i.

Iniibig kita
Mahal Kita;
Minamahal Kita,
Iniirog kita.

ii.

Here do I cometh, I'm on mine way. The skies art clear tonight, just a tint of fine gray; though I spread mine plumage, fracture the tone, I knoweth one day, O' verily one day- I'll findeth mine way home.

And I thinkest, when I findeth the bungalow, I wilt rest, after long
Passage alone. As thou I wilt bestow, mine Lip's on thy own; quietly humming, Sayaw tayo?

iii.

A Tagal na ah, a Tagal na ah, now I'm here mine love, I've made it mine queen; some sayest dream's don't cometh true, Only if the other's couldst find; they discern science, just not the sign's of the times.

Though we behold, the spirit and soul, and ourn creator, the crowned head of the world's; Hallowed be his name, Yahweh, father Jehovah, known also Elohim. His son Yeshua ha'mashiach, English language "Jesus the anointed one". The son above all son's. Jane, mine queen.

iv.

Iniibig kita
Mahal Kita;
Minamahal Kita,
Iniirog kita.

Tagal na ah
Tagal na ah;
Now in thy
Grip, with
Mine kiss,
On thy Lip's
I place mine
Vow's. O'
Yadid, yadid,
Never let me go
Agapi mou-
Zoi mou,
Se latrevo
Mine queen.


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

Ah, Nikolaas, my love for him is not the same, as my love for thee;
My love for thee was once, and may still be, sweeter, purer, more elegant, and free;
But still, how unfortunate! imprisoned in mockery, and liberated not-by destiny;
It still hath to come and go; it cannot stay cheerfully-about thee forever, and within my company.

And but tonight-shall Amsterdam still be cold?
But to cold temper thou shalt remain unheeded; thou shalt be tough, and bold;
Sadly I am definite about having another nightmare, meanwhile, here;
For thy voice and longings shall be too far; with presumptions and poems, I cannot hear.

Sleep, my loveliest, sleep; for unlike thine, none other temper, or love-is in some ways too fragrant, and sweet;
All of which shall neither tempt me to flirt, nor hasten me to meet;
My love for thee is still undoubted, defined, and unhesitant;
Like all t'is summer weather around; 'tis both imminent, and pleasant.

My love for thee, back then, was but one youthful-and reeking of temporal vitality;
But now 'tis different-for fathom I now-the distinction between sincerity, and affectation.
Ah, Nikolaas, how once we strolled about roads, and nearby spheres-in living vivacity;
With sweets amongst our tongues-wouldst we attend every song, and laugh at an excessively pretentious lamentation.

Again-we wouldst stop in front of every farm of lavender;
As though they wanted to know, and couldst but contribute their breaths, and make our love better.
We were both in blooming youth, and still prevailed on-to keep our chastity;
And t'is we obeyed gladly, and by each ot'er, days passed and every second went even lovelier.

But in one minute thou wert but all gone away;
Leaving me astray; leaving me to utter dismay.
I had no more felicity in me-for all was but, in my mind, a dream of thee;
And every step was thus felt like an irretrievable path of agony.

Ah, yon agony I loathe! The very agony I wanted but to slaughter, to redeem-and to bury!
For at t'at time I had known not the beauty of souls, and poetry;
I thought but the world was wholly insipid and arrogant;
T'at was so far as I had seen, so far as I was concerned.

I hath now, seen thy image-from more a lawful angle-and lucidity;
And duly seen more of which-and all start to fall into place-and more indolent, clarity;
All is fair now, though nothing was once as fair;
And now with peace, I want to be friends; I want to be paired.

Perhaps thou couldst once more be part of my tale;
But beforehand, I entreat thee to see, and listen to it;
A tale t'at once sent into my heart great distrust and sadness, and made it pale;
But from which now my heart hath found a way out, and even satisfactorily flirted with it,

For every tale, the more I approach it, is as genuine as thee;
And in t'is way-and t'is way only, I want thee to witness me, I want thee to see me.
I still twitch with tender madness at every figure, and image-I hath privately, of thine;
They are still so captivatingly clear-and a most fabulous treasure to my mind.

My love for thee might hath now ended; and shall from now on-be dead forever;
It hath been buried as a piece of unimportance, and a dear old, obsolete wonder;
And thus worry not, for in my mind it hath become a shadow, and ceased to exist;
I hath made thee resign, I hath made thee drift rapidly away, and desist.

Ah, but again, I shall deny everything I hath said-'fore betraying myself once more;
Or leading myself into the winds of painful gravity, or dismissive cold tremor;
For nothing couldst stray me so well as having thee not by my side;
An image of having thee just faraway-amidst the fierceness of morns, and the very tightness of nights.

And for seconds-t'ese pains shall want to bury me away, want to make me shout;
And shout thy very name indeed; thy very own aggravated silence, and sins out loud;
Ah, for all t'ese shadows about are too vehement-but eagerly eerie;
Like bursts of outspread vigilance, misunderstood but lasting forever, like eternity.

'Twas thy own mistake-and thus thou ought'a blame anyone not;
Thou wert the one to storm away; thou wert the one who cut our story short.
Thou wert the one who took whole leave, of the kind entity-of my precious time and space;
And for nothingness thou obediently set out; leaving all we had built, to abundant waste.

Thou disappeared all too quickly-and wert never seen again;
Thou disappeared like a column of smoke, to whom t'is virtual world is partial;
And none of thy story, since when-hath stayed nor thoughtfully remained;
Nor any threads of thy voice were left behind, to stir and ring, about yon hall.

Thou gaily sailed back into thy proud former motherland;
Ah, and the stirring noises of thy meticulous Amsterdam;
Invariably as a man of royalty, in thy old arduous way back again;
Amongst the holiness of thy mortality; 'twixt the demure hesitations, of thy royal charms.

And thou art strange! For once thou mocked and regarded royalty as *******;
But again, to which itself, as credulous, and soulless victim, thou couldst serenely fall;
Thus thou hath perpetually been loyal not, to thy own pride, and neatly sworn words;
Thou art forever divided in his dilemma; and the unforgiving sweat, of thy frightening two worlds.

Indeed thy godlike eyes once pierced me-and touched my very fleshly happiness;
But with a glory in which I couldst not rejoice; at which I couldst not blush with tenderness.
Thy charms, although didst once burn and throttle me with a ripe vitality;
Still wert not smooth-and ever offered to cuddle me more gallantly; nor kiss my boiling lips, more softly.

Every one of t'ese remembrances shall make me hate thee more;
But thou thyself hath made more forgiving, and excellent-like never before;
'Ah, sweet,' thou wouldst again protested-last night, 'Who in t'is very life wouldst make no sin?'
'Forgiveth every sinned soul thereof; for 'tis unfaithful, for 'tis all inherently mean.'

'Aye, aye,' and thou wouldst assent to my subsequent query,
'I hath changed forever-not for nothingness, but for eternitie.'
'To me love o' gold is now but nothing as succulent',
'I shall offer elegantly myself to not be of any more torment, but as a loyal friend.'

'I shall calleth my former self mad; and be endued with nothing but truths, of rifles and hate;'
'But now I shall attempt to be obedient; and naughty not-towards my fate.'
'Ah, let me amendst thereof-my initial nights, my impetuous mistakes,'
'Let me amendst what was once not dignified; what was once said as false, and fake.'

'So t'at whenst autumn once more findeth its lapse, and in its very grandness arrive,'
'I hopeth thy wealth of love shall hath been restored, and all shall be alive,'
'For nothing hath I attempted to achieve, and for nothing else I hath struggled to strive;'
'But only to propose for thy affection; and thy willingness to be my saluted wife.'

And t'is small confession didst, didst tear my dear heart into pieces!
But canst I say-it was ceremoniously established once more-into settlements of wishes;
I was soon enlivened, and no longer blurred by tumult, nor discourteous-hesitation;
Ah, thee, so sweetly thou hath consoled, and removed from me-the sanctity of any livid strands of my dejection.

For in vain I thought-had I struggled, to solicit merely affection-and genuinity from thee;
For in vain I deemed-thou couldst neither appreciate me-nor thy coral-like eyes, couldst see;
And t'is peril I perched myself in was indeed dangerous to my night and day;
For it robbed me of my mirth; and shrank insolently my pride and conscience, stuffing my wholeness into dismay.

But thou hath now released me from any further embarkation of mineth sorrow;
Thou who hath pleased me yesterday; and shall no more be distant-tomorrow;
Thou who couldst brighten my hours by jokes so fine-and at times, ridiculous;
Thou who canst but, from now on, as satisfactory, irredeemable, and virtuous.

Ah, Nikolaas, farther I shall be no more to calleth thee mad; or render thee insidious;
Thou shall urge me to forget everything, as hating souls is not right, and perilous;
Thou remindeth me of forgiving's glorious, and profound elegance;
And again 'tis the holiest deed we ought to do; the most blessed, and by God-most desired contrivance.

Oh, my sweet, perhaps thou hath sinned about; but amongst the blessed, thou might still be the most blessed;
For nothing else but gratitude and innocence are now seen-in thy chest;
Even when I chastised thee-and called thee but an impediment;
Thou still forgave me, and turned myself back again into elastic merriment.

Thou art now pure-and not by any means meek, but cruel-like thy old self is;
For unlike 'tis now, it couldst never be satisfied, nor satiated, nor pleased;
'Twas far too immersed in his pursuit of bloodied silver, and gold;
And to love it had grown blind, and its greedy woes, healthily too bold.

And just like its bloodied silver-it might be but the evil blood itself;
For it valued, and still doth-every piece with madness, and insatiable hunger;
Its works taint his senses, and hastened thee to want more-of what thou couldst procure-and have,
But it realised not that as time passed by, it made thee but grew worse-and in the most virtuous of truth, no better.

But thou bore it like a piece of godlike, stainless ivory;
Thou showered, and endured it with love; and blessed it with well-established vanity.
Now it hath been purified, and subdued-and any more teaches thee not-how to be impatient, nor imprudent;
As how it prattled only, over crude, limitless delights; and the want of reckless impediments.

Thou nurtured it, and exhorted it to discover love-all day and night;
And now love in whose soul hath been accordingly sought, and found;
And led thee to absorb life like a delicate butterfly-and raiseth thy light;
The light thou hath now secured and refined within me; and duly left me safe, and sound.

Thou hath restored me fully, and made me feel but all charmed, awesome, and way more heavenly;
Thou hath toughened my pride and love; and whispered the loving words he hath never spoken to me.
Ah, I hope thou art now blessed and safely pampered in thy cold, mischievous Amsterdam;
Amsterdam which as thou hath professed-is as windy, and oft' makes thy fingers grow wildly numb.

Amsterdam which is sick with superior lamentations, and fame;
But never adorned with exact, or at least-honest means of scrutiny;
For in every home exists nothing but bursts of madness, and flames;
And in which thereof, lives 'twixt nothing-but meaningless grandeur, and a poorest harmony.

