The double 12 sorwe of Troilus to tellen,  
That was the king Priamus sone of Troye,
In lovinge, how his aventures fellen
Fro wo to wele, and after out of Ioye,
My purpos is, er that I parte fro ye.  
Thesiphone, thou help me for tendyte
Thise woful vers, that wepen as I wryte!

To thee clepe I, thou goddesse of torment,
Thou cruel Furie, sorwing ever in peyne;
Help me, that am the sorwful instrument  
That helpeth lovers, as I can, to pleyne!
For wel sit it, the sothe for to seyne,
A woful wight to han a drery fere,
And, to a sorwful tale, a sory chere.

For I, that god of Loves servaunts serve,  
Ne dar to Love, for myn unlyklinesse,
Preyen for speed, al sholde I therfor sterve,
So fer am I fro his help in derknesse;
But nathelees, if this may doon gladnesse
To any lover, and his cause avayle,  
Have he my thank, and myn be this travayle!

But ye loveres, that bathen in gladnesse,
If any drope of pitee in yow be,
Remembreth yow on passed hevinesse
That ye han felt, and on the adversitee  
Of othere folk, and thenketh how that ye
Han felt that Love dorste yow displese;
Or ye han wonne hym with to greet an ese.

And preyeth for hem that ben in the cas
Of Troilus, as ye may after here,  
That love hem bringe in hevene to solas,
And eek for me preyeth to god so dere,
That I have might to shewe, in som manere,
Swich peyne and wo as Loves folk endure,
In Troilus unsely aventure.  

And biddeth eek for hem that been despeyred
In love, that never nil recovered be,
And eek for hem that falsly been apeyred
Thorugh wikked tonges, be it he or she;
Thus biddeth god, for his benignitee,  
So graunte hem sone out of this world to pace,
That been despeyred out of Loves grace.

And biddeth eek for hem that been at ese,
That god hem graunte ay good perseveraunce,
And sende hem might hir ladies so to plese,  
That it to Love be worship and plesaunce.
For so hope I my soule best avaunce,
To preye for hem that Loves servaunts be,
And wryte hir wo, and live in charitee.

And for to have of hem compassioun  
As though I were hir owene brother dere.
Now herkeneth with a gode entencioun,
For now wol I gon streight to my matere,
In whiche ye may the double sorwes here
Of Troilus, in loving of Criseyde,  
And how that she forsook him er she deyde.

It is wel wist, how that the Grekes stronge
In armes with a thousand shippes wente
To Troyewardes, and the citee longe
Assegeden neigh ten yeer er they stente,  
And, in diverse wyse and oon entente,
The ravisshing to wreken of Eleyne,
By Paris doon, they wroughten al hir peyne.

Now fil it so, that in the toun ther was
Dwellinge a lord of greet auctoritee,  
A gret devyn that cleped was Calkas,
That in science so expert was, that he
Knew wel that Troye sholde destroyed be,
By answere of his god, that highte thus,
Daun Phebus or Apollo Delphicus.  

So whan this Calkas knew by calculinge,
And eek by answere of this Appollo,
That Grekes sholden swich a peple bringe,
Thorugh which that Troye moste been for-do,
He caste anoon out of the toun to go;  
For wel wiste he, by sort, that Troye sholde
Destroyed ben, ye, wolde who-so nolde.

For which, for to departen softely
Took purpos ful this forknowinge wyse,
And to the Grekes ost ful prively  
He stal anoon; and they, in curteys wyse,
Hym deden bothe worship and servyse,
In trust that he hath conning hem to rede
In every peril which that is to drede.

The noyse up roos, whan it was first aspyed,  
Thorugh al the toun, and generally was spoken,
That Calkas traytor fled was, and allyed
With hem of Grece; and casten to ben wroken
On him that falsly hadde his feith so broken;
And seyden, he and al his kin at ones  
Ben worthy for to brennen, fel and bones.

Now hadde Calkas left, in this meschaunce,
Al unwist of this false and wikked dede,
His doughter, which that was in gret penaunce,
For of hir lyf she was ful sore in drede,  
As she that niste what was best to rede;
For bothe a widowe was she, and allone
Of any freend to whom she dorste hir mone.

Criseyde was this lady name a-right;
As to my dome, in al Troyes citee  
Nas noon so fair, for passing every wight
So aungellyk was hir natyf beautee,
That lyk a thing immortal semed she,
As doth an hevenish parfit creature,
That doun were sent in scorning of nature.  

This lady, which that al-day herde at ere
Hir fadres shame, his falsnesse and tresoun,
Wel nigh out of hir wit for sorwe and fere,
In widewes habit large of samit broun,
On knees she fil biforn Ector a-doun;  
With pitous voys, and tendrely wepinge,
His mercy bad, hir-selven excusinge.

Now was this Ector pitous of nature,
And saw that she was sorwfully bigoon,
And that she was so fair a creature;  
Of his goodnesse he gladed hir anoon,
And seyde, 'Lat your fadres treson goon
Forth with mischaunce, and ye your-self, in Ioye,
Dwelleth with us, whyl you good list, in Troye.

'And al thonour that men may doon yow have,  
As ferforth as your fader dwelled here,
Ye shul han, and your body shal men save,
As fer as I may ought enquere or here.'
And she him thonked with ful humble chere,
And ofter wolde, and it hadde ben his wille,  
And took hir leve, and hoom, and held hir stille.

And in hir hous she abood with swich meynee
As to hir honour nede was to holde;
And whyl she was dwellinge in that citee,
Kepte hir estat, and bothe of yonge and olde  
Ful wel beloved, and wel men of hir tolde.
But whether that she children hadde or noon,
I rede it naught; therfore I late it goon.

