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ˏˋDalPalˊˎ Feb 2016
Passing through those glorious doors together

We find home at Bombay Bakers

Your hand in mine

The sugary air hitting us harder than a brick wall

We both feel the grace of familiarity

Our chemistry hotter than the rolls in the oven

The smell of freshly baked croissants gives me the same warm feeling as your smile

Passing Agora we look at each other with the same bright eyes

It'll just be a quick stop but such a savory one as we sit and share a large caramel coffee

I hate the aftertaste but anything with you is such a candied tang in the end

Your cinnamon dusted lips so close to mine

Your taste so sweet couldn't even be compared

Licking each finger after your touch, trying to save each bit of you

It doesn't matter which side of the world we are on or where we end up in the end

As long as there's that corner bakers shop nearby

It'll be home with you
I'm comparing love to food <3

Short little poem today. not too happy with it but I don't know how to go on with this.

also another note: I love the word tang but I wish it wasn't so ****** :(
Cné Jun 2017
My
Third eye
Clouded
Busy blurry skies
What have I done
To the you and I
To the me and you
That could never be
Drawn to these pleasures
Between these sheets
Smothering moonlight
Deep summer heat
Damping ****
Still no retreat
The flame burns
Even hotter
When You and I cheat
.....

Take my hand
and come with me
to dreams of love and ****
Where....drifting down
the blurry skies
the eye need not adjust,
Where....
moonlight dances merrily
reflecting us unseen.
The smoldering heat
of our united union,  
except to you and me
No need to worry
the things that we do
between the sheets
of carnal pleasure
that draws me to you.  
Together we will reach our peak
as we share this glorious night.
Lie with me beneath the moon
and feel its timeless flight.
Hope you don't mind Trader Tim.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
(Inspired by and dedicated to John Edward Smallshaw, and his "Spice")**


I am a summer-man,
Because I'm blessed to sit by the sea.
Let it and the other two Musketeers,
boon companions to me,
Sun and Wind,
erase my discomposure as I
reside in the Poet's Nookery.
Let them have almost
all that troubles,
but not all.

I am a summer-man.

On the bay, on the beach,
I see birth, I see death,
osprey nests, carcasses of mussels and horseshoe *****.
This, somehow reassuring,
the cycles,
this circularity,
the tides and inevitability.

I am a summer-man.

Student of languages seasonal,
Peaches, plums, cherries, poetry
and loving Woman.^
This, the  summer alphabet-soup of my multiple tongues.

I am a summer-man.

Sancerre and Pinot Gris, super cold,
Paul Simon, Nina Simone, with proper aging,
getting  hotter,
Salsa and Afrikaner hints, super louder,
Even "Still Crazy After All These Years,"
that-who-wud-be-me,
chills outer.^^

I am a summer-man.

When ever this lad's writes appear,
it proves once again,
there is no truth that his  
name was once Dr. Seuss
In a prior life, even if
each is signed by
Ogdiddy Nash

I am a summer-man.

Disrespectful of the calendar,
if I can, try to make
summer season stretch-marks from
May to October.

I would add April,
but the IRS is already ****** at me.^^^

Though the cherry blossoms of May
now gone away,
the lilies of June
arrive, but but for a week or two,
soon, like my mom, withered away.

Acorns in August^^^^ have arrived too swiftly.

This summer, beloved,
and love of summer, deep-rooted.

Season of my Peter Pan Poetry Galore Festival.

A love,  incapable, impossible, of ever
growing old, ever growing cold,
it cannot wither.
It is summer heat reminders exposed,
how it misses its man,
that hide in the flames of
the teasing, popping, reminding
Winter fireplace's crackling pops.
^ See "The Summer Alphabet of Woman (I Speak Woman)"
August 23 2013

^^ See "Made the bed backwards"
August 24 2013

^^^  See "Caesar Has No Authority Over The Grammarians"
August 22 2013

^^^^ See "* Acorns in August (Sonata for Summer Cello and Fall Piano, No. 3)" August 19 2013



* Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel

April come she will
When streams are ripe and swelled with rain;
May, she will stay,
Resting in my arms again

June, she´ll change her tune,
In restless walks she´ll prowl the night;
July, she will fly
And give no warning to her flight.

August, die she must,
The autumn winds blow chilly and cold;
September I´ll remember.
A love once new has now grown old
Cné Sep 2017
The smallest microbes cause a fit,
in misery it dwells.
It starts with sniffs and then a sneeze
then sinus membranes swell.

My head begins to throb
and soon my eyes begin to water.
I feel the clammy chills but soon
I find I'm getting hotter.

