I met my love
down the cherry lane,
Oh, down the old cherry lane
while stars were shining above

I kissed my darling
down the cherry lane,
Oh, down the old cherry lane
while the branches bend and swing

I farewelled my lover
down the cherry lane,
Oh, down the old cherry lane
while the moon made the night brighter

A faith we fancy is that freedom is fabricated and forged for us by our forefathers who fought and forced their foes to forfeit their feud. They fended fiercely and defended fearlessly a fictionalized fact, freedom, filtered with fire and flame. A few fell to be famed fellows of the future while a fraction of the fraternity are farewelled faceless.

All those frigid flashback brought-forth what we framed and fantasized as freewill and forbade freaks to falsify our fascination.

It all falters as we fathom that freedom didn't fade ,but w/o a fons-et-ergo, a foolish fairytale foretold for us to falsely follow a formula for the foremen to fortify the fake façade of freedom while we flounder and they float.

And if we flush and fracture their folderol, we are flagged as flagitious, frauds and fellons.
For the feasibility of freedom is a mere ****** Fuckery to **** us.

As I am falling into the abyss,
I try to hold on to a thing,
yet there is no way to resist
cold-blooded gravity of swing.

My head chill air begins to hit,
and with the accelerating speed
I'm wondering: "Shall this be it?"
My eyes feel heavy, I think: "Indeed."

A moment later I hear them scream,
as time slows down I face a flow,
I follow it and think: "Bad dream,"
Eyes closed farewelled by dancing snow.

I am undone -
resonating, thrumming
with feelings out of time.
Suffused with the scent
of orange, clove and cinnamon.

The house on Folgate Street
has me, whole,
powerless against an eternity
of mutating, shifting
happenings and moments.

Twice, the black cat followed me.
Dully gleaming fur
reflecting a landscape
of bunched bedclothes,
that it batted
then bunched some more.

Between the rooms,
landings captured me -
miniature palaces
hung with candied fruits
and mercurised pools
where I dove in naked longing
into both our pasts.

Huguenot shadows
writhed and climbed,
in faded effervescence.
The motes permitted not to utter
a word of breath.

With freshened eyes
I farewelled an age of deeds
in whispered thanks.

How long I stood at the corner
I cannot say.
Rising from a dream
has never taken so long.

The sleep of the sword does not answer my call
Sweet Jezebel sways with the winds of the fall
While the Goosegrass loudly beckons, singing to stay
The Foxgloves, they whisper “one day, one day”.

I’m longing to be respectfully flame-farewelled
But the Lion’s Tooth sees that my dreams are dispelled
In the sweet summer madness, my Devil’s Milk pride
Shrivels and dies; looks like Ring-a-Bells lied

With a wave of my hand the swan of blood lands,
And the spear-din begins
With a noble glance the troops advance
Chieftains or kings, breakers of rings

The winter begs death and the is-ness of song
My soft sophomania playing along
A hymn on the psaltery drifts for a dime
Of seven sweet maidens missing in time

Tell me plainly, why does the spring make me ill?
Pale, shaking hands cling to the old timbrel.
A melodic pain, the kind honey can’t draw out.
And the whispering doubt, **** as sauerkraut

With a wave of my hand the swan of blood lands,
And the spear-din begins
With a noble glance the troops advance
Chieftains or kings, breakers of rings

You were never cautious with your art,
I was always careful with my heart
Unless I poured it out like a dove
Are you mourning me from heaven above

I am mourning you from hell below
I guess that freedom was not the way to go
And the old dried herbs sing from above my grave
I’ve never behaved, I’ve never been brave

With a wave of my hand I watched your blood land
On my ***** kitchen floor
Without a chance, in a frightened stance
No longer poor, I walked out the door
The final test, was it for the best?
No belt hook swings, pale, wicked things
My freedom came at the price of the flame

Farewell my lover,
Fare thee well.

She wrote poems to the butterflies, and they batted their wings to the lyricism of her words
She read stories to the trees, and they blossomed to the sunshine of her voice
She sang lullabies to the oceans, and the waters swayed to the limitless echo of the syllables which farewelled her lips
She caressed the sun, and he surrendered his power to the silken skin which embodied a soul of gold
She kissed the clouds, and the skies watered the forests with their tears of joy


She loved him,
and although the earth, the skies, and its oceans did too,
He could not love her back.

Is life then
but a needed purge
after  the deluge
of a thwarted urge?

Why did I permit
my love to perch
on a brittle branch
about to snap, left in the lurch?

I am to blame, none else
it had always been me I encourage
an impossible dream to chase
in impatience, more often in rage.

The long past has slipped
away in painful memory--age
has spoken and farewelled has youth
it's true--love is false and a cruel *******.