The thinges fellen, as they doon of werre,
Bitwixen hem of Troye and Grekes ofte;  
For som day boughten they of Troye it derre,
And eft the Grekes founden no thing softe
The folk of Troye; and thus fortune on-lofte,
And under eft, gan hem to wheelen bothe
After hir cours, ay whyl they were wrothe.  

But how this toun com to destruccioun
Ne falleth nought to purpos me to telle;
For it were a long digressioun
Fro my matere, and yow to longe dwelle.
But the Troyane gestes, as they felle,  
In Omer, or in Dares, or in Dyte,
Who-so that can, may rede hem as they wryte.

But though that Grekes hem of Troye shetten,
And hir citee bisegede al a-boute,
Hir olde usage wolde they not letten,  
As for to honoure hir goddes ful devoute;
But aldermost in honour, out of doute,
They hadde a relik hight Palladion,
That was hir trist a-boven everichon.

And so bifel, whan comen was the tyme  
Of Aperil, whan clothed is the mede
With newe grene, of ***** Ver the pryme,
And swote smellen floures whyte and rede,
In sondry wyses shewed, as I rede,
The folk of Troye hir observaunces olde,  
Palladiones feste for to holde.

And to the temple, in al hir beste wyse,
In general, ther wente many a wight,
To herknen of Palladion servyse;
And namely, so many a ***** knight,  
So many a lady fresh and mayden bright,
Ful wel arayed, bothe moste and leste,
Ye, bothe for the seson and the feste.

Among thise othere folk was Criseyda,
In widewes habite blak; but nathelees,  
Right as our firste lettre is now an A,
In beautee first so stood she, makelees;
Hir godly looking gladede al the prees.
Nas never seyn thing to ben preysed derre,
Nor under cloude blak so bright a sterre  

As was Criseyde, as folk seyde everichoon
That hir behelden in hir blake wede;
And yet she stood ful lowe and stille alloon,
Bihinden othere folk, in litel brede,
And neigh the dore, ay under shames drede,  
Simple of a-tyr, and debonaire of chere,
With ful assured loking and manere.

This Troilus, as he was wont to gyde
His yonge knightes, ladde hem up and doun
In thilke large temple on every syde,  
Biholding ay the ladyes of the toun,
Now here, now there, for no devocioun
Hadde he to noon, to reven him his reste,
But gan to preyse and lakken whom him leste.

And in his walk ful fast he gan to wayten  
If knight or squyer of his companye
Gan for to syke, or lete his eyen bayten
On any woman that he coude aspye;
He wolde smyle, and holden it folye,
And seye him thus, 'god wot, she slepeth softe  
For love of thee, whan thou tornest ful ofte!

'I have herd told, pardieux, of your livinge,
Ye lovers, and your lewede observaunces,
And which a labour folk han in winninge
Of love, and, in the keping, which doutaunces;  
And whan your preye is lost, wo and penaunces;
O verrey foles! nyce and blinde be ye;
Ther nis not oon can war by other be.'

And with that word he gan cast up the browe,
Ascaunces, 'Lo! is this nought wysly spoken?'  
At which the god of love gan loken rowe
Right for despyt, and shoop for to ben wroken;
He kidde anoon his bowe nas not broken;
For sodeynly he hit him at the fulle;
And yet as proud a pekok can he pulle.  

O blinde world, O blinde entencioun!
How ofte falleth al theffect contraire
Of surquidrye and foul presumpcioun;
For caught is proud, and caught is debonaire.
This Troilus is clomben on the staire,  
And litel weneth that he moot descenden.
But al-day falleth thing that foles ne wenden.

As proude Bayard ginneth for to skippe
Out of the wey, so priketh him his corn,
Til he a lash have of the longe whippe,  
Than thenketh he, 'Though I praunce al biforn
First in the trays, ful fat and newe shorn,
Yet am I but an hors, and horses lawe
I moot endure, and with my feres drawe.'

So ferde it by this fers and proude knight;  
Though he a worthy kinges sone were,
And wende nothing hadde had swiche might
Ayens his wil that sholde his herte stere,
Yet with a look his herte wex a-fere,
That he, that now was most in pryde above,  
Wex sodeynly most subget un-to love.

For-thy ensample taketh of this man,
Ye wyse, proude, and worthy folkes alle,
To scornen Love, which that so sone can
The freedom of your hertes to him thralle;  
For ever it was, and ever it shal bifalle,
That Love is he that alle thing may binde;
For may no man for-do the lawe of kinde.

That this be sooth, hath preved and doth yet;
For this trowe I ye knowen, alle or some,  
Men reden not that folk han gretter wit
Than they that han be most with love y-nome;
And strengest folk ben therwith overcome,
The worthiest and grettest of degree:
This was, and is, and yet men shal it see.  

And trewelich it sit wel to be so;
For alderwysest han ther-with ben plesed;
And they that han ben aldermost in wo,
With love han ben conforted most and esed;
And ofte it hath the cruel herte apesed,  
And worthy folk maad worthier of name,
And causeth most to dreden vyce and shame.

Now sith it may not goodly be withstonde,
And is a thing so vertuous in kinde,
Refuseth not to Love for to be bonde,  
Sin, as him-selven list, he may yow binde.
The yerde is bet that bowen wole and winde
Than that that brest; and therfor I yow rede
To folwen him that so wel can yow lede.

But for to tellen forth in special  
As of this kinges sone of which I tolde,
And leten other thing collateral,
Of him thenke I my tale for to holde,
Both of his Ioye, and of his cares colde;
And al his werk, as touching this matere,  
For I it gan, I wol ther-to refere.

With-inne the temple he wente him forth pleyinge,
This Troilus, of every wight aboute,
On this lady and now on that lokinge,
Wher-so she were of toune, or of with-oute:  
And up-on cas bifel, that thorugh a route
His eye perced, and so depe it wente,
Til on Criseyde it smoot, and ther it stente.