I cannot rest my head because
I think that I might drown.
You'd think they'd have a cure by now
but colds are still around.
Ive been under the weather
but feeling much better
Ever notice how a piece of timber first catches on it burns so bright...
There's sort of a passion to it?

How it moves along flaring hot or hotter,
flaming-out here or there...

Coming around again to exhaust all efforts at staying alight...
...but it matters not.

That dark hardened shell of the wood has nothing left to give...
...can't maintain itself.

Sure, -you can add accelerant.
A later something, perhaps different in thermal expression?

In the end only speeds up the process of becoming nothing; as ashes cast into the winds.

Charred pieces were better left alone, dissolving in raindrops over time?

Never rekindle a thing once burnt.

Yes I suppose that makes logical sense...

Unless you feel cold?
Umi Jan 2018
Hellfire do not go out!
Please just stay as you are
Once in the flames I wander through an answerless world
All the embers burning all the people are turning, trying to get away..
Hellfire do not go out!
Please just stay as you are
No matter how much they walk, no matter how far...
In the end they are consumed by these merciless flames
Burnt away, until not even their names,
Are remembered here, in this world full of shames
As the fire burns I ask myself wether this is a nightmare or not
And as it consumes my very soul and makes me then rot
I begin to then understand my very purpose, my destiny
Just being fuel for that fire to burn is what was planned for me
Oh Hellfire, will you go out ?
No, once you are about to go out, you just keep roaring loud
Come back hotter, more painful than I can take
My body is burning up, I think my mind is going to break
And as this torture goes on
I wished I would be gone

~ Umi
Umi Apr 2018
That shooting star,
Loved the earth so much that it crashed right into it, burning away in passion, lethal, poisonous passion, to be with what it really wanted,
It cut through the darkness with our hopes, with our deepest wishes,
Before it vanished, like a long lost dream, or a overshadowed memory
As time ticks on, reality and illusion melt together, sharing a heart,
That too is a sign of death, as each lost its meaning by just doing this,
In order to heal my aching chest, I too must be to death in sweet love,
So I will not lose to anyone, daling, after all, once you give another a home within your heart, a part, yet small dies and fades into shadows
I know I am not alone, because I am reaching out for your love, dear
A last remote of lonesome fear, engaging the thought of losing what you hold so dear, is what makes it morbid, burning even hotter now,
But a fire burns out faster, the higher it reaches, so be very cautious,
Envy is for love the metamorphosis to turn into pure fury or hate,
A ****** devotion to be the only one your darling ever will desire,
As you fall, to death in love

~ Umi
Lady K Milla Aug 2017
The clouds push out water
The moon pulls the waves
The sun burns hotter
And life turns into graves
The birds fly high
The fish swim low
The earth spins without care
Of who will come and who will go
Ormond Jun 2014
If you date a poet, you will know the true meaning of 'swoon' and you will do it often. They know the power of a stunning phrase and it's way hotter than the Hallmark lines a non-poet will default to.

2.  They see the raw beauty in things that others take for granted.

3.  You will never ever need to worry that they aren't telling you something. Poets are ALWAYS trying to tell you something.

4. They're quite handy if you need a graceful way to tell someone off. They can tell em where to go and how far to stick it without using a single foul word.

5. Roses are pretty sub-standard and typical. Instead, you will get hand written love letters and sticky notes with one line *****-wetters. (Yes, I said *****-wetters. You know what it is.)

6. You will never not know the deeper meaning of something. Anything. There is nothing at all that a poet cannot analyze the **** out of. There's an underlying meaning behind EVERY single thing and if you ask a poet, they'll be elated to share it with you.

7. Poets tend to be minimalists. They don't always need a lot to set the butterflies a flutter. If you can come up with a couple of your own expressively charming lines, that will pretty much substitute a $125 dinner date.

8. Poets make curiously good alcoholic beverages. Because poets drink a lot of alcoholic beverages.

9. You'll never be without somewhere to go at any given moment. There's bound to be an open mic night, a poetry slam, a house party centered around poetry, a poetry in the park event, etc. There will always be something poetic going on. And they will know about it.

10. You will know what a true apology sounds like. Poets can apologize like NONE other when they know they have done something wrong.

11.Making love to a poet feels like syllables being whispered along the curve of your spine as you unravel into a million pieces.

12. Poets like smell good stuff. But not obnoxious fruity scents. Poets don't like to smell like fruit baskets. Poets like sandalwood, and amber, and lavender, and patchouli oils. You know...the **** stuff.

13. Poets cherish quiet time. Meanwhile, most non-poets you date will probably have the television blasting, music playing, friends climbing over one another and a cell phone conversation on speaker phone...all at the same time...every day.