Amsterdam which once placed thee in pallid, dire, and terrible horror;
Amsterdam which gave thy spines thrills of disgust, and infamous tremor;
But from which thou wert once failed, fatefully, neither to flee, nor escape;
Nor out of whose stupor, been able to worm thy way out, or put which, into shape.

But I am sure out of which thou art now delightful-and irresistibly fine;
For t'ere is no more suspicion in thy chest-and all of which hath gone safely to rest;
All in thy very own peace-and the courteous abode of our finest poetry;
Which lulls thee always to sleep-and confer on thee forever, degrees of a warmest, pleasantry.

Ah, Nikolaas-as thou hath always been, a child of night, but born within daylight;
Poor-poor child as well, of the moon, whose life hath been betrayed but by dullness, and fright.
Ah, Nikolaas-but should hath it been otherwise-wouldst thou be able to see thine light?
And be my son of gladness, be my prince of all the more peaceful days; and ratified nights.

And should it be like which-couldst I be the one; the very one idyll-to restore thy grandeur?
As thou art now, everything might be too blasphemous, and in every way obscure;
But perhaps-I couldst turn every of thine nightmare away, and maketh thee secure;
Perhaps I couldst make thee safe and glad and sleep soundly; perfectly ensured.

Ah, Nikolaas! For thy delight is pure-and exceptionally pure, pure, and pure!
And thy innocence is why I shall craft thee again in my mind, and adore thee;
For thy absurdity is as shy, and the same as thy purity;
But in thy hands royalty is unstained, flawless, and just too sure.

For in tales of eternal kingdoms-thou shalt be the dignified king himself;
Thou shalt be blessed with all godly finery, and jewels-which thou thyself deserve;
And not any other tyrant in t'ese worlds-who mock ot'er souls and pretend to be brave;
But trapped within t'eir own discordant souls, and wonders of deceit and curses of reserve.

Oh, sweet-sweet Nikolaas! Please then, help my poetry-and define t'is heart of me!
Listen to its heartbeat-and tellest me, if it might still love thee;
Like how it wants to stretch about, and perhaps touch the moonlight;
The moonlight that does look and seem to far, but means still as much-to our very night.

Ah! Look, my darling-as the moonlight shall smile again, to our resumed story;
If our story is, in unseen future, ever truly resumed-and thus shall cure everything;
As well t'is unperturbed, and still adorably-longing feeling;
The feeling that once grew into remorse-as soon as thou stomped about, and faraway left me.

Again love shall be, in thy purest heart-reincarnated,
For 'tis the only single being t'at is wondrous-and inexhaustible,
To our souls, 'tis but the only salvation-and which is utterly edible,
To console and praise our desperate beings-t'at were once left adrift, and unheartily, infuriated.

Love shall be the cure to all due breathlessness, and trepidations;
Love shall be infallible, and on top of all, indefatigable;
And love shall be our new invite-to the recklessness of our exhausted temptations;
Once more, shall love be our merit, which is sacred and unalterable; and thus unresentful, and infallible.

Love shall fill us once more to the brim-and make our souls eloquent;
Love be the key to a life so full-and lakes of passion so ardent;
Enabling our souls to flit about and lay united hands on every possible distinction;
Which to society is perhaps not free; and barrier as they be, to the gaiety of our destination.

Thus on the rings of union again-shall our dainty hearts feast;
As though the entire world hath torn into a beast;
But above all, they shan't have any more regrets, nor hate;
Or even frets, for every fit of satisfaction hath been reached; and all thus, hath been repaid.

Thus t'is might be thee; t'at after all-shall be worthy of my every single respect;
As once thou once opened my eyes-and show me everything t'at t'is very world might lack.
Whilst thou wert striving to be admirable and strong; t'is world was but too prone and weak;
And whilst have thy words and poetry; everyone was just perhaps too innocent-and had no clue, about what to utter, what to speak.

Thou might just be the very merit I hath prayed for, and always loved;
Thou might hath lifted, and relieved me prettily; like the stars very well doth the moon above.
And among your lips, lie your sweet kisses t'at made me live;
A miracle he still possesses not; a specialty he might be predestined not-to give.

Thou might be the song I hath always wanted to written;
But sadly torn in one day of storm; and thus be secretly left forgotten;
Ah, Nikolaas, but who is to say t'at love is not at all virile, easily deceived, and languid?
For any soul saying t'at might be too delirious, or perhaps very much customary, and insipid.

And in such darkness of death; thou shalt always be the tongue to whom I promise;
One with whom I shall entrust the very care of my poetry; and ot'er words of mouth;
One I shall remember, one I once so frightfully adored, and desired to kiss;
One whose name I wouldst celebrate; as I still shall-and pronounce every day, triumphantly and aggressively, out loud.

For thy name still rings within me with craze, but patterned accusation, of enjoyment;
For thy art still fits me into bliss, and hopeful expectations of one bewitching kiss;
Ah, having thee in my imagination canst turn me idle, and my cordial soul-indolent;
A picture so naughty it snares my whole mind-more than everything, even more than his.

Oh, Nikolaas, and perhaps so thereafter, I shall love, and praise thee once more-like I doth my poetry;
For as how my poetry is, thou art rooted in me already; and thus breathe within me.
Thou art somehow a vein in my blood, and although fictitious still-in my everyday bliss;
Thou art worth more than any other lov

The stars still shone last night, and tasted pretty like my last sonnet;
And I still loved thee; and imagined thee 'fore I retreated to bed.
Ah, but thou know not-thou wert envied by t'at squeaking trivial moon;
It seduced and befriended thee; but took away thy sickly love too soon.
Ah, t'at moon which was burnt by jealousy, and still perhaps is,
Took away thy love-which, if only willing to grow; couldst be dearer than his.
But too thy love, which hath-since the very outset, been mostly repulsive and arduous;
And loving thee was but altogether too customary, and at gullible times, odious.
Ah, but how I was too innocent-far too innocent, was I!
Why didst I stupidly keepeth loving thee-whose soul was but too sore, and intense-with lies?
And at t'is very moment, every purse of stale dejection leapt away from me;
Within t'eir private grounds of madness; but evaporating accusations.
Ah, so t'at thou desired me not-and thus art deserving not of me;
But why didst I resist not still-thy awkwardness, and glittering sensations?
Oh, I feeleth uncivil now-for I should hath been too mad not at the moon;
For taking away thy petty threads, and curdling winds, out of me-too soon.
And for robbing my gusts, and winds, and pale storms of bewitching-yet baffling, affection;
But in fact thrusting me no more, into the realms of death; and t'eir vain alteration.
Ah, thee, so how I couldst once have awaited thee, I never knoweth;
For perhaps I shall be consumed, and consequently greeteth immediate death; within the fatal blushes of tomorrow.
But still-nothing of me shall ever objecteth to t'is tale of blue horror, and chooseth to remain;
And I shall distracteth thee not; and bindeth my path into t'at one of thy feet-all over again.
Once more, I shall be dimmed by my mirthlessness and catastrophes and sorrow;
Yet thankfully I canst becometh glad, for all my due virtues, and philanthropic woes.

I shall be wholly pale, and unspeaking all over me-just like someone dead;
And out of my mouth wouldst emergeth just tears-and perhaps little useless, dusty starlings;
I shall hath no more pools or fits or even filths of healthy blood, nor breath;
I shall remembereth not, the enormous fondness, and overpowering passions; for our future little darlings.
For my love used to be chilly, but warm-like t'ose intuitive layers behind the sky;
But thou insisted on keeping silent and uncharmed-a frightfulness of sight; I never knew why.
Now t'at I hath returned everything-and every single terseness to my heart;
I shall no more wanteth thee to pierce me, and breaketh my gathered pride, and toil, apart.
For I am no more of a loving soul, and my whole fate is bottomless and tragic;
I canst only be a lover for thee, whenst I am endorsed; whenst I feeleth poetic.
I shall drowneth myself deep into the very whinings of my misery;
I shall curseth but then lift myself again-into the airs of my own poetry.
For the airs of whom might only be the sources of love I hath,
For t'is real world of thine, containeth nothing for me but wrath;
Ah, and those skies still screameth towards me, for angering whose ****** foliage;
Whenst t'ose lilies and grapes of my soul are but mercifully asleep on my part.
I wanteth to be mad; but not any careless want now I feeleth-of cherishing such rage;
For I believeth not in ferocity; but forgiveness alone-which rudely shineth on me, but easeth my painful heart.
I hath ceased to believe in my own hand; now furnished with discomfort;
But still I hath to fade away, and thus cut t'is supposedly long story short.
I hath been burned by thee, and flown wistfully into thy Hell;
But so wisheth me all goodness; and that I shall surviveth well.
And just now-at t'is very moment of gloom; I entreateth t'at thou returneth to her, and fasteneth yon adored golden ring;
For it bringst thee gladness, which is to me still sadly too dear, everything.

Ah! Look! Look still-at t'ose streaks of blueness-which are still within my poetry on thee;
But I shall removeth them, and blesseth them with deadness; so that thou shalt once more be young, and free.
For what doth thee want from me-aside from unguarded liberty, and unintimate-yet wondrous, freedom?
For thou might as well never thinketh of me during thy escape;
And forever considereth me but an insipid flying parachute-to thy wide stardom;
Which deserveth not one single stare; as thou journeyeth upon whose dutiful circular shape.
And a maidservant; a wretched ale *****-within thy inglorious kingdom;
Which serveth but soft butter and cakes, to her-thy beloved, as she peacefully completeth her poem.
The poem she shall forceth to buy from me-with a few stones of emerald;
To which I shall sternly refuseth-and on which my hands receiveth t'ose climactic bruises.
For she, in her reproof-shall hit me thereof, a t'ousand times; and a harlot me, she shall calleth;
And storm away within t'at frock of endless purpleness; and a staggering laugh on her cheeks.
And I-I shall be thy anonymous poet, whose phrases thou at times acquireth, at nighttime-but never read;
A bedroom bard, in whose poetry thou shalt not findeth pleasures, and to which thou shalt never sit.
A jolly wish thou shalt never, in thy lifetime, cometh anyhow-to comprehend-nor appreciate;
But should I still continueth my futility; for poetry is my only diligent haven, and mate.
In which I shall never be bound to doubteth, much less hesitateth;
For in poetry t'ere only is brilliance; and embrace in its workings of fate.
And sadly, a servant as I am-on her vanity should I needst to forever wait, and flourish;
To whom my importance, either dire profoundness-is no more t'an a tasty evening dish.
And my presence by thee is perhaps something she cannot relish;
I know not how thou couldst fall for a dame-so disregarded and coquettish!
To whom all the world is but hers; and everything else is thus virtual;
So t'at hypocrisy is accepted, as how glory is thus defined as refusal.
But sometimes I cometh to regret thy befallen line of glory, and untoward destiny;
I shall, like ever, upon which remembrance, desireth to save thee, and bringst thee safely, to eternity.
But even t'is thought of thee shall maketh me twitch with burning disgust;
For I hath gradually lost my affection for thee; either any passion t'at canst tumultously last.
And shall I never giveth myself up to any further fatigue-nor let thy future charms drag me away;
For I hath spent my abundant time on thy poetry-and all t'ose useless nights and days;
As thou shalt regard me not-for my whole cautiousness, nor dear perseverance-and patience;
Thou shalt, like ever, stay exuberant, but thinketh me a profound distress-a wild and furious, impediment.
Thou hath denied me but my most exciting-and courteous nights;
And upon which-I shall announce not; any sighs of willingness-to maketh thee again right;
nor to helpeth thee see, and obediently capture, thy very own eager light.