And sodeynly he wax ther-with astoned,
And gan hire bet biholde in thrifty wyse:  
'O mercy, god!' thoughte he, 'wher hastow woned,
That art so fair and goodly to devyse?'
Ther-with his herte gan to sprede and ryse,
And softe sighed, lest men mighte him here,
And caughte a-yein his firste pleyinge chere.  

She nas nat with the leste of hir stature,
But alle hir limes so wel answeringe
Weren to womanhode, that creature
Was neuer lasse mannish in seminge.
And eek the pure wyse of here meninge  
Shewede wel, that men might in hir gesse
Honour, estat, and wommanly noblesse.

To Troilus right wonder wel with-alle
Gan for to lyke hir meninge and hir chere,
Which somdel deynous was, for she leet falle  
Hir look a lite a-side, in swich manere,
Ascaunces, 'What! May I not stonden here?'
And after that hir loking gan she lighte,
That never thoughte him seen so good a sighte.

And of hir look in him ther gan to quiken  
So greet desir, and swich affeccioun,
That in his herte botme gan to stiken
Of hir his fixe and depe impressioun:
And though he erst hadde poured up and doun,
He was tho glad his hornes in to shrinke;  
Unnethes wiste he how to loke or winke.

Lo, he that leet him-selven so konninge,
And scorned hem that loves peynes dryen,
Was ful unwar that love hadde his dwellinge
With-inne the subtile stremes of hir yen;  
That sodeynly him thoughte he felte dyen,
Right with hir look, the spirit in his herte;
Blissed be love, that thus can folk converte!

She, this in blak, likinge to Troylus,
Over alle thyng, he stood for to biholde;  
Ne his desir, ne wherfor he stood thus,
He neither chere made, ne worde tolde;
But from a-fer, his maner for to holde,
On other thing his look som-tyme he caste,
And eft on hir, whyl that servyse laste.  

And after this, not fulliche al awhaped,
Out of the temple al esiliche he wente,
Repentinge him that he hadde ever y-iaped
Of loves folk, lest fully the descente
Of scorn fille on him-self; but, what he mente,  
Lest it were wist on any maner syde,
His wo he gan dissimulen and hyde.

Whan he was fro the temple thus departed,
He streyght anoon un-to his paleys torneth,
Right with hir look thurgh-shoten and thurgh-darted,  
Al feyneth he in lust that he soiorneth;
And al his chere and speche also he borneth;
And ay, of loves servants every whyle,
Him-self to wrye, at hem he gan to smyle.

And seyde, 'Lord, so ye live al in lest,  
Ye loveres! For the conningest of yow,
That serveth most ententiflich and best,
Him *** as often harm ther-of as prow;
Your hyre is quit ayein, ye, god wot how!
Nought wel for wel, but scorn for good servyse;  
In feith, your ordre is ruled in good wyse!

'In noun-certeyn ben alle your observaunces,
But it a sely fewe poyntes be;
Ne no-thing asketh so grete attendaunces
As doth youre lay, and that knowe alle ye;  
But that is not the worste, as mote I thee;
But, tolde I yow the worste poynt, I leve,
Al seyde I sooth, ye wolden at me greve!

'But tak this, that ye loveres ofte eschuwe,
Or elles doon of good entencioun,  
Ful ofte thy lady wole it misconstrue,
And deme it harm in hir opinioun;
And yet if she, for other enchesoun,
Be wrooth, than shalt thou han a groyn anoon:
Lord! wel is him that may be of yow oon!'  

But for al this, whan that he say his tyme,
He held his pees, non other bote him gayned;
For love bigan his fetheres so to lyme,
That wel unnethe un-to his folk he fayned
That othere besye nedes him destrayned;  
For wo was him, that what to doon he niste,
But bad his folk to goon wher that hem liste.

And whan that he in chaumbre was allone,
He doun up-on his beddes feet him sette,
And first be gan to syke, and eft to grone,  
And thoughte ay on hir so, with-outen lette,
That, as he sat and wook, his spirit mette
That he hir saw a temple, and al the wyse
Right of hir loke, and gan it newe avyse.

Thus gan he make a mirour of his minde,  
In which he saugh al hoolly hir figure;
And that he wel coude in his herte finde,
It was to him a right good aventure
To love swich oon, and if he dide his cure
To serven hir, yet mighte he falle in grace,  
Or elles, for oon of hir servaunts pace.

Imagininge that travaille nor grame
Ne mighte, for so goodly oon, be lorn
As she, ne him for his desir ne shame,
Al were it wist, but in prys and up-born  
Of alle lovers wel more than biforn;
Thus argumented he in his ginninge,
Ful unavysed of his wo cominge.

Thus took he purpos loves craft to suwe,
And thou

I am a poet.
I am an artist.
A lover of words, a shaper of thoughts, a master of feelings;
A player of emotions, a speaker of charms, a thinker of minds.
A giver of taste-and at times, a succulent creator of madness.
Madness outside such lines of timid regularity;
The rules of the common, and the inane believers of sanity.
For to me, sanity is as easy as insanity itself-
On which my life feedeth, and boldly moveth on;
And without insanity, t'ere shan't be either joy-or ecstasy;
As how ecstasy itself, in my mind, is defined by averted uneasiness,
And t'at easiness, reader, is not by any means part of;
And forever detached from, the haunting deities of contemporaneity.
Thus easily, artistry consumeth and spilleth my blood-and my whole entity;
Words floweth in my lungs, mastereth my mind, shapeth my own breath.
And sometimes, I breathest within those words themselves;
And declareth my purity within which, feeleth rejection at whose loss;
Like a princess storming about hysterically at the failure of her roses.
Ah! Poetry! The second lover of my life; the delicacy of my veins.
And I loveth, I doth love-sacredly, intensely, and expressively, all of which;
I loveth poetry as I desire my own breath, and how I loveth the muchness of my fellow nature;
Whose crazes sometimes surroundeth us like our dear lake nearby;
With its souls roaming about with water, t'at chokes and gurgles-
As stray winds collapseth around and strikest a war with which.
And most of the year-I am a star, to my own skies;
But by whose side a moon, to my rainless nights;
On the whole, I am an umbrella to my soul;
So t'at it groweth bitter not, even when t'ere is no imminent rain;
And be its savior, when all is unsaved, and everything else writhest in pain.