14. You will always have a crowd-pleaser on your arm. Not all poets are attention ****** at parties BUT all poets know how to say at least one extra deep/witty thing that will have everyone else envious that you are the one dating the poet and not them.

15. Poets can wear the color black during all seasons, during thunderstorms or sunny spring days and make it look extra sophisticated and intentional.

16. Poets break rules...but also enjoy the process of making them. Keeps things interesting.

17. Poets shun conformity. So you know that if your poet bought it for you, said it to you, wrote it for you, etc...it's gonna be something edgy and unique and outside of the normal (boring) box.

18. Poets are great with their hands and even better with their mouths. Enough said.

19. Poets are the gatekeepers AND the rallyers (is that a real word?) of the community. If you don't know what a gatekeeper is...you aren't dating a poet. If you don't know what a rallyer is, it's because there's a possibility that it's not a real word. But you get it.

20. Poets like to make up their own words.

21. Poets don't like to be told that they can't do something. Maybe it's the whole submit and rejection process of writing. Who knows? But tell a poet NO and they'll keep trying until they get a yes. Persistence is way more handy than what can be explained here.

22. Poets read books. Book readers tend to have better vocabularies. A broad vocabulary is usually a trait of a good conversationalist which means no lame dinner convos.

23. Poets can write **** things beautiful and can ***** up a pristine scene like nobodies business. In other words, when you need a different perspective on something...your poet can provide that for you.

24. A well-written poem can be the most powerful and therapeutic dose of truth and self-realization. Poets write poems. Therefore, dating a poet is like getting free therapy.  

25. Poets don't need a list of 50 things to prove why dating them is the best thing you will ever do.
Found poetry is a type of poetry created by taking words, phrases, and sometimes whole passages from other sources and reframing them as poetry by making changes in spacing and lines, or by adding or deleting text, thus imparting new meaning. The resulting poem can be defined as either treated: changed in a profound and systematic manner; or untreated: virtually unchanged from the order, syntax and meaning of the original.
James Floss Aug 2018
The west coast is ablaze
A conflagration reconfiguration
Efforts heroic as forests fall
And cost of lives lost

Homes no more
Neighborhoods gone
**** and dust
Terrains reframed

The new world:
Fire cyclone zones
Hotter, drier, bigger
The culprit: us
Harriet Cleve Jul 2018
It didn't start good for the girl in the moon

it went very well for her brother

He grew up to be the man in the moon

She went in search of their mother


'Tell her I love her!' the little boy said

'Say there is nothing between us!'

The little girl hugged him and then ran away

She ended up living on Venus


Amongst all the stars and the red planet Mars

they looked out and saw one another

this beautiful girl hotter than ****

the Sun, high in the sky, was her mother


There they both glowed and the Heavens bestowed

pure love in the arms of each other

The man in the moon, well you'd hear him croon

'Mother there's nothing between us!'

'I hold you all dear, thank God you are near"

'I love you and the woman in Venus!'
Holly M Oct 2018
I want to see you in the summer
Sitting at the edge
With our feet in the water.
The ice creams in our hands melt
As the temperature gets hotter.
We don’t speak as we eat,
But we don’t have to,
Because the silence between us is not uncomfortable.

I want to see you in the moonlight
When we would walk so far that my feet bled,
Our eyes fixed on the road ahead-
But you walk close to me
And turn on your flashlight
Because you know that I am scared of the dark.

I want to see you in during autumn
When the leaves are the color of your hair.
Your words are so carefree it’s not even fair.
We look cozy in sweaters;
I’d be cozier if I was closer to you,
But you forge a path ahead,
And I follow you.

I want to see you illuminated
A dim glow cast on your features
By a 1980s horror film.
It doesn’t scare me, yet I wish it did
Because then maybe you would hold me,
But I wouldn’t pretend, because to you I would not lie.
This is just a movie between two friends: you and I.

I want to see you in the wintertime
Red cheeks and nose
Mine are too,
But not from the cold-
I think about these things as I’m hit by a snowball from you.
You laugh while I pretend to be mad
As the cold infiltrates my shirt,
But I don’t feel it,
Because we all know that I’m burning for you.