And when thy idiocy shall bringst thee the most secure-yet most amatory of disgrace, turn to me not;
I hath refused any of thine, and wisheth to, perfunctorily-kisseth thee away from my lot,
I shall writeth no more on thy eloquence-for thou hath not any,
As nothing hath thou shown; nothing but falsehood-hath thou performed, to me.
Thou hath given none of those which is to me but virulent-and vital;
Thou art not eternal like I hath expected-nor thy bitter soul is immortal.
Thou art mortal-and when in thy deft last seconds returneth death;
Thou, in remorse, shalt forever be spurned by thy own deceit, and dizzily-spinning breath,
And after which, there shall indeed be no more seconds of thine-ah, truly no more;
Thou shalt be all gone and ended, just like hath thou once ended mine-one moment before.
All t'at was once unfair shall turneth just, and accordingly, fair;
For God Himself is fair-and only to the honest offereth His chairs;
But the limbs of Heaven shall not be pictured, nor endowed in thee;
To thee shall be opened the gate of fires, as how thou hath impetuously incarnated in me.
No matter how beautiful they might be-still thy bliss shall flawlessly be gone,
Thou shalt be tortured and left to thy own disclosure, and mock discourses-all alone.
For no mortality shall be ensured foreverness-much less undead togetherness;
As how such a tale of thy dull, and perhaps-incomprehensible worldliness.
By t'at time thou shalt hath grown mature, but sadly 'tis all too late;
For thou hath mocked, and chastised away brutally-all the truthful, dearest workings of fate.
And neither shalt thou be able to enjoy-the merriments of even yon most distant poetry;
For unable shalt thou be-to devour any more astonishment; at least those of glory.
And thus the clear songs of my soul shall not be any of thy desired company;
Thy shall liveth and surviveth thy very own abuse; for I shall wisheth not to be with thee;
For as thou said, to life thou, by her being, art the frequented life itself;
Thus thou needst no more soul; nor being bound to another physical self;
And t'is shall be the enjoyment thou hath so indolently, yet factually pursued-in Hell;
I hope thou shalt be safe and free from hunger-and t'at she, after all, shall attendeth to thee well.

And who said t'at joys are forbidden, and adamantly perilous?
For t'ose which are perilous are still the one lamented over earth;
For in t'ose divine delights nothing shall be too stressful, nor by any means-studious;
For virtues are pure, and the walls of our future delights are brighter t'an yon grey hearth;
And be my soul happy, for I hath not been blind; nor hath I misunderstood;
I hath always been useful-by my writing, and my sickened womanhood;
Though I hath never possessed-and perhaps shall never own, any truthful promise, nor marriage bliss;
Still I longeth selfishly to hear stories-of eternal dainty happiness, for the dainty secret peace.
Ah, thee, for after thee-there shall perhaps no being to be written on-in yon garden;
A thought t'at filleth me not with peace, but shaketh my whole entity with a new burden.
Oh, my thee, who hath left me so heartlessly, but the one whom I hath never regarded as my enemy-
The one I hath loved so politely, tenderly, and all the way charmingly.
Ah! Ah! Ah! But why, my love, why didst thou turn t'is pretty love so ugly?
I demandeth not any kind purity, nor any insincere pious beauty,
But couldst thou heareth not t'is heart-which had longed for the one of thine-so subserviently and purely?
For I am certainly the one most passionately-and indeed devotedly-loving thee,
For I am adorable only so long as thou sleepeth, and breatheth, beside me,
For I am admired only by the west winds of thy laugh, and the east winds of thy poetry!
Ah, but why-why hath thou stormed away so mercilessly like t'is;
And leaving me alone to the misery of this world, and my indefinite past tears?
Ah, thee, as how prohibited by the laws of my secret heaven,
Thus I shall painteth thee no more in my poesies, nor any related pattern;
There, in t'is holy dusk's name, shall be spoiled only by the waves of God's upcoming winters,
In the shapes of rain, and its grotesque, ye' tenacious-and horrifying eternal thunders.
And thus t'ese lovesick pains shall be blurred into nothingness-and existeth no more,
But so shall thy image-shall withereth away, and reeketh of death, like never before.
For I shall never be good enough to afford thee any vintage love-not even tragedy,
For in thy minds I am but a piece of disfigured silver; with a heart of unmerited, and immature glory;
Ah, pitiful, pitiful me! For my whole life hath been black and dark with loneliness' solitary ritual,
And so shall it always be-until I catch death about; so grey and white behind t'ose unknown halls.
And shall perhaps no-one, but the earth itself-mourneth over my fading of breath,
They shall cheereth more-upon knowing t'at I am resting eternally now, in the hands of death.
And no more comical beat shall be detected, likewise, within my poet's wise chest;
For everything hath gone to t'eir own abode, to t'eir unbending rest.
But I indeed shall be great-and like an angel, be given a provisionary wing;
By t'is poetry on thee-the last words of mouth I speaketh; the final sonata I singeth.

Thus thou art wicked, wicked, wicked-and shall forever be wicked;
Thou art human, but at heart inhuman-and blessed indeed, with no charming mortal aura;
Thou wert once enriched indeed-by my blood, but thy soul itself is demented;
And halved by its own wronged purity, thou thus art like a villainous persona;
Thou art still charmed but made unseeing, and chiefly-invisible;
Unfortunately thou loathe scrutiny, and any sort of mad poetry;
Knowing not that poetry is forever harmless, and on the whole-irresistible;
And its tiny soul is on its own forgiving, estimable, and irredeemable.
Ah, thee, whose soul hath but such a great appeal;
But inanely strained by thy greed-which is like a harm, but to thee an infallible, faithful devil.
Thou art forever a son of night, yet a corpse of morn;
For darkness thriveth and conquereth thy soul-and not reality;
Just like her heart which is tainted with tantrum, and scorn;
Unsweet in her glory, and thy being-but strangely too strong to resist-to thee.
Ah, and so t'at from my human realms thou dwelleth immorally too far;
As art thou unjust-for t'is imagination of thine hath left nothing, but a wealth of scars;
I used to recklessly idoliseth thee, and findeth in thy impure soul-the purest idyll;
But still thou listened not; and rejected to understandeth not, what I wouldst inside, feel.
After all, though t'ese disclaimers, and against prayers-hath I designated for thee;
On my virtues-shall I still loyally supplicate; t'at thou be forgiven, and be permitted-to yon veritable, eternity.

True love, so rare to find
Those that findeth it, are they that are a match made in heaven
These, rare like a gemstone of class A
Are unselfish, compromise, care
Share what they have and give without expecting anything in return
They feel the pain of their partner, and laugh at silly things
These are forgiving and always ready to lend a hand
They make it easy to live with and are not ashamed to show their feelings
They smile when hurt, and don't count the wrongs
Nor do they hold grudges
Are not bitter or angry
They are supportive and pray for their partner
They encourage, challenge and criticise with love
They don't look down or think better of themselves but in humility acknowledge that they themselves are weak
They are like an oasis in a desert
Like a cold glass of water given in a heat wave
They are like a rare Ruby, Green garnet, Amethyst, a gemstone of highest quality
Who findeth?

I prayed with light voices, but a burdened heart;
You are not here--that I am supposed to know of.
But still, my mind cannot accept that we are now apart.
I am despaired by my own hands, by my own love;
Your images keep shrouding me--you keep haunting me.
Your portraits shout your name, but none of ‘em is truthful;
They reject my bliss, though they told me I was beautiful.
I keep looking for you in the shades: but all I find is blueness,
And as daylight grows mature, I feel but scarce and clueless;
I am entrapped by my own wishes, and I can no longer write.
Ah, ‘tis over now--I should declare;
I walk home and sleep, and decide I should no more be in love--
Some sheer charms I might better not be.

I was running across the moors, and secretly hoped I would find thee there;
Thee with thy own giggles and mockery and childish wishes;
Thee with a resemblance of moonlit skies on thy face.
Thee with a thousand arches in thy brown eyes;
Eyes that were genuine, hopeful; with spirits that would not die.
And those lithe hands; and thy handful of full lips;
Thou always startled me within thy black jacket,
Yes, that black jacket with gruesome naughty little pockets,
Thou always asked me to chase around the bogs;
While peering naively into the hidden summer spider webs.
Thou woke me up with thy morn noises;
Thou wanted to tell me a tale of castles, friendship, and promises.
Thee with a thousand smiles, hopes, and legitimate fears;
Thee with the sweetness of a moonbeam, thee with one hundred kisses.
Thou wert like a lonesome butterfly at first;
And on a shiny day I but caught thee;
and weaved my colourful love onto thy plain nest.
Thou shined again, and I felt but merited;
As time passed, I grew hungrier for thee--and always delighted;
Thou wert a summer to a pleasant summer itself;
Thou made my heart warm, and my seasons magnified.
Even my lavenders were stupefied by thy cleverness;
They were warm always, to welcome and greet thee at night.
Ah, my darling, my half spirit, my sweet;
Thou owned the second spare of my green light;
Thou wert my frost at conned summers, and mild winters;
Thou wert the white snow I played with--and its evening rainbow!
Ah, and at times--thou wert like a nature among yon shrieking green grass;
I smiled always, as I entrapped thee within my clear glass.