Thus I loveth poetry as well as I loveth my dreams;
I am a painter of such scenic phrases, whose miracles bloometh
Next to thunderstorms, and yon subsequent spirited moonbeam.
And t'eir fate is awesome and elegant within my hands;
They oft' sleep placidly against my thumbs;
Asking me, with soft-and decorous breath;
To be stroked by my enigmatic fingers;
And to calm t'eir underestimated literariness, by such ungodly beings, out t'ere.
Ah, poor-poor creatures-what a fiend wouldst but do t'is to aggravate 'em!
As above all, I feeleth but extremely eager about miracles themselves;
and duly witness, my reader-t'at t'is very eagerness shall never be corrupted;
Just as how I am a pure enthusiast of love;
And in my enthusiasm, I shareth love of both men and nature;
And dark sorrows and tears t'at oft' shadowest t'eir decent composures.
When I thirstest for touches, I simply writest 'em down;
When I am hungry for caresses, I tendeth to think them out;
I detailest everything auspiciously, until my surprised conscience cannot help but feeling tired;
But still, the love of thee, poetry, shall outwit me, and despise me deeply-
Should I find not the root, within myself, to challenge and accomplish it, accordingly.
I shall be my own jealousy, and my own failure;
Who to whose private breath feeleth even unsure.
I shall feel scarce, and altogether empty;
I shall have no more essence to be admired;
For everything shall wither within me, and leave me to no energy;
And with my conscience betrayed, I shall face my demise with a heart so despaired.
Ah, my poetry is but my everything!
'Tis my undying wave; and the casual, though perhaps unnatural;
the brother of my own soul, on whose shoulders I placeth my longings;
And on whose mouths I lieth my long-lost kisses!
Ah, how I loveth poetry hideously, but awesomely, thereof!
I loveth poetry greatly-within and outside of my own roof;
And I carest not for others' mock idyll, and adamant reproof;
For I loveth poetry as how as I respectest, and idoliseth love itself;
And when I idoliseth affection, perhaps I shall grow, briefly, into a normal human being-
A real, real human being with curdling weights of unpoetic feelings;
I shall whisper into my ears every intractable falsehood, but the customary normalcy-of creation;
And brash, brash emptiness whom my creative brains canst no longer bear!
Ah, dearest, loveliest poetry, but shall I love him?
Ah-the one whose sighs and shortcomings oft' startlest my dreams;
The one whom I oft' pictureth, and craftest like an insolent statue-
Within my morning colours, and about my petulant midnight hue?
Or, poetry, and tellest me, tellest me-whether needst I to love him more-
The one whose vice was my past-but now wishes to be my virtue,
And t'is time an amiably sober virtue-with eyes so blue and sparkling smiles so true?
Ah, poetry, tellest me, tellest me here-without delay!
In my oneness, thou shalt be my triumph, and everlasting astonishment;
Worthy of my praise and established tightness of endorsement;
But in any doubleness of my life-thou shalt be my saviour, and prompt avidity-
When all but strugglest against their trances, or even falleth silent.
Ah, poetry, thou art the symbol of my virtue thyself;
And thy little soul is my tongue;
A midnight read I hath been composing dearly all along;
My morn play, anecdote, and yet my most captivating song.

I thirstest for thee regularly, and longeth for thee every single day;
I am dead when I hath not words, nor any glittering odes in my mouth to say.
Thou art my immensity, in which everything is gullible, but truth;
And all remarks are bright-though with multiple souls, and roots;
Ah, poetry, in every summer, thou art the adored timeless foliage;
With humorous beauty, and a most intensive sacrifice no other trees canst take!
O poetry, and thy absence-I shall be dead like those others;
I shall be robbed, I shall be like a walking ghost;
I hath no more cores, nor cheers-within me, and shall wander about aimlessly, and feel lost;
Everything shall be blackened, and seen with malicious degrees of absurdity;
I shall be like those who, as days pass, bloometh with no advanced profusion,
And entertaineth their sad souls with no abundant intention!
How precarious, and notorious-shall I look, indeed!
For I shall hath no gravity-nor any sense of, or taste-for glory;
My mind shall be its own corpse, and look but grey;
Grey as if paled seriously by the passage of time;
Grey as if turned mercilessly so-by nothing sublime;
Ah, but in truth-grey over its stolen life, over its stolen breath!
I shall become such greyness, o poetry, over the loss of thee;
And treadeth around like them, whose minds are blocked-by monetary thickness;
A desire for meaningless muchness, and pretentious satire exchanged '**** 'emselves;
I shall be like 'em-who are blind to even t'eir own brutal longings!
Ah, t'ose, whose paths are threatened by avid seriousness;
And adverse tides of ambition, and incomprehensible austerity;
Ah, for to me glory is not eternal, glory is not superb;
For eternity is what matterest most, and t'at relieth not within any absence of serenity.
Ah, but sadly they realiseth, realiseth it not!
For they are never alive themselves, nor prone-to any living realisation;
And termed only by the solemnity of desire, wealthiness, and hovering accusations;
For they breathe within their private-ye' voluptuous, malice, and unabashed prejudice,
For they hath no comprehension; as they hath not even the most barren bliss!
And I wantest not to be any of them, for being such is entirely gruesome;
And I shall die of loneliness, I shall die of feasting on no mindly outcome;
For nothing more shall be fragrant within my torpid soul;
And hath courage not shall I, to fight against any fishy and foul.
My fate is tranquil, and 'tis, indeed-to be a poet;
A poet whenst society is mute, I shall speak out loud;
And whenst humanity is asleep, I wake 't with my shouts;
Ah, poetry! Thy ****** little soul is but everything to me;
And even in my future wifery, I shall still care for, and recur to thee;
And I shall devote myself to thee, and cherish thee more;
Thou hath captured me with love; and such a love is, indeed, like never before.