I want to see you every which way
Dressed up, dressed down;
Distressed or acting like a clown;
Excited, acting with reckless abandon;
Content, allowing me to see you undone.
I want to see it all,
But right now, I want to see you.
Elle Harris Sep 2018
He’s as delicate as a fresh white snow, just trying to survive.
But he’s as tough as a brick-built house, withstanding heat and time.
He’s as cute as a cuddly panda going down a slide,
But he’s hotter than the sun as it beams on the seaside.
He belongs to no one, yet he is mine.
He’s filled with contradictions, but to me, that’s just fine.
He takes perfection and goes above.
He teaches me about this thing called love.
Spicy Digits Dec 2018
You are my lover
My only lover
Whom the world
Shows its colour
And when you need
A tasty other
I am yours to smother

You are my well-girthed king
My only king
Hotter than a thermal spring
Pull on my apron string
Undress me
And impress me
****** me with your violin

Play me like a pan flute
My lover, my brute
****** my ego
My resolve is dilute
And you, my broken parachute
Will be my demise
Dating a psychopath
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2018


~
Her opalescent wings unfurl under the
clear skies, glittering beautifully under
the golden glory of the sun
As she opens her jaws, lances of flame
covers the green, ravaging life with scalding
kisses of red and orange and purple and gold
Her breath has grown hotter over the years -
now able to melt steel and stone, flesh and bone
But her eyes, molten suns are always wet with
affection when she looks at me
Her claws are curved, sharper than Damascus
steel, the shade of deep obsidian.
Her tail long and spiked; a dangerous whip
Her scales drinking in sun as she watches
me dip my feet into the sea. From it, rises smoke.
Like the water, its's rising and receding into
nothing.
A clear blue and it seems so vast and endless
Just looking at the horizon makes me feel so
free...
~


My head is hurting so I just let my imagination wander...
Thank you so much for 236 followers!! It means so much to me!
Lyn ***
Timur Shamatov Dec 2018
The rain came down in sheets that night
Thunder, as lightning split the sky
In that flash of light I saw you at my door
Your tear filled eyes glistened in a dark.
You want it darker?

Whistles of the wind through wires as
Rain knocked agains the windows of my room
Glass of wine in candle’s dancing light
Drama of the one you left behind.
You want it darker?

Your story was so incredibly complexed
In the way of pain inflicted perfect storm
How the one you love - left you broken
Hurting, at my door, looking for revenge.
You want it darker?

With every kiss our friendship’s dying
With every teardrop revenge was growing hotter
No love can heal the pain we’re causing
As we fell lower our fury burnt brighter.
You want it darker?

Like stars on a cloudy night
My true feelings were hiding in a dark
I couldn’t even look you directly in your eyes
Cause through you I was making love to her.
You want it darker?

Agonizing pain of self Inflicted cuts
Hearts drained of passion, dying fast
We both knew that you’re in love with him
I’m still in love with fading light of her.
You want it darker?

Like waves crashing agains a shore
I felt your pain collide with mine
Eyes wide shut as we reached out to touch
In our minds we wanted the ones that we were not.
You want it darker?

Dying candles flicker in a rays of raising sun
Lifeless hearts, falling out of lovers grasp
I used the blood for ink to pen this poem as
Angels wept in sheets the night before.

You want it darker.....
Akira Chinen Sep 2018
The world is a stage and life is a tragedy / and a comedy and a romance gone bad / and a love gone right until it has gotten away from us / and it’s **** and cruel and its strange and beautiful and it twists and it turns / and we all got something burning inside of us /and we all got something to cry about / and we all got something to regret / and we all got something to smile about / and we all got something to sing about / but we move along like background actors afraid of center stage / afraid to feel all of our lonely rage / afraid of what will the audience think / afraid of stumbling on our lines afraid of tripping over our own heart beats / so afraid of dying in the limelight that we hold our breath and close our eyes and sleep without dreaming / and stay out of the spotlight and stay off in the wings / and what is it we’re living for by not playing the parts of ourselves / nothing but a shadow of who we could be / when will we all realize we can make our hearts into something bigger than a fist / that our heart can do something more than just beat / that we got the whole universe inside of us / and all we got to do is let it spill out / we don’t have to wait for our turn to be heard / we don’t need the permission of the director / we don’t need the applause of the audience / this is our life / this our stage / we got our own light dying to get out of us / we got gasoline running through our veins and we’re ready to burn from the inside out / and keep on burning and keep on burning and keep on burning / and dance along the fires of eternity / we don’t have to hold back who we really are / no matter how awkward or weird we may seem to be / there’s a beauty only found in those who find comfort in being strange / we don’t have to give in to normalcy / we don’t have to be complicit to the script of human cruelty / we don’t have to play soldiers in the war of wealth and greed / we don’t have to play the blind to the homeless and hungry / we don’t have to pretend to not hear the cry’s for help from those stricken with poverty / we don’t have to play the part of the enemies enemy / we can rewrite the script  /we can turn the world around and stand in solidarity and find our way to unity / we can stand center stage arm in arm and let no one move us / we can tear down the facade / and open up the cage our minds have been living in / and fly free and fly too high and kiss the sun as we burn hotter and brighter and not melt into nothingness / and nothing can bring us down when we make our hearts into something bigger than a fist / when we open it and let all this love spill out and let all this love come rushing back in / simply by just opening our hands and reaching out to one another / sister to sister to brother to brother to mother to father to daughter to son to friend / and to stranger / and write everyday with compassion and kindness and empathy / and throw away the old script of human misery / and all take a bow / after we have made our hearts into something bigger than a fist
ElEschew Jul 2018
Addictions are like *******
Everyone has one, and they usually stink
Smoke
Shoot
Snort
whatever you need to get you through
but...
What about when its not drugs?
How does she disclose
When her scars itch
When she's twitching
Scratching
Looking for something
what is it
what is it
what is it
what is it
where is it
where where where....
Her mind races
Her scars burn hot
Hot enough to burn her shorts
Hotter than her tears
There
Under the board on her stand
Shiny and stolen
Mechanical pencils are better anyway
She mutters to herself
Up goes her shorts
Up goes her sleeves
1
2
3
4
5
Dont count, make them even
In a line
Not like that
Her sister gets clean
She's left in limbo
How could she justify
How could she seek help
When she does it to herself
When it wont make her *****
When it wont make her seize
Addictions, everyone has one
For her, there's a relapse on the way
who knew self harm was addictive
Brooke Nov 2018
Let me tell you, I thought I knew love before you came around.