I should twist this story away, and welcome him;
Welcome whoever shines through my love--in reality, and in dreams.
I know I hath to celebrate him behind the furnace;
I shall smile sweetly and charm him by my maiden’s face.
He hath a lovely aura as the unheeded stars;
And his steps are awkward, but stately as the moon’s.
He hath smooth and virile advantages about him;
He hath a weather, but still he hath not thy playful air.
He is serious, thou art more festive and thoughtful;
He is cordial, but I findeth him at times uninnate and insoluble.
Ah, Immortal, he liveth but in a cold bubble away from me;
And so you know, the love of him is but a love of pain;
Sometimes I want to find thy face in his poetry;
Sometimes I want to see again, but your fairness.
Thy heart is, as thou hath figured, widespread within me;
It ambushes me and glides me around like a cheeky star;
But as thou gazed into me,
I found that thy charms were absolute;
I pampered this notion of thee--as I still do;
Thou wert my nymphic and immortal dream;
Thou art my sane and insane ambition;
Thou art my sand, my boats, my sails!
Thou art the sea worth a thousand miles;
And I care not what foul and fuzziness thy soul might carry;
I shall purify thee, I shall endorse thee, I shall welcome thee into my lonely heart!
Ah, Immortal, I am but a spoiled of ruins and wreckage now;
As I woke up t'is very morn, I knew I wouldst not see you tomorrow.
And guess now--how shall I define our once glossy, faint Sofia?
I do not want to pronounce to Sofia, ah, our very dwellings, a goodbye;
I shall never pronounce such; and on t’is I shall care for thy sayings not--
As telling such wouldst indeed be a remarkable lie.
Instead, I should dream again, of being by your side;
I shall be the terrified mermaid--but thee--my gentle merman;
We shall swim across the sea and startle the aquatics by our depth;
And thereon I shall dream of myself cherishing you--and holding you in my arms;
As I pray and bow and submit the rhapsodies of my heart, all day and night.

Ah, but where is Immortal, Immortal, Immortal;
Without whom my heart is bleak; and winters are hard.
Ah, Immortal; by whom rains are pretty, and colours are magnificently saturated;
By whom storms are no more storms, and no more downpours are petty;
By whom lakeside houses are not cold, and slippery rocks are not frightful;
By whom birch trees shall sing, and honey bees shall farm away for hours.
Ah, Immortal, by whom my poetry stays alive, and fed tranquilly by yon earth;
Immortal, by whose lullabies I fall asleep among the midnight’s icy hearth.
Immortal, whom my heart values, and urges me to love;
Immortal, by whose side debris are whole, and ruins picture unity;
Ah, Immortal, by whose singing melodies are songs, and rhythms are but poetry.
Immortal, Immortal, Immortal, by whose words--the entire worlds are but Sofia;
And all merit and grace but belong to the romantic Bulgaria.
Immortal my entire darling; who taught me to see how the moon teases the sun;
And how the latter becomes fainted but mirthful, at t’is very realisation.
Ah, Immortal, Immortal, Immortal, by whose absence I feel but frightened.
Ah, Immortal, do you think I should hurry--shall I fleet and run?
I shall meet thee again tonight, around the corner by the lake;
Before such an eve grows genuine--causing the day to turn fake.
I should meet thee before everything is but feasted and pierced;
And I shall bringeth thee my midnight poems and soliloquy;
I shall embrace thee by my myths, and relish thee within my solitude.
I shall make thee remain by my side, and keep shady thy burly night;
I shall, perhaps, make thee my mirth itself--I shall keep thee warm, and safe, and bright.
Ah, Immortal, one who was always aired by my fresh recitations;
One who was entrenched in my tales of craze, atrocity, and vanity;
One who cried by me like a selfish child--but at times, became the radiance itself.
Ah, Immortal, one within whose palms the moon is transparent;
And the harmony of night becomes more possible;
Ah, my darling Immortal, who was once infatuated with my nights--and 'twas apparent;
Oh, my darling, my own darling, my very darling--how I hath only words to play with!

Where is but Immortal, Immortal, Immortal,
My jokes cannot sleep, and even my eyes choose to stay awake.
My heart feels absurd, as it is not calmed and soothed by him;
Even as I can sleep no more, I am but unable to edify him in my dreams.
Ah, where is my Immortal--for as I scurry outside, I cannot locate him;
While he is but the golden lock I need to deliberate my heart.
Ah, my husband, who owns but the charms heartbeat cannot describe;
Ah, Immortal, by thy words--thou knoweth, vanished worlds are real to me today.
The rush of your blood still, knowingly, flows within my breath;
You look like that little lad proudly standing by yon bridge faraway.
Immortal, my little sound, my eager song, my profound lilac;
How shall you ever know what you mean to my heart?
To me, you are more than any gold, brown silver, nor white bronze;
You are my tears, my growth, and the height of my winter;
You own the youth and throne my heart hath always longed for.
Ah, Immortal, no matter how hard thou hath defeated--and perhaps, betrayed me;
Thou art still more immortal than a thousand suns outside;
And more mature than t’is benighted winter as it already is.
Ah, Immortal, 'tis hath grown silent again, and I need to greet my lavish worlds;
But for you know--your scent shall remain better than the sun's on its own, and more lively.
Ah, Immortal, and while those winds shriek, and hop, and wail;
‘Tis your voice still, that I but imagine in my *****;
And while their spread and take rule of their wings;
Thou shalt remain by prince, my ruler--the one I choose to be my king.

My heart hath borne thee since I was in her womb;
My mother's chaste womb--and there, just there--
I had but been formed by her sheepish threads.
Ah, and thus I heart her like t’is-but not as much as I heart thee, perhaps;
If I doth dream of her; it meaneth I'd but dream of thee;
And thou knoweth--my dreams of winter shall be but one about thee;
About thee--my vigour, my shadow in my traces, my vengeful spirit.
Ah, Immortal, Immortal, Immortal; my century of blessings, my time
and poetry of such an endless eternity.
Ah, Immortal, in whose heart there was purity;
And in whose love I felt reified, and no such tyranny,
Ah, and t’is loss of thee perhaps means a life of illness;
A time of neglect, but a loss of my valid youth.
I want not to age, for thou art, thyself, young and ageless and immortal;
I want to dwell but only in yon Paradise of thee;
And be fueled solely but thy desire, and not anyone else's.
Ah, Immortal, I want to feel but the flavour of thy skin;
And be engrossed but against thy stomach.
I want to be thy lily, and thy novel rose that shall never wither;
Ah, Immortal, I want to be little again; and thy most awesome lavender.

And thy blame--such as t'is one, shall mean a brawl to my destiny;
And its glam is but my fiery--while insuperable--destruction.
As I promised thee--I shall not be weary, I shall not be sad;
But never shall I love, never shall I be satisfied.
Ah, Immortal, I shall never agree to love again;
I want to keep my love for thee; for whom I shall advocate my youth,
I want never to share my trembling love with anyone else.
As I hath loved thee just now, perhaps I shall love thee forever;
Ah, Immortal, as how it usually is, thou shall be the sailor-
And ever the painter, in our very own colloquial poetry!

Immortal, my grace, my perambulations, my ecstasy;
Immortal, my good, my one, my irrepressible;
I hath fulfilled thy wishes, at least at present, to bear t'is alone;
But for you know, that life without thee is no Paradise;
And even when I am dead, perhaps my soul shall never lie;
I shall wander the earth still--to look for thee, my tears and my lost love;
And insofar as thou remaineth away, I shall too stay on earth; and never ascend above.

Ah, Coventry, thou art but dead now-to me;
Thy life is not alive, and thy winds are too cold
Thou art as filthy as dust can be, and eyes might see;
Thy hearts are too bold, and to greed-your soul hath been sold.
And I want not, to be pictured by thy odd art;
For than oddness itself, 'tis even paler, and more odd;
And 'tis not honest, and full of disputing fragments;
Gratuitous in its earnest, talkative in each of its sort.
Ah, Coventry, I shall go, and catch up-with the strings of my story,
Which thou hath destroyed for the sake of thy fake harmony;
And in my tears lie thy most fragrant joys, and delightful sleep,
Which thou findeth tantalising, but idyllic-and satisfactory.
Ah, Coventry, go away-from my sight, as I solve my misery;
T'is misery thou hath assigned to, and dissolved over me,
I bid thee now fluently blow away from my face;
With a spitefulness so rare, and not to anyone's care nor taste;
And doth not thou question me, no more, about my tasks-or simply, my serenity;
For thou hath fooled me, and testified not-to my littlest serendipity,
You who claimed then, to be one of my dearest friends;
And now whom I detest-cannot believe I trusted thee back then.
And my soul! My soul-hath been a tangled ball-in thy feeble hands;
Colourless like a stultified falsehood, blundering like a normal fiend.

For on thy stilted dreadfulness at night, I hath stepped;
For in front of thy heterogeneous eves, I hath bluntly slept.
I had tasted thy water, and still my tongue is not satisfied;
I had swum in thy pages, but still my blood is not glorified.
Among thy boughs-then I dared, to solidify my fingers;
But still I couldst not bring thee alive, nor comprehend thy winters.
Instead I was left teased, and as confused as I had used to be;
I couldst find not peace, nor any saluted vehemence, in thee.
Ah, I am exhausted; I am brilliantly, and sufficiently, exhausted!
I am like torture itself-and if I was a plant, I wouldst have no bough,
For my branches wouldst be sore and demented,
For my foliage wouldst be tentative and rough.
I hath been ratified only by thy rage and dishonour;
I hath been flirted only, with thy rude hours.
And my poems thou hath insolently rejected,
And my honest lies thou hath instantaneously abused.
Thou consoled me not, and instead went furtive by my wishes;
Thou returned not my casual affection, and crushed my hope for sincere kisses.
I hath solemnly ratified thee, and praised thy music by my ears,
Yet still I twitch-as my sober heart then grows filled with tears.
Ah, thou hath betrayed, betrayed me!
Thy grief is even enhanced now-look at the way thou glareth by my knee!
O, Coventry, how couldst thou betray me-just whenst my time shivered and stopped in thine,
Thou defiled me so firmly; and disgraced the ****** poetry bitterly in thy mind,
As though it wouldst be the sole nightmare thou couldst 'ver find!
Ah, Coventry! Thou art cruel, cruel, and forever cruel!
Thou hath disliked me-like I am a whole scoundrel;
Whenst I but wanted to show thee t'at my poetry was safe, and kept no fever at all;
But no other than an endorsement of thy merriment, and funny disguises for thy reposes.
Ah, how couldst be thou be so remorseful-how couldst thou cheat me, and pray fervently-for my fall!
And to thee, only greed is true-and its satisfaction is thy due virtue,
For in my subsequent poetry, still thou shalt turn away-and scorn me once more;
With menace and retorts simply too immune, and perhaps irksome loath-like never before.