But too I loveth him still, as every day rises-
When the sun reappeareth, and hazy clouds are again woken so they canst praise the skies.
I loveth him, as sunrays alight our country suburbs;
With a love so wondrous; a love but at times-too ardent and superb.
Ah, and thus tellest me-tellest me once more!
To whose heart shall I benignly succumb, and trust my maidenhood?
To whose soul shall I courteously bow, and be tied-at th' end of my womanhood?
Ah, poetry, I am but now clueless, and thoroughly speechless-about my own love!
Ah, dearest-t'is time but be friendly to me, and award to me a clue!
Lendeth to me thy very genial comprehension, and merit;
Openeth my heart with thy grace, and unmistakable wit!
Drowneth me once more into thy reveries of dreams;
And finally, just finally-burstest my eyes now open, maketh me with clarity see him!

Ah, poetry, t'ose rainbows of thine-are definitely too remarkable;
As how t'ose red lips of thine adore me, and termeth me kindly, as reliable;
And thus I shall rely all my reality on thy very shoulder;
Bless me with the holiness confidentiality, and untamed ****** intelligence;
Maketh me enliven my words with love, and the healthiest, and loveliest, of allegiance.
Bless me with the flavoured showers of thy heart;
So everything foreign canst but be comely-and familiar;
And from whose verdure, and growth-I shall ne'er be apart!
And as t'is happens, holdest my hand tightly-and clutchest at my heart dearly;
Keepest me but safe here, and reachest my breath, securely!
Ah, poetry-be with me, be with me always!
Maketh me even lovelier, and loyal-to my religion;
In my daily taste-and hastes, and all these supreme oddities and evenness of life;
Maketh me but thoughtful, cheerful, and naive;
And in silence maketh me stay civil-but for my years to come;
and similarly helpeth my devotion, taste, and creativity, remain alive.

Ah, poetry, thus I shall be awake in both thy daylight, and slumbers;
And as thou shineth, I knoweth that my dreams shall never fade away;
Once more, I might have gone mad, but still-all the way better;
And whenst I am once more conscious; thou shalt be my darling;
who firmly and genuinely beggeth me t' keep writing, and in the end, beggeth me t' stay.
Leave me not, even whenst days grew dark-and lighted were only my abyss;
Invite my joy, and devour every bit of it-as one thou should neither ignore, or miss.

i.

Society keepeth their amour' in a box
Hidden, unrevealed, secretive, locked;
Me and mine Jane, shalt be open as a flame,
As on mine knee's I peck upon her toe's;
Again and again.

ii.

In the midday hour's when her back and neck get's sore
Mine fingertip's shalt caresseth her epidermis;
With sultry emollient, from her head to her feet.
I rubbeth in deep, as tis she shalt falleth asleep
As the best massage she's ever hadst,
Put's her into a trance in mine hold:
In peace she slumbereth,
Into a romantic kingdom
Stacked with ourn affection's gold.

iii.

Over an hour-plus thirty minute's,
Mine sweaty Palm's art tender;
Though it was all worth it
To mine queen mine soul surrendered;
Entering in her shuteye, I entered in locking ourn leg's, head's, arm's: closely cuddling-pillow's feathered.
Here at this moment, nothing else in the world mattered.



©Brandon Nagley
©Earl Jane Nagley dedication ( Filipino rose)
©Lonesome poet's poetry

i.

Alow downward Reyna, humanity hunger's and ****'s,
Red liquid they do spill, despoiling, toiling, taking
Lucifer's fill;

ii.

We canst only watcheth queen, as their working's and dream's,
Get untied by the string's, of the fine unseen line, of the principalities and power's.

iii.

Henceforth the hour's, shalt be as fading flower's, they shalt seeith their government's and darkened power's; falleth as the star's, men who knoweth none boundaries, God shalt rattle the mountain's and deep, as a harlot to her patron. Though the patron's sleep.

iv.

We shalt endureth this paining moment amour', the cosmic chronograph is opening door's; erelong love, erelong amour', we shalt sit at a feasting table, wherein the beau monde that hast Satan's barcoded label, shalt not perch. The flame shalt quench it's thirst, as recreation below us takes it's course. For ourn creator spoke this Jane, in the beginning. The world's lost it's way, it needeth cleansing from the sinning. As we shalt be restored by reconnecting on higher planes. To be reborn, in the spirit again.



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose) dedicated

A birdless heaven, seadusk, one lone star
Piercing the west,
As thou, fond heart, love's time, so faint, so far,
Rememberest.

The clear young eyes' soft look, the candid brow,
The fragrant hair,
Falling as through the silence falleth now
Dusk of the air.

Why then, remembering those shy
Sweet lures, repine
When the dear love she yielded with a sigh
Was all but thine?

i.

Dacryop's falleth,
Whenever she
Is near; because
I don't deserve
Such a seraph
Of heaven's
Stair's.



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( àgapi mou) dedication

Mine Filipino rose
For thee I shalt;

Be tossed inside the
The Brazen Bull;
Until mine inside's art crisp.

Be impaled
On wood;
Mine head planted on a stick.

Be crucified
Mine hand's nailed;
Thorn's upon mine top.

A Lead Sprinkler
To sprinkle lava;
In mine throat lost.

An Iron Maiden
To taketh the metal;
Inside mine liver.

