live

Once more.

Time of dreariness, will seem
as if under a tree in front of
this nameless spectacle
and sounds of a bygone era are stunningly designed.

I am a shadow of a shadow
Creeping through existence
And the bleakest realities
Of a life bereft of love

I am a faithless angel
Believing in nothing
And praying for the end
Of a life bereft of love

I am a quiet crypt
Entombing a silenced soul
And a muted mind
Of a life bereft of love

I am a vast ocean
Encapsulating emptiness
And the cold dark void
Of a life bereft of love

I am a rotten corpse
Decaying slowly to time
And mundane dreariness
Of a life bereft of love

I am a voracious vampire
Craving the night
And draining the veins
Of a life bereft of love

I am a clandestine mystery
Withholding the secrets
And worthless revelations
Of a life bereft of love

I am a cold-blooded serpent
Slithering in lies
And venomous mendacity
Of a life bereft of love

I am a grim visage
Adopting false smiles
And fallacious contention
Of a life bereft of love

I am a ghost of a phantom
Haunting the living
And those who know not
Of a life bereft of love

I am a hellish demon
Burning in impurity
And corrupted innocence
Of a life bereft of love

I am a lonesome sepulcher
Dwelling in solitude
And self-imposed isolation
Of a life bereft of love

I am a forlorn oblivion
Devouring light
And what radiance remains
Of a life bereft of love

I am a hollow shell
Resonating dins of depravity
And tortured screams
Of a life bereft of love

I am a deceitful siren
Beguiling lost passerby
And luring them to shores
Of a life bereft of love

I am a black rose
Wilting in misery
And withering beauty
Of a life bereft of love

I am a self-destructive beast
Rampaging in anger
And constant frustration
Of a life bereft of love

I am a spreading disease
Afflicting this world
And all of mankind
Of a life bereft of love

Orange, yellow, brown
Covering the dull gravel ground
Parched so bad
Lifeless
Yet beautiful
Painting the canvas of dreariness
The world
They have fallen
Yet strong enough
To make someone's heart
Scream with joyness
Cheer up an empty soul.
They'll crunch weakly
When black boots step on them;
The'll rustle along with the breeze
When the heartless wind pick up;
But why...
Did they fall?
Did they give up?
"They're dead leaves child"
Said her mom
Bending closer to her ear
A faint smile painted
The latter's parted lips
Agaped due to the beauty
Of the painted canvas
Right beneath her...
"Mom...I love them"
She mumbled
Letting her small feet step away
From the heavenly canvas of
Dead leaves....