Ah, but how far shall thy distaste for me ever go?
Thou who hath blurred me-'fore even seeing my dawn,
'Fore even lurching forward, to merely glance at my town.
Thou art but afar, and now shall never enter my heaven,
For victory is no longer my shadow, 'tis to which I shall return.
I am like a shame behind thy glossy red curtain,
I am a pit whom thou couldst only befall, and joylessly spurn.
But ah! Still I am blessed, within my imperfection-thou knoweth it not?
I am blessed by the airs-and wealthy Edens of the Almighty, thou seeth t'is not?
He who hath the care, and pride anew-to cut thy story short,
He who hath listened to my cores, and shall deliver me from thy resort.
T'us I shall be afraid not, of thy wobbly tunes-and thy greedy notes!
For humility is in my heart, though probably thou hath cursed me;
And bidden me to let my soul detach, and run astray,
Still I shall find my fertile love, and go away;
I shall bring him away-away from thy abrupt coldness-and headless dismay;
I shall nurse and love him again-like I hath done yesterday, and even today;
And in t'is, I shall carest not for what thou might say to me later-day after day.
For as far as I shall go, my poetry t'an shall entail me;
And thus follow the liveliness, and scrutiny-of my merritorious paths only,
And in the name of Him, shall love thee and rejoice in thee not;
But within my soul, it shall recklessly, but patiently-do them both;
'Tis my very goal it shall accomplish,
And for my very romance, shall it sketch up altogether-such a mature bliss.
I should dance, thereof-just like a reborn female swan;
And forget everything life might contain-including my birth, as though life wouldst just be a lot of fun.

But I shall be alive like my tenderness,
So is my love-he t'at hath brought forth my happiness,
I shall be dressed only in the finest clothes-and he my prince,
As the gem of my soul hath desired our holiness to be, ever since.
Yet still I hope thou wouldst be freed, and granted my virtue,
Though still I doubt about which-for thy fruits are weightless, and to forever remain untrue.
Such be the case, art thou entitled to my current screams,
And blanketed only by my most fearful dreams.
T'is is my curse-in which thou shalt be in danger, but must be obedient,
For curses canst be real-and mine considers thee not, as a faithful friend.
And obedience be not in thee-then thou shalt all be death,
Just like thou hath imprisoned my love, and deceived my breath!
Still-my honesty leads me away, and shall let me receive my triumph;
As so cravingly I hath endured-and tried to reach, in my poems!
Ah, Coventry, unlike the stars-indulged in their tasteful domes,
Even when I am free, in thee I shall never be as joyful-and thus thou, shalt never be my home.

Once more-I am condemned to t'is unmentionable solitude;
And so is my grief-my grief t'at hath been passionately seducing me-of late;
And neither clear dusks, nor vivid twilight, hath helped ease out my mind's servitude;
Even strokes of civil light-to whom I submitteth my visions; on whom I may rest my fate.

Ah, he who was once immortal-and still is,
His suffering is mine-and thus as reeking of malice,
He, who hath the tenderest of charms, and lips;
He, whom my heart abides by, and chooses to keep.

But his whereabouts hath been unknown, and a lie to my whole passage;
Still whenever I roamed yon outside region, he was nowhere within my sight;
He who hath been both sincerity and a malice in his own timeless age;
He who hath been indulged by my morns, and cooed to, by my night's impatient moonlight.

Ah, how canst he be but so unfair?
He left my poetry to myself, within t'is mistaken five-wheeled chair;
I am now anxious, strangely; about my own wealth of poetic torrents;
My mind feels humid, but itself hath been ferociously abused-like the mind of a fiend.

And to him my suffering is dear-for to its shrieks he showeth but contempt;
He laughs at it and locks it away in its misery-with not one drop of shame;
Ah, he is too impulsive to think of farther, and far too lame;
He is too wild-and darkly scented like night; but as well evil, and too slippery, to blame.

Thus I am but pain, and the whole world next to me is fear;
I knoweth I should drifteth away, but my ears, and insides-insisteth on staying here;
As if the crude, lying love were truthful-and easefully sitting near;
And couldst promise to cause me no more tears.

And thinking of thee sheds only more unwanted blood;
And t'is indeed, remains something I wanteth not;
For of which hath been spilled too much, and which hath torn away my heart;
For I shall not any more saint thee; and removeth thee from any further crafted story plot.

And so thou art not to be any farther painted;
For thou hath left any beauty abandoned, and too simperingly hesitated;
Thou made me feel betrayed, and teased my whole, productive solitudes;
Thou sent my glittering heart still; thou faltered my dignity-and more severely, more glorious youth.

Thou tampered with me like thou shalt doth an old proverb;
For thou detestest any poetry; and cursest any defining melodies, or verbs;
Thou tantalized my verses, but mercilessly flew and ran away;
Thou vanished my glimmering worlds; and harmed my cheery authorial days.

And thy accusations of me hath but been too vehement;
Like thou thyself owneth over me a verdurous tyranny;
Thou hath been too proud, whenst thou hath only but a grievous impediment;
And her, who was darkly born as a devil; and in whom there is neither desire, nor humanity.

And like her yesterday, thou art now too proud, and befalleth my private senses of humanity;
As she desired, thou hath now grown selfish, and tender not like before;
Sadly all t'is thou realiseth not, and instead taketh easily as mere profound felicity;
And thy passion hath likewise gone, 'till t'is saddened world ends, and existeth no more.

I am here all madness-madness t'at to its impertinent soul-is brilliant;
Brilliant to t'ose who are blind to feelings, just like his deaf soul perhaps is;
But madness, still I regard-as although infamy, deeply pleasant;
For it shall lead t'is ignored poetry to satisfaction, and widening secret bliss.

But either there is love or not love, shall I respect and be loyal to poetry;
Even though thou chooseth to follow her and forget our whole, significant glory;
I shall keepeth silent, and still be thankful for my taste-and untainted virginity;
I shall be proud of my true doings, and my equanimious love, for thee.

And my love shan't ever be bought at any price, nor even priceless syllable;
As well my triumphant words-for to them, aside from loyalty, nothing more is desirable;
For I believeth rewards are only for them who reserveth, and professeth, loyalty;
And for in every endurance there are charms, and even more agreeable, royalty.

And shalt never ever thou findeth my purity, and love, be tiresomely divided;
For my love is secure, and shall love its beloved all devotedly, and unaided;
My love, as reflected by poetry, is abundant, though sometimes childish-and even soundless;
But still terrific as rainbow, though more silent and tuneless; as one symbol of my loyalty, and truthfulness.

And accordingly, somehow, amongst thy invisibility-I senseth thee still, amongst yon verified air;
Of whose whims I am not afraid; of whose ill threats I was not once scared.
For t'is solitude, and its due poetry I hath undergone-hath deeply had my finest self purified;
For it hath been my friend-and indeed not thee; sadly not thee, for thou thyself hath chosen to be far, and left unspecified.

Like all of those beings, perhaps thou art the one also too silly;
For to love thou stayeth idle, and bothereth not to ever look at-for fear of purifying thy glory;
Thou art still one 'mongst 'em, who claimeth love is no higher than gold;
And thus deserving of me not-for as thou saith-love is trivial, and its seclusion canst be sold.

Kozarev, thou remindeth me of the other one: thy innocence is just as such authenticity that never decays! Thy simplicity, yes-and oft'times omens of languidity, art indeed genuine! O, thy purity which bears no sin! Twists of daring passion that art so listed in thy eyes-brief and witty, yet calming but never at rest. My another, that disheartening past love back then, in the course of many a year ago-is now but a tiny flickering shadow of battered raindrops that I canst only sing of. Like a handful of worn-out ashes, his fatigue is of no more profoundness to me, and shalt it never findeth any further way to my heart. How he turned me-and my confident passion, down! Abrupt kisses as we had, and ah!-light strokes on my hair-all wert terrific, yes, t'ey wert, in th' first place-but suddenly over! But thou, indolent as thou art-docile and hysterical in some lyrical ways-thy soul is but the forest of an unknown world; what a jolly secret cave! Bathed in crisp mystery, engulfed in shallow pathos; a lump of love, young torpor-yet haunting and irredeemable felicity. Untouched as thou art, like a wordless, newborn infant-whose feet art contently groping in soulless darkness-until thou findeth the smiling light itself! O, be it me-be it me, my dear! Thou art but to me a glimpse of wrathless haze; rolling and dancing about as thou always art-in'a sheepish, childish maze.

The irony of the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
As being a European, a foreigner to this land
Not a native, as the original people who art still here,
I shalt speaketh truth, on a topic, the European's here
Don't speaketh of;

I seeith politician's, speaketh of building a higher wall
As tis their art already wall's, lining Mexico and the united states,
I seeith wall's, to tryeth and keepeth out, the original people's.
As tis so many I'll heareth, so many sayeth the quote: ( illegal alien's, art coming over here stealing work) huh? Illegal alien's didst thou sayeth? As if their from another land? Or planet?......

Yet the fact is;
Who art the real quote: ALIENS!!!!
Us, the European's, as tis not mine fault mine parents hath cometh here, as not the other European's fault
That their parent's hath cometh here,
As tis I hath Cherokee in mine blood as well, from mine mother;

Though fact is, here's the truth;
The disgusting fact, noone want's to speaketh of, in
Politic's, in religion, in media, nowhere, is this fact..........

The European's and rich men now leading the country
From the quote: founding Father's, which may be other's founding father's, verily not mine!!!!!! Hath built wall's,
To keepeth out the alien's as many calleth them, in actuality us European's art the alien's, the one's who stole their land, built walls, and fences, and hath polluted their water, wherein water was once blue and green here in the river's and stream's,
As for example; in the town I'm in now, Rossford Ohio, some left from the older generation around here in their nineties Or 80's told me and mine family, the river that sit's behind mine place, native river called the ( maumee river) one fifty years ago people swam in, it was blue they told us, thou couldst seeith the fish inside of it, as children wouldst swim it... Guess what? Now that same river, is brown, is polluted, is poisoned, with the glass factories mess , and dump from work site's, into that river..... It's sickening... As tis the land once was open, free, no border's, no fences, here's the good part, see, the chief's all along this great nation, they all hadst vision's, vision's of these white men coming, as they saw it in spiritual shamanic ceremonies, as they saw the land being stolen, their people murdered by the thousand's, they saw destruction, from what? Men thou calleth thine founding father's? Thieves that hadst cometh here, to build walls? And killeth the native people's who were slaughtered, brought disease, and put on plot's of land a mile big? If even that... As tis they used to roam free, now forced into gvt debt, and the quote founding father's ancestor's and politician's hath given them medal's, as if that wouldst healeth them? No!!! As tis even the natives won't speaketh on this topic much. Though some will.... Fact is , àll went downhill, since the quote: founding Father's raised their flag... On a land not their's, on a land, not mine....though noone speaketh of this harsh truth... History channel hath now shown, with other archeologists, that the original people, now in southern Mexico, the Aztec people, once cameth from the north... Northern America, as in Wisconsin, see, in Wisconsin, their art pyramid's down below a certain lake, rock lake is it's name... The pyramids match the Aztec style as tis there art writings to showeth their presence their.. As come to findeth out; there is a map, sent into a famous Mexican archeological historical advocate, the map showeth on it something the u s gvt hath hid, as they do such much hiding from all of us... The map showeth on salt like, in Utah, is known place for the original Aztec people, purely factual, the story was told, the chief of his clan Aztecs, told his people, that he kneweth the men wouldst cometh to steal the land, so he told them they wouldst stop where the eagle eats the head of the snake...... Wanna know something ironic about that? Well here's proof of that, where the Aztecs now reside, southern Mexico, well Mexico hath a flag, like all have flags... Guess what is on Mexico's flag? An eagle eating a snake head... As chief saidst.... As in old map found in Spanish letters written next to salt lake Utah, read the words ( aztec territory) yet hidden in history purposely, these are harsh truth's, some may not be able to handle this, but when thou calleth one an illegal alien, thinketh who thou art... We art the aliens... as we aren't meant for this land... Though not our fault we were born here... As we must go with the flow as they say... As I loveth this great land, though reality is, I don't belong here.... As tis mine religious  beliefs state anyways, this world is just temporary anyways, noone owns this planet... God does..  Not man...its sickening seeing seeing mine own leader's, building walls to keepeth out ( illegal aliens) as they calleth them, yet were the aliens.... The irony... All for their greedy purposes and power control trip....as the native population hath decreased over fifty percent..Or more then.... Yet we tend to think, this is our place.. . as tis the u.s gvt hath stolen native gold, from their sacred places.... Places not meant to be touched, or dug into, though it's the good warrior's like Geronimo who decided and decides to stand against more such thing's..... As a European, it saddens me to seeith what mine kind hath done... And in this great beautiful sacred land what they still do....... That's harsh truth.... Much truth noone sais . yet I'm one who will......as the man who hath received that map of the Aztec's didst sayeth, he put it perfectly, he saidst ( border's art imaginary, border's art only in ourn mind's) how such truth..... And we wonder why there is differences....