Coffin Torture
To let the crow's;
Pecketh at the splinter's.

A thumbscrew
To snap me as twigs;
As mercy I yelleth.

Rope torture
To leaveth me exposed;
To hell and the element's.

The Guillotine
As mine head falleth;
Into oldened basket.

The Rack
As mine shoulder's wilt bust;
Twisting mine bracket's.

Tongue Tearer
To knot mine tongue;
And rip it at the seam's.

The Rat Torture
As mine interior wouldst be ripped;
Rat's burrowing inside me, scream's.

The chair of torture
As edge's impale mine spine;
Hellion seating.

Cement Shoes
In the bottom of the sea;
Wherein noone canst heareth me.

Crocodile Shears
To gut me as a fish;
Reptilian grip's.

The Breaking Wheel
Wherein mine limb's art ******* to spokes, hammered by devil's;
I crack, Snapple, pop, as mine bones elongate, mine blood chokes.

Sitting on the Spanish Donkey
Mine carrion torn in twain;
As heaven canst feeleth mine pain, for thee I'd screameth again.

Saw Torture
As tis the razor's edge wouldst goeth through mine abdomen;
Evil *******'s shalt cut me, as I'm praying amen, just to DIETH.

Hanged, Drawn, and Quartered
It sais it all in the verse;
For thee I'd haveth all this done mine queen, for thee to liveth.......




©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane dedication
©Lonesome poet's poetry

Everytime when she cryeth
And one of her angelic tear's fall,
A feather falleth off her wing's
Everytime her pain is recalled....

So I make mineself a clown
Just to seeith her happy,
And I giveth her one of mine plume's
To keep her smiling, uplifted, and and laughing!!!

As tis her tear's falleth, from her moon to the planet
That's how earth gets its oceans, from her watery magnet's,
So I go to those blue sea's, where her mourning hath brought floods, I collect them in a jar, to remind me of her love....

I cry in the same jar, whenever I feeleth her pain
Just because I want to connect, to mine queen every day,
So daily do I feeleth her lachrymal wailing's,
Though I'd taketh every pain, fire flooding, and DEATH by hanging....

Just to giveth her comfort, inside her trapped head
I'd telleth the king to taketh me, set her free instead...
So off with his head, screamed the universal king...
I did it for mi amour', for she's mine everything!!!!

As tis now she's happy, free and Alive upon her moon
I Gaveth that king beast mine head, for her to dance her tune,
As tis I shalt watcheth over her, yet when she thinks I'm not around....
I shalt still catcheth her tears, when her tear'***** the ground....

...dear brothers and sisters
____

and the gentle rain falleth
the gentle reign of love is here

we gather and become
stronger than the fear
that invades us all

the holy infinities
(streets where the children play)
creating tomorrows
from out the love
______

and so again!......why, even YOU have chosen to be here!......even YOU have made the decision........even YOU!
_no need to ask why!------------it is the choosing makes you real, makes you whole , renders you fit for life.......the YOU that is not subservient to anyone or anything...........for all truth. all knowledge, is FOR you, is FROM you,.....IS you--------this is surely possible to REALIZE__and i-----------witness to your transformations, listener to your understandings manifesting-----------may grow in courage as we together grow in strength----------from "inner peace"  WORLD PEACE-----------and we, if we remain steadfast in devotion to each other and to who we KNOW WE ARE--------shall feel the dignity, the nobility inherent in the power from which we have been created and from which we create

i.

Detained, I am not
Enslaved in chain's;
I've broken those long ago;
Twas I was loosed,
By mine Earl Jane.
Mine Zion
Mine nirvana
From God.

ii.

Abandon her I shan't
She's the aye, in wholesome array;
Filipino by morn', winged one born,
Atop her green mountain view way.
Her baguette flake's falleth from her spanned plumule shadowy shade: whilst I kiss her feet, mine joyous tear's cleaneth her toe's, whilst on mine knee's, she smileth at me, whilst I sayest " I loveth thee more" she argue's back its her most.




©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedication ( filipino rose)

Ourn silhouette's to tail us
Afoot aboriginal Knoll's;

Her brilliance, imminent
Untold story of love;

Appertaining in her contemplate
Mediterranean, upon ourn plate's;

Barefoot meandering to ourn date
Relaxed and high, none debate's;

She's the apothecary who Selleth me philter's
She allureth me in, and mine soul stretcheth longer;

When I falleth down, her young age maketh me stronger
When I cometh around, her word's art charmer's;

Comely is her impetus
Cometh hither mine lad, she's the amour' seamstress;

Companied, I shalt hold mine lass
Companied, I shalt liveth with her, in ourn nest...




©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane dedication/ soulmate mienne

Jane
Mine existence;
Jane
Mine quintessence;
Jane
Mine crème de la crème;
Jane
Thy name is the most incorporeal;
Jane
Mine ticker tick tock's, as a clock: time eternal.
Jane
I yearn for thee;
Jane
I don't deserveth thee;
Jane
I'm on mine knee's;
Jane
I'm begging please
Jane
I'm beseeching thee;
To cometh closer
Layeth thy head down
Upon mine chest
Falleth asleep
With me.
Jane,
I loveth thee.
Jane
Mine soulmate;
Jane
O' dearest love
O' dearest love.
O' how whole I am with thee
Mine dove.
O' dearest Jane.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry\ Hari-Reyna incorporated
©Earl Jane nagley dedication ( Filipino rose)

Wherein the Angel's dieth
The world doth cryeth;
And the world doth falleth
Wherein the Angel wings don't flyeth.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry

Wherein the Angel's dieth
The world doth cryeth;
And the world doth falleth
Wherein the Angel wings don't flyeth.



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

CLOUDWATCHER
( for David Olaf Carney )

A cloud
gets the ****.