I mean, I’ve written a million love poems.

But the subjects, they’re more or less the same, black ink, red ink, graphite.

And the graphite smudges, and so the picture is never perfect.

I try to re-write it all without mistakes, but I don't have an eraser.

Which is to say that I have commitment issues, but no issue committing, I just commit all the time, to everything.

I've canoodled with paper, but there's never enough space on the page for all the love I have.

Sometimes, I’ll meet a crayon that brings some colour to my life, but they’re just too waxy and impressionable. Too immature, too naive.

Naive.

I’ve never actually been in love.

But you, you are so much different and way hotter.

You bring a spark into my life that I’ve never known.

Baby, you set my world on fire.

I tell myself, blue pen, don’t let this go up in smoke.

Let me tell you. I would do anything to know love.

You see, there isn’t much to me, but I’ve got this way with words and I’ll write you into every poem that’s ever birthed hope in the eyes of star-crossed lovers.

I’ll draw you a map of my heart so when you feel lonely after you’ve been put aside and forgotten in the back of a cupboard, I’ll be there.

I want you.

I want the good things and your sweet embrace of smoke smells really good right now.

I want the good things but I’ll take it all. I’ll take the bad things too.

Fill my lungs with your poison, show me what it’s like to love something so much it kills you.

Teach me how to give all of myself to someone just so they are satisfied, even if it leaves me crushed on the cement.

Let me become addicted to you.

My whole life is written in ink and I can’t escape the mistakes I’ve made so if you’ll have me, here I am.

I can’t guarantee that I’ll be right for you, who knows what you write with but I will be here.

Let me tell you, I will still love you after watching you kiss the lips of every person that craves your taste.

I will still love you after you steal the oxygen out of helpless gasps and sunken cheekbones.

I will still love you after your temper sets forests ablaze.

I will still love you when you suffocate me in your fumes, leaving me choking on everything I should have said to you.

I will still love you when you burn out and your ember softens against a pillow of ash, and your smell, your taste, your everything lingers in the air like a nostalgic dream that I never want to wake up from.

Let me tell you, I am forever.

I am infinite and I can create and write anything you want, even if it’s just prose on a piece of paper or a picture of the moon on nights when you’re the only good left in the world.

I can be anything you want, and if that is someone that will love you because they want to, and not because they have to, then I will be that.

I won’t quit you.

I can’t.
‘Twas many moons ago in fled days of yore,
In a distant realm of a golden shore,
When there dwelt a maiden of golden hair,
The last fairest by the name of Lenore.

The sweetness of her mellifluous voice,
Like only Angels of high heaven can make;
The beaminess of her impeccable face,
Reflections of a dawn sun-kissed lake.

Once by a golden noontide, so they say,
Perfectly salubrious was the day,
Fairly enriched by heaven's fairest ray
That Lenore chose to potter by the bay.

She marveled at so wide a limpid sea,
That was a vast luminous blue millpond,
Whispering mellifluous lullabies
Like of Angels upon heaven's compound.

“O sea, thou art lovely like a sweet dream,”
Quoth Lenore, “In thy waters I must swim.”
Hence as quick as a plummeting