That's harsh honesty.....



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

From the kingdom of death thou wildly run,
as though to die not; as though all shall be fun.
Even though thou might not be as fine as mine,
And hesitate once not, like many other minds.
Under the staggering sun thou art the sun itself;
Unlike the universe any mortal shall never have.
To thee but heaven shall never be adequate,
To thee whom fate shall not mind; but dare not ever bend.
Thou, who deemeth everything is futile and late;
Thou, who hath neither words nor poetry in thy hand.
Thou art at times like a piece of youthful innocent art,
Which amorous feeble hands long to tear apart.
Like a flower t'at grows on the window behind the curtain,
Thou shall return to youth, and be younger-every now and then;
For with thy playfulness thou shall bitterly mock Determination;
Whilst thy childishness shall help thee dream of, and silently miss Salvation.

And whenst all t'is business is to say goodbye;
Thou shall still stay, forever and never die.
For thou art undead, and forever and ever immortal,
No stab canst wound thee, as no torpid wound of thine fatal.
Thou art a fatal prince-yes, a wicked, wicked heir;
Heir of cheerfulness-of a soul so full of spirits yet fairness.
Ah! And so thus thou shall leave behind not t'is worldly affair,
Thou shall be eternally bent upon it, and makest of it, thy happiness.
And when at the very end, all dead souls should awaken and retaliate,
Thou shall stay calmly and twitch not by heaven's wooden gate.
Thy agelessness is a mirage no blunt living soul can afford;
Thou art infallible, unlike the decrees of our dear Lord,
For thou shall never dwell among a thousand earths
And be lain among lilies and roses yonder, of irrevocable green hearth.
Thou art, in any midst of grievousness, cold with mirth;
When there is no more born thou art blessed with anew, birth.

Thus thou art forever unsinned, and shall be so gullible;
Thou art an adult inside; 'spite appearing so weak and feeble.
People canst, by thy comely appearance, fall deaf and misunderstand,
Thinking thee a ruddy friend; a robust and sincere fellow.
But thou art indeed, and in truth-a witty and good-hearted man,
As bold and ever unhesitant, but caring and good-willed, as tomorrow.
Thy naivety thus fights against, and befalls any mercilessness,
Thy delight is but our timid society's frank joyfulness.
And every song is benignly rooted in the delicacy of thy tongue,
To whom thy streams of love, as well as hate, shall belong.
But again, more and more loving hearts shall complain-
For when they fade and ought to disappear; thou shall firmly remain.
And duly thou defeat for evermore any tainted miserable heart,
Especially hearts that hath no beat when they supposedly beat, and are alive.
For thy heart is as fresh, and inevitable-like a solitary work of art,
But innocent and intelligent-like a young sword; or the neat blade, of a cold knife.

So whatever love claims to be love-which is too proud, though clear and sanguine;
Is not at all, or by any chance-pure, tolerable, nor delightfully keen;
For love is not the same as pleasure-as pleasure is not love,
Love is the one no senses canst touch-nor for pride move.
Ah, thee, we canst but teach thee more lessons of love itself;
For there are more than our anxious souls canst tell;
Love is not something t'at canst one satisfy, nor is for one to drink;
For any to satisfy or drink is yon that makes oneself sink.
I figurest above are imminent to thy knowing;
For thou shall still mature more; and be independent in thy living.
For family is still more essential than any money or gold;
To which we humans oftentimes too sternly hold.
Ah, but thy journey is still upwards and steep as a hill;
An endlessness our mortality is but too scared to feel.
So be wise and fill thyself with rich wisdom likewise;
And as thy findeth bitterness on due roads-turn to poetry, and seek its advice.

And so to thee hath a world of supremacy be assigned,
So thus I entreat-t'at be with thee all the reciprocal goodness-and dexterity!
Ah, and by thy cleverness shall all be mutually aligned,
For naive thou art still, about the very course of extremity!
But severity shall not burden thee, as to thy endurance and good will,
Thy willingness to share, and rely and lean on how such fellows feel.
Thou refilleth 'em always, with endless and plentiful splendours,
Thou cheereth 'eir minutes, and stay comely at all 'eir breathing hours.
As every single day's dates themselves, thou art undeniable;
Thou art real in thy eternity, though sometimes unbelievable;
Thou art worth all the bogs who are so merrily singing-
Thou art so graceful, thou art everything!
As in both reality and dreams thou art present,
Thou who art obscure; but coincidentally, sharp and inherent!
Ah, thee, thus I hope t'at every poem-such as t'is, shall make thee even more truthful;
For poetry itself is relief; and our most reliable urge to be brave, and thoughtful.

When
And if
I findeth one
Who shalt verily loveth me;
I'm not the kind of man who thinketh love is just ***!!!!
WRONG,
Though
If and when I findeth one
And if that's to occur
That we maketh love,
I seeketh her to maketh me leaveth mine body!!!!!!
Whilst making compassionate love....
Showing me heaven
On earth!!!!


©Brandon Cory nagley
©lonesome poet's poetry

Nobody knows when our last goodbye going to be.

When our Love has gone and left us: we crawl back into the shell of our former self:
we remember, we relived, the first marble
that was taken from us, our favorite pencil that was snatched by the bullies
We let our emotion take over:
our marijuana-addled state of mind seized
Sleepless night, reckless hours, Dehydration and Insomnia –
Heartbreak is real: deception is a poker game:

We remember the struggles, we remember our kindness,
The sacrifices we made, especially burning the midnight oil:
Then we see that old familiar face,
Stepping right out from   our bodies in slow motion...
And take charge, we tried our best to stop the madness,
But it played out like a cloudy dream,
In a panicky state we yelled for it to stop;
to please come back, please, don’t do that

Our mind creates our thoughts, but when the beast
Is out he goes on a rampage, right to the source of the game
To the love who has gone and left us:
The damage has been done: how do one move
Away from the game: death is inevitable

When the unclean spirit is gone out of a man, he walketh through dry places, seeking rest, and findeth none. Then he saith, I will return into my house from whence I came out; and when he is come, he findeth it empty, swept, and garnished. Then goeth he, and taketh with himself seven other spirits more wicked than himself, and they enter in and dwell there: and the last state of that man is worse than the first. Even so shall it be also unto this wicked generation. Matthew 12:43-45
R.I.P

There is a poet
And poetess
That writeth;
In the slums
And the ghetto's;
In the suburb's
In the meadow's.
There is a poet
And poetess
That prophecieth
In the mountain's
In the city, neath
Their graves, in
Tomb's, free one's,
Slave's, some known,
Many doomed, in
Heaven's gates, some
Art poor, some telleth
Of fate, some art lonesome,
Some speaketh of amour',
Some linger in the shadows,
Tortured by demon's, anguished;
Fighting hellish and earthly battles.
There is a poet and poetess that writeth in blood and in ink:
Some feareth death, death to some doth succumb when these artist's speak. Some hath wealth, some with naught, some groweth their own food, whilst other's stick to store bought. Some art peasant's, some art farmer's, some poet's preach and teacheth; whilst other's want to alarm us. There is a poet and poetess in this life and the next; some looketh down on loved one's, whilst the living is blinded by material net's. Some art lost, forgotten, some speaketh Spanish, Hindi, English, Arabic, french, lost languages, or Latin. Some just want to love, whilst some seeketh to findeth love, some want to flyeth away, as if a falcon or a dove. Some thinkest their better than most, others thinkest they art not better then noone, feeling dead as if a ghost. Some jotteth poetry to make them remember living, some art charitable, whilst poet's in prison sit and rot from killing or stealing. Some passeth time staring at the ceiling, whilst some overwork, some casteth their ten percent to worldly lusts, whilst other's pay to God in church. There is a poet and poetess that writeth, being dead or alive; O' poet's were all distinctly different though the same, in God's poetic eye's..............




©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

(Deborah) an old style poetic as me, thy words about empresses, kings and queens, is mine sort of style, thy writing is beautiful untamed and shalt never die in any mile. Thy writing like heaven passed down from Shakesperian words himself, true poetic!!!

( Aarvie) thou art a true of truest romantic's, as I seeith in thine pieces of heaven, its good to see other hopeless romantic's as me, I prayeth the best for thee and thy life, continue to loveth in both of thine dreams and reality, and be the king as thou art mate.

( Elsa angelica) angel to all of us, though we've not spoken in day's, just wanted to tell thee, for thee nightly I prayeth, as thou feeleth so alone, God awaits thee, for heaven's thine home, as I've said I've known thee long ago, continue to shine on, dear Angel.

( Earl Jane) dear oriental friend of mine, thy love and heart shineth above the hellish earth, thou was sent to love and forgive, and overcometh the judgement of the one's who art hurt, showeth them amour', smile and uplift as thou doth me friend.

( KetomaRose) miss, thy words lonely like me, I prayeth one day that thou findeth a king, because there's a difference between men and kings, men calleth a woman "woman", kings calleth one queen, continue to be who thou art, and one day. Get that ring!!

( Musfiq us shaleheen) dearest writing champion, thy words like butter giveth flavor to mine tongue, thy artwork's art as gods finger's stroking the sun, class thou hath, and a loving àura I canst seeith shine, like wine to mine doorstep of poetry mate.