Becomes a camel.

Another **** sees it
transform into a dromedary.

Now a kidney!

Then as on a whim
becomes a Picasso

or some such
thing.

Sometime there's
shape and sense.

Sometimes none.

We make up names
for the one's with none.

Here for instance
stolen

from an old religious tract
THE CLOUD OF UNKNOWING.

And here, from the same
"...the cloud of forgetting."

This one
we dub in Ancient Egyptian

"HPRR!"

"rising from....coming into being
itself.:

And this one" "HPR!"
"...to become...to change."

And while our minds run on
the Egyptian thing

why here is Nepthys
Goddess of the Death

that is not
Eternal.

Here Horus
Lord of things to come.

This here cloud
we give the moniker

THE AGENBITE OF INWIT

before it becomes
an Inuit.

Now an anvil and a hammer
in a Black Country summer

"Gie-in’ sum ‘ommer!"

we command it
commanding the skies.

Now here again
a nothing.

Clouds bring forth
not the gentle rain

that falleth from Heaven
but...thought

whatever the mind
imagine.

And here
why here

is a cloud
that is just

a cloud.

Amperage of connections falleth out and thus lost,
No carnival party to revive,
Ashore astronomical beholders vision!!!

A needle through the bloated man's eye!!!!

Camillia scents,
Canopied distinguished In canistered tents!!!

Century carrols confine the interstage mime!!!
Circulation is thus impatient  where clots block chloroform vines!!!!

Wed/lock intensifiers wait to be fed,
Trapped,
Packed,
Chained to thine own beds!!!

Hath thou lost thyself yet??

Wilt she still loveth me when tommorrow arrives?
Wilt she giveth all as a holy surprise?
Wilt she still be here tomorrow I hope?
Wilt she push aside her worries and maketh me her float?
Wilt she let me all the way in?
I'm worried
Tis
Over thinking again!!
Wilt she falleth for some wordly baboon?
Wilt she seeith how much this love is true?
Wilt she telleth me again she loveth me to?
Am I just mad??!
Or art there others same way as this going through?
Wilt she calleth next month?
Next year?
Write real love letters by hand?
Meet me on demand?
Maketh love to a band?
Ourn own band of course....
Wilt she keepeth this lit torch?
Or throw it away..
I needeth it now
I'm madly insane,
Wilt she still be here
When the pouring drench cometh on down?
Wilt she not leaveth?
When I get sick?
Or put into earth's ground?
Wilt she?
Noones ever sure
At least not me
Anymore..

Slippeth
Trippeth
Falleth
Wonderwall

Slippeth
Trippeth
Cryeth
Wo­nder whyeth?

Pouty
Doubty
Shouty
Mommy !!!

Sleepeth
Awaketh

Man in chains!!

Man built his babbled tower
As it was bound to falleth
And once again
Man builds babbling towers all over this planet
And once again shalt it fall to hellion ashes!!!

Ink of darkness
Show my heart of grief
Fell in this abyss
Oceans I see no relief

O bitter my soul
Of a loveless child
And I had to fall
I write when I am blind

She is a woman
Belonged to the sea
Fell in love a man
So hard to reach

What I give to have this love
But tarnished and I did fail
I prayed to God from above
So, I write about her tale

She’s the youngest one
Heart still so young
Never seen the sun
Nothing was wrong
Went up to the forbidden world
She saw a ship with lover inside
What she would do for him to hold
Her kind not allowed but only to hide

A creature not of his
Of love so cruel
Separated by fate
Nothing to do

On the same night,
Storm hath come
Burst of light
She saved his life
Before it was undone
It felt so right
Now, on land
She must escape
Not to seen by others
Into the sea she retreats

I write these words
And I see the mirror
Pain of thousand swords
Life becomes terror
My anguish passion
Locked in the cages
None for reaction
As I write these pages

...my tears...
...fall upon these papers...
...all here...
...darkness listen to my whisper...

...are you there?...

(Musical part)

O sacrifice to the dark
She giveth into the witch
She shall have legs
To walk for love’s enrich
Loses her voice away
To give up it all
The misery and dismay
Love cruel’s role

She shall become like him
To walk upon the land
Deal with such a grim
She must withstand
Promised by darkness
She must marry him in three days
Or die into the abyss
Fade in the sun’s own rays

IS THIS THE PRICE OF LOVE
SHE MUST SUFFER IT ALL
GOING UP TO THE ABOVE
IN ADORATION’S OWN FALL

“And if may he falleth in love
With a woman no thee
Thy heart shall break
AND THEN YOU DIE!!!”

It is either love or death
With my soul in reflection
I write words of my breathe
Like mine with no affection

My sorrow, her pain
Walking on new feet
Pain of thousand knives
Suffering shall reign
But cannot retreat
Dying thousands of lives

But she must endure
She must wed him too
For love shall be
It is the sign of cure
She must be true
Her love to set her free

She has no voice to speak
But only down deep in her
O how suffering so bleak
Only to her passion she cares

And here I am
I write those words
Heartbroken of the world
I feel so ******

But cannot hate
Love is deep within
I pray to Heaven
Please... altar my FATE

(Guitar Solo 1)

And lo, I feel thy words
Poetry bleeds from inside
She met his eyes and towards
He was just mesmerized
Her hopes might be high
Despite her mute
Deep happiness the sigh
In his eyes, she’s cute

May her suffering come to end
Will the angel have final sent
As I remember my own lore
When I thought she did adore
Spending a lifetime together
Rejected mine won’t forever

My heart broken still
Tried twice and thrice
Pain feels like hell
All attempts with no suffice

Roses wither of my soul
And the petals do fall
She danced with him in pain
In the end, he shall marry another
The two shall not be together
AND ALL THE SUFFERING
COMES TO VAIN

(Guitar Solo 2)

O RIBORG – CHILDREN WE WERE
O RIBORG – THOUGHT THY CARED
THE MOMENTS WE SHARED
FELT SO MUCH PAIN

O SOPHIE – THY PART OF ME
O SOPHIE – WE’RE MEANT TO BE
WHY HAVEN’T YOU EVER SEEN
NO HEARTFELT TO GAIN

O JENNY – WE’RE MEANT FOR ONE ANOTHER
O JENNY – YOU THINK OF ME AS A BROTHER
WE SPENT SO MANY YEARS TOGETHER
AND ALL IN VAIN

Why ****** with no love
Why suffer this loneliness
Passion that I can’t have
I suffer in darkness

…along with her

Heartbroken… like the mine
Dawn shall set and she shall die
However, there’s a hope of sign
With a painful deal of a sign

The witch giveth her a knife
Before the sun shall set
Without any regret
SHE MUST END HIS LIFE
AND BLOOD TO FALL
TO SAVE HER SOUL

(Musical Part + Guitar Solo 3)

…she succumbed not to ****
…for the love of her prince
…accepting her final will
…soon her life shall be still

As dawn has set
It’s time to face her death
Heaven to be met
To be released… her… final… breathe…

…
…

Marina!
"Almighty God, thee only have I”
Marina!
“thou steerest my fate”
Marina!
“I must give myself up to thee”
Marina!
“Give me a livelihood”
MARINA!!!
“GIVE ME A BRIDE”
MARINA!!!
“MY BLOOD WANTS LOVE”
MARINA!!!
“AS MY HEART DOES!"

MARINA!!!
MARINA!!!
MARINA!!!
MARINA!!!

(Guitar Solo 4)

…for I am… shall be… forever… Marina…

Oh fly me to thy bed,
Princess of the light.
Do not wait upon thy conscience
But love me there as I would wont to love thee.

And how would that be?
Soft and silent as a petal to the touch?
Or hard and rough,
Like the careless storms of winter?

No, it would be as thou desireth
So long as I am in the partnership of it.
I would accept thy every whim,
So to lie with thee upon thy grace.

‘Tis God’s truth
That I love the very core of thee;
Each movement of the clock
Hath marked this state.

Does it too, set the beat of my heart
In perfect harmony with thine,
Or is it discordant calamity
That falleth upon mine ear?

No, that clamour is
Born of the dancing of angels,
In joy in laughter in celebration
Of my love
And thine.

Bright light
Ray of sunshine
Beneath your eyes
It falleth thereof
Attacking your vision

Slammeth thy will
On thee
Runneth its free will
Your body cries
Free me now
Let me lose

Pointed straight at thee
Balancing on your skin
An epitome
Of dark complexion
Light complexion
Crieth for help

Moveth as you move
My predicament
It favours others
Yet I bow at
It sights
Seeing nothing

Written by Tosan Oluwakemi Thompson

What type of dance
Is this?
A movement so strange
We all looked
Like strangers
Without betrothed confidence

We heard the
Throbbing of drums
Yet our king
Dancing strangely
A foreigner's dance

The adorning of the waist
A seduction of men
Answering the call
Didn't you hear?
The king
Singing provocative songs

The beads on her waist
Dangling like serpents
Round a tree
A mystery so strange

Her gold necklace
A blinder of men
Promiscuity of his majesty
Hell awaits his surrender

A weapon of destruction
Okpala has been brought down
A mighty man falleth
At the seduction of a strange dance

Written by Tosan Oluwakemi Thompson

thankyou

today i prepare

to soujourn before

real winter comes

we ( he) only cut the back

yesterday and it looks good

bringing new plans, solid ideas

like responsible adults have

using language of the usuals

made in conversations and

the media

the front grass is timetabled

early november

meanwhile i research paving

and carpeting colours

indoors i hear podcasts

stuff i should know

owls and falling rain

which  did falleth

until the language changed

so now it falls

as do conkers

i wonder if i may mesg

you via phone; you see

i looked at the reviews

and the wifi is till dodgy

we shall see

go safely

i enjoyed your writing

with tea

Okuku,
Thou great one.
The spirit being,
That seeth all things.
Eyes of the gods
Amadioha's mouthpiece
The divination of,
Amadioha's creation.
Why yea?
Why yea soil thy hands?
The holy ground,
Yet a rotten ground.
The mouth speaketh
Yet masking the truth.

Okuku,
Amadioha's devotee
Amadioha's confirmed
The teller of Amadioha's message,
Yet breathing destruction.
Why yea?
Why yea soil thy hands?
The people,
They see things,
Yet afraid to tell it.
Thou keeper of the scared Oracle
Why soil thy soul?
Lies and treachery
Thy newest *****.

Okuku,
You departed the way of the gods
You stand in the concubine of wickedness
Nevertheless,
Okuku,
A mighty man of the gods,
Thou falleth,
Yet a strong man.

Written by Tosan Oluwakemi Thompson

Here he comes
The Messiah has come
Ekun fun arare
The deliverer of men
The binding of chains

The healer of souls
The preacher of light
An archangel
In human flesh
Binder of Satan

Sugar coating his words
Interpreting the holy book
Leader of thousands
Men stood at his altar
His pulpit falleth not

I knew not his type
A courageous sword
Weapon of the holy book
Commander of an army
Fighting for the word

Prosperity he preaches
Interpretations of men
The truth
Farther from his mouth
Lies his weakness

Miracles
Oh miracles
He worketh miracles
Darkness knoweth his name
A propaganda for the scriptures

My pursue he shrinketh
Our brains he washeth
His fear
I thread upon
Making though tremble

At last
His end cometh
We wept
At his demise
Forgetting his mantle

Written by Tosan Oluwakemi Thompson

your love
falleth
from
heaven
that
i adore
when
i
knock
upon
heaven's door
i am still sure