( Anto MacRuairidh) haven't known thee to long dearest poetic, but thy word's of love rub me in a friendly alphabetic way. Continue to jot love now, tommorrow,  today, in every way continue to be the genius thou art, and remember, love is real!!!

( Katie) new to h.p, welcome mine friend, thank thee for supporting me, thy words ring across England, it rings the bell of the USA, Ireland, and the united kingdom, thou art kind, sweet, a good soul anyone wouldst want to meet. Continue thy blossoming

( Steven Langhorst) friend, always writing of thy good times and bad, the times that meant all to thee, and times thou hath hadst. Thou art a truest poetic honesty! A man of devout poetry belief, continue to love thy family, and showeth amour to all as thou art

( Victoria) another lass with class, a lady whos great, no questions to ask, thy old soul is fastened on with a pen and Papyrus to scribe thine beauties, thy artwork like movies, dancing the HP scenes, putting realness in dreams, decor thou writeth.

( Toreinss Pinwinkel III) hey good man, don't knoweth thee much, but thou art a comic, a friend of men, an honest lad, like an ex hippy gypsie, or a wonderful lad, thy words art heart forming, thy words mold into treasures that speaketh to me.

( neex) thy amare speaketh to mine soul, as everyone loveth thee, thy lingo like gold, thou showeth bright in this place of h.p . continue to loveth, forget the hatred and doeth as thou doth please, just don't forget like the rest, continue in thy love friend!

( cat Fiske) thou hath known me since the beginning friend, thou hath even made a room called" the poems Brandon writeth for us" meaning for all the girls who like mine work' lol, thank thee dear friend, keepeth thy head up, knoweth God is with thee now.

( Mina) Iranian charmstress, a best friend to me, and a world of loving ways thou art, as thou wilt meet thy king, just remember, when ourn countries and government's acteth as hating brutes, remember God is watching, and he's been there protecting to.

( Matt) this ones for thee prophetic as me, speaking of the economy's ending, friend continue just to trusteth thy God, and in love showeth Christ's love is affectionate, not deadly! Be ready for his coming dearest good friend, thou wilt find thy queen to.

( Jimmy yetts) this one for thee brother, thy word's art comical and at the same time so much truth, thou art a poet free. Not a slave, not In some noose, thine hand writeth what others need to heareth, that's a a prophetic to me, continue on friend of h.p.

( ridicule) I knoweth that's not thy real picture, yet I knoweth thou aren't fake, continue even if in secrecy to showeth thy words of beauty, and showeth thy heartbreak, as thou wilt find thy good king to, continue in love as the rest, ad thou art blessed!

(SweetPea) poetic so saccharine, I promise thee one day thy pains shalt cease, as this life hath pains and dreams, but reality for thee wilt be awoken, God wilt flyeth thee to places unspoken, aloft the clouds wherein thou shalt write. Thou art a dearest of good invite

( its gonna make sense) this ones for thee mine dearest little line writer, thy tiny confection treats art sweet to mine tongue, like pastrys filled with such goodness. Continue to search on for thy king, though only taketh him if he hath armour, a shining knight


( Frank Ruland) madman of writing, as thy jargon is enticing and I always want to take a peep, though dont knoweth thee well either, thy words like Clover's. Hard to find other words. Continue to loveth for thine queen, let words floweth like herbs.

( Nicole) a gentle soul, like a stream that surrounds the lonely banks, let thy words sink into the heart of the lonesome. Continue to shock in awe and inspiration, when thou art down cometh here to gain above. For God watches his children as many doves.

( Helena) the thief of wonder of words, don't worry thy words art heard, as I listen loud and clear. I freely feeleth thy tears cometh out in thy personal moments, like butterfly's thine writings flyeth on to the moon and back, as thou I hath as mine good friend...

i.

Mine Waling-Waling
If mine existence soon doth leaveth;
Mine psalm's art left here on Hello Poetry
In thine Palm's they shalt speaketh.

ii.

If this shalt be the ******
Mine rhyme's in thee;
Shalt be entwined
Into thy mind, I will meeteth thee in heaven's gate nine, the back.

iii.

If soon shalt be mine termination
I'll meeteth thee at the station;
Wherein cerulean airmist
Shalt maketh me drift, onward ahead.

iv.

Amongst the living
Not dead;
I shalt findeth thou
If today's mine last breathe somehow, I'll be waiting in a shroud.

v.

If mine Incarnadine
Shalt be spilt as wine;
And I hemorrhage from mine brain
Just remember queen, eternally, we shalt meet and be one again.



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley/Filipino rose dedication

i.

The breadth of her aura
Stretcheth like a veil;
From the philippines, she was created of tropical tree detail.

ii.

As one entereth her extrasolar city
Thou shalt findeth there's no need for the sun or the moon;
She is the light, the scintillate of star clustered room's.

iii.

Just beyond the river Jordan
Where stream's of heaven tint;
She's not for sale, she's the grail of the gate's of holiness.



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication/Filipino rose

i.

O' dear lord, how gracious thou hast been to me, as thou hath undeservingly given me, Mine Jane, mine queen.

ii.

O' dear lord, how merciful thou hast been to me, I was in the mire, on earth's ground I tired; thou hath saved me from the fire,
And revived me from deathly sleep.

iii.

O' dear lord, how great is thine love, I hung in the shadows, wherein death didst battle, taking me underneath, as thou were above.

iv.

O' heavenly Father, born a sinner by nature, I seeked to do thine will later, as tis it needeth done now.

v.

O' Yahweh, Elohim, Jehovah, maker of mine Savior, bringing saccharine taste to all flavor's; thou gaveth me the talent to jot down upon paper, the door that thou keepeth open for all mankind.

vi.

O' holy one, supernatural, divine, mayest thy word's like eternal honey drip, upon the poor and Meek's lip's, mayest thy reign over-taketh evil; as it soon shalt in it's time.

vii.

O' mighty and magnanimous king, mayest Jane and I singeth with thine angel's wherein the tranquility shalt ring, as a million Bell's overcoming hell, freeing captives from their cell's, keeping widow's in thy help, making penniless to hath abundance, keeping material's purely redundant, bringing peace soon upon this desolate place of trial's, none more telephone's or technology, none man-made thing's to better one- as tis they only maketh it worse, let thy comfort be upon thy church, and even them that knoweth thee not. Let the homeless find their abode in thee, bringeth lights as humans to preach in thy holy place, and in metal cities, let the Opulent findeth worldly wisdom, for their riches shalt be naught. Let their treasure's forsake them, as I knoweth to; salvation and true amour' canst not be bought, let the ancient dead arise, as tis the word's cometh up hither soon I knoweth shalt arrive. Let the depressed and those of suicide seeith inside thy eye's the affection thou hast for them, mayest thou comforteth friend's with Friends, and those of none kin. Mayest thou purify me, strenghten me, in past and present sin. Mayest thou blesseth me and mine Reyna in light of heaven, and during this sphere's minutes coming to slim. Protecteth me and mine lass, as the time's art coming to pass, wherein Satan shalt plot against us to win. Grant me and Mine empress matrimony before the time If thou wilt, if not on this globe, in thy kingdom itself.




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

i

I shalt consecrate one as mine empress
As she sitteth high up upon her throne;
She shalt be the ruler of mine dominion
An abode aloft the Earthling's decor below.

ii

I shalt put upon her eminence gracefully
A castle tiera upon her frowning head;
Wherein when one's shalt tryeth to hurt her
I'll giveth mine life, to protecteth mine wife's bed.

iii

And we shalt wander on the streamside
Whilst ourn harp-player's strum for us in ourn court;
Sipping on wine, of amare divine
Ourn spirit's and finger's, locked with none remorse.

iv

Though tis this is all just an illusion
Hoping for one day, mine empress to awaketh from her sleep;
Wherein wherever she shalt be, I cant findeth her
I thinkest I am dead, Maby asleep?



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

If not in this place, but the next realm,
I shalt mine love clepe thee with guardian's to surround; thou shalt findeth me, in a Robe of ivory white, anew with the saint's,
Yahweh's chosen, i'll be in flight. Holding mine hand out, for thy own to reach, when passing the gates I've passed; thou shalt seeith the gold laden street's. I wilt signal the other's, that the portal was not breached. As thou wilt experience a million senses for thy eyne, speech, hearing, touch, thing's God to thee shalt teach. Multi-colored racemes shalt brushstroke the heavenly peak's, O' how the energy we wilt feeleth wilt be as the health of newborn's. None more thunderous storm's or anguish back upon the lower ground; now serenity none enmity against the once demons who came around. Shofar and lyres to grace Jehovah's peaceful sound's; as the echoes art vibes that cometh betwixt ourn soul's. As verily, verily, heaven's ourn abode, heaven's ourn abode by which we shan't fear. Cometh closer mine dear; the time is close, how I now heareth the heavenly Host's, ready to welcome us in. Cometh up hither Christ shalt soon say, judgement day is creeping the corner. We giveth Yahweh praise.


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

Tis
She was released
From her carcass of a shell
Man letteth her go
From her inquiring hell
She was free'd
From all distant proportion
Now she findeth her self
In remorse and guilt trip
Tis
She was awoken
By truth at her beak
She awoke to the words
I loveth thee
But she is a freebird,
She flyeth by muse!
Dreamers always
Get lost in cartoons..

i.

(DedPoet-aka-Ernesto L. Gonzales)
May god bless thee mine friend, man of honor, Heavensent;
Thy soul, may it be in peace, God's love cover's thee west to east.

ii.

(NvrMnd)
A poet of otherworldly mind, poetic of new aged times;
Dont let thy depression over cometh thy soul, be unbound, whole.

iii.

(Laurent)
a dear writer of inspiration, let thy writing be navigation; spread thine hope to foreign places, with love friend.

iv.

(Tropica)
Poetess of aficionado tenderness, splendidness guideth thee;
A poet of human qualities, an artist for love's recipe in all form.

v.

(Darlene Chavez)
Let thy darkness turneth into light, let the night turn to day;
Be not shackled to Misery's way's,, but knoweth God's with thee.

vi.

(Sara Murray)
A fan of the strange, a taste that hast meaning, caring and giving;
Reality mixed with dreaming, word's golden, gleaming to aloft.

vii.

(Sally A Bayan)
From the terra firma of mine queen, the most thoughtful, delightful being, an aura that screameth of all holiness aisle's.

viii.

(naǧí)
A native light, of old day's flame's, a bright tunnel beyond the pain's, a pathway to other places where faces art spiritual.

ix.

(damsel in distress)
A woman of talented word's, like Herb's, elixered and pictured;
Snapshot's art taken from thine view, with all sight in old truth.

x.

(Dreams of Sepia)
Writing of mysterious writing's. Though honest, inviting;
Exciting in thy new day's pages, anger love and saved for us all.

xi.

(SoulSurvivor)
A woman like an auntie to me, a woman of generation's who helpeth the blind to none god seeith, as thou art a friend!!!!

xii.

(SE Reimer)
Man of many technique's, giving hope and beauties when we art weak, thy word's speaketh of medicinal purposes for all to seek.

xiii.

(PoetryJournal)
Writing short lines. Beyond mankind; thine artwork is fine;
Making other's look again, rewind, thine design's art heaven.

xiv.

(Melissa S)
A mother from the place of alabama, with southern charm;
Writing southern song's, of southern scar's,, as well as smile's.

xv.

(Poetic Thoughts)
Thou lover of books, a enthusiastic being of singing;
Keepeth on with thy work's, let the earth shake on thy poetry.

xvi.

(Eddie Starr Poetry)
Let Christ continueth to work in thine life, showeth love as he taught, and forgiveness; thou shalt soon findeth thy wife!!!

xvii.

(Paul Gaffney)
A gentleman who liketh simple poetry, that hit's thee best;
A way of relieving stress is writing down daily thought's, great!!

xviii.

(Rosalind Heather Alexander)
Overcometh those whom leaveth thee due to thy faith;
There missing out on truth and God's grace, continueth in love!!!

xix.

(IvyB **)
A woman who knoweth pain, keepeth faith in trial rain's;
Keepeth held high, the mist is only a short period, as angel's wait.

**.

(NV)
Creature of sadness, in a world of madness, making sense of living; let lighting seraph's be thy giving, look aloft to hope.

xxi.

(Joseph Paris)
A man of many duo's, Chicago street walker, rebel era, man of many poetic mirror's, let thy beautiful reflection dance the city.

xxii.

(ThePoet)
Thy word's of hurt and screaming, of hope and dreaming;
Is Alive in all ourn spirit's, trust thy creator, let the light near it.

xxiii.

(PoetessLiz)
Poetry is thy vital force, poetry is thy life porch;
Thou art not so lonely as thou doth thinkest friend, we all careth.

xxiv.

(SG Holter)
A man of blossoming stanza's, lines of manna;
Holy old detail's, word's of holy grail highness.

xxv.

(susan)
Digging through the deepest thought's creating poetry;
Spread thy gospel, plant thy seed's, and let them spread around.

xxvi.

(Dawn S)
Also new to this site, welcome; spread thy foregone scripture's;
Like ancient Picasso picture's, thine painting's art priceless.



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Dedication poem \part 2 new one...

I cry in love, I love in hate;
sorrow t'at no-one should create!
Whenst no gladness runs my heart's brake
It's thy own image t'at I'll make.

I remember lightly t'at day
As I caught thee on my morn way
With some radiance on thy brow;
thy words to me began to flow.

How at thy gaze my heart fluttered;
and as we stared my cheeks ripened!
Easily didst t'eir shells turn red;
and my body, numb went with sweat!

Ah! T'ose docile roots within t'eir ***,
cunning creatures of o'r smug Lord!
With eager thirst t'ey peered at us,
sketching a poem as we conversed!

And t'at quaint note I filch'd from 'em-
what a gay song on t'eir young stem!
I knew just t'en how thou doth feel-
from yon crisp leaf and its mild seal!

Seized it as I two nites af-ter-
mine heartbeat fastened with lau'hter!
'pon learning thy name on its end;
so dearly crafted by thy hand!

O! How thou planted into th' cells-
th' living plants, amongst t'eir wells!
T'is piece on loving confession-
and such tender expectations!

I danced gaily in victory-
immersed myself in vile glory!
Ah! Didst I flounce myself right outside
To lure and bringst thee t'wards my side.

'Twas th' start of o'r story;
and my at-first-sight love for thee.
O, in thy arms I weave my might;
and in thy warmth, I findeth delight.

i.

Cometh closer rayna, into mine sight
I gaveth mine last exhalation, in the middle of the night;
Do not be frightened, do not fright,
I'm lively, beyond the grave, thus once burdened, as a man an slave.

ii.

Cometh here rayna, into mine glow
Looketh at mine hand's, Into mine soul;
I knoweth we couldst not meeteth, in the world of the living,
But now I am here,spiritually breathing.

iii.

Cometh here rayna, looketh at mine new regalia
I've met kin, with a thousand friends, we chat amongst azaleas;
Heaven tis real, more than thou couldst imagine
I'll meeteth thee there, thou canst stroke mine hair,
No more devil's, worldlies, or tormenting dragon's.

iv.

Cometh closer mi amour', mine poetry is the door
That thou shalt findeth me; I won't be lost- readeth between the lines of mine stanza's, that's where I shalt be.
I'll be looking down upon thou, before thine own dying breath's, Jane, O' mine whole, O' mine Rayna, we'll meet again someday;
Please weareth the honey yellow dress. Do not be mad at God, for he needed me home. Soon mine love, soon mine dove, we shalt reside in a place I picked covered in heavenly gold, a view to calleth ourn abode. Doeth good whilst I'm away, loveth one another, this is ourn creator's message, I wilt sendeth thee blessing's, just continue to loveth thy sister's and brother's.


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

i.

More than ever
This hour;
Now, mine God
Mine Christ, needeth me.

ii.

More than ever
This time;
I must overcometh Satan
And release the scripture's sign's.

iii.

More than ever
These last day's;
I must telleth other's
Of the world's end, and the hope to makest thou amazed.

iv.

More than ever
Better now, then never;
I shalt bloweth the shofar
Beneath hell, above the star's.

v.

More than ever
This is mine letter;
For thou to awakest
And findeth Christ's salvation, by which thou canst enter.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Prohetic poetry

i.

Versonos, mine scarlatinian craves
For thee, instinctively. Attent I am
In wake, or sleep; I shantilize by the
Seaside, of the shaded creek's.

ii.

In lavunger, mine frame needeth
Held, attended to; the mires art
All around us philaprose, though
Through the ill abysmal, we hath
Been through.

iii.

Much ashru, O' much velanuv,
I shalt be on bended leg's and
Knee's; just to seeith mine Jane
Of soothe. Thus the avenue's
Shalt be rough, and the stones
Shalt roughen ourn soles, I'm
A king that shalt do whatever
It taketh, to get to mine lass;
To findeth mine way home.





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

I remember.....
Whilst doing the time I didst in prison;
The strangest little thing
When noone canst buyeth cigarette's none more
Since the state outlawed it in prison's
(Ridiculous) since people wilt still smoke anyways.....
I remembered walking into the caged yard of beast's;
Seeing them phening for that smell and taste of tobacco
As I remember seeing one of mine old friends there
From the intermediate prison before that,
Matt's his name;
Taketh out a little plastic bag of tobacco out of his pocket...
And a white blank piece of paper,
From one of the small Bible's thou canst findeth;
As little Bible's in prison aren't just for God's word
But also they sell for ten bucks a pop.
As he rolled a cigg, so tightly and fused......
As him and all the other's
Went back to the bleachers,
By the prison's football field
Wherein that was the spot,
Everyone hid their smoking
Yet,
The guards didst not careth
They were bringing dope in
Amongst other things!
To calm and ease the brute beast's......
As in that old prison I was in
Thou wouldst want to calmeth thy nerves to
Trust me.... Tis not a place, for the kindest of soul's as me......
As seeing them smoke those bible rolled cig's
Madeth me thinkest at that moment;
They just do this
To feeleth human:
To feeleth alive....
To feeleth free,

Whilst trapped in a cage......
As tis Being animal's in ourn cages;
We were, still free, more than the rest
Of society...


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

Poens to write
doth they lead path right
to bring a smile
A company in lonely mile
write tis in sorrow
for them findeth no tomorrow
life of the pained who doth care
none their sorrows share
Love lost to human need
words it doth feed
who hath tis arm
never cared yet friendship warm
pety

i.

This life,
But a quick moment's flash;
We withereth as flower's
We dissapeareth like grass.

ii.

Born into the next eternity
Rebirthed into living;
I shalt giveth every last breath
Because the time is verily leaving.

iii.

I won't taketh thou for granted
I wilt giveth all mine love;
To thee mine queen,
To thee mine jane-
Mine own being
And dove.

iv.

O' we art here but for
A second, O' we cometh
To learn, then moveth on;
I shalt loveth thee in the morn
And dusk, in dying sun's, and
Mournful song's.

v.

And even when I passeth
On, I'll findeth thou then
To, mine spirit's lively, it
Knoweth what it needeth,
Not undeciding- for I am
Thou, meaning I am you.



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

Whilst the bone mannequins, resteth inside their tomb's
I'm writing mine poetry, of prophecy, romance, and doom;
And Maby just Maby, I shalt findeth mine empress in her crypt
And awaketh her relic bones, with mine poetic of lips.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry.

I beseech and implore for just one kiss
I crumble to the ivory walls around me;
I seeketh and explore in the darkly abyss
And noone is near to fully arouse and supplyeth mine need's.

Just a simple Bonjour, to haveth an opera of amour'
To be as simple infant's, climbing mountain's and shore's;
Forgetting the world, lost into ourn own dimension
Yet that's not what I'll findeth, I've excepted mine jail sentence.



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

Thou canst findeth me at poe's grave
Jotting down poe's name
Reading all of poe's pain
And yet a love slave,
Like a Shakespherian novelist...
Shakesphere rebirthed....



©Brandon nagley
©lonesome poets poetry

Men, when thineself findeth a woman, treat her as a queen,
Not a memory on paper,
Not a material,

See her inside wherein the treasure of god is stored up,
For her inside is a bible amongst the heavens,
Listeneth to her_
Lavish her,
Giveth comfort when she's wearied!!

And queens,
Dost thou heareth me!?

Treat your men as kings,
Waddle him with thy love , not things!!!!!!
For a man cannot be bought by fast food,
If so,
The wrong man he is for thee to.

Connect souls to one another,
Yes thou men and thy women,
Make everyday a thanksgiving,

For thy love was endowed by thy creator!!!!!!


As for me,  and mine love
I remind her daily
She is a queen and best friend and mi amour to me.
Because I don't taketh mine days for granite none more....


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry

Mine marble's art tired
I thinketh I'm ready for dream's;
Dream's wherein me and my lass
Shalt entwine king and queen.




Oh wait!
I don't haveth a queen
Well,
At least I shalt findeth her
Well within mine sleep.



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry

you are my adorable pearl, the one i long for every blessed day and night.
your love lightens my soul and kindles it with melody for your sweetness in excess.
and just like the night stars catches the attention of every eyes, you became the cynosure of my hopeful eyes.
it is as apparet as the breaking of a new dawn that i'm profoundly lost in the paradise of your unshakable and unatainted love.
Omo baba Medubi, only in the hearty glow of your soulful eyes, i findeth solace and tranquility

When thing's seemeth to be going good
That little red horned devil
Satan;
Seemeth to findeth his way
In.........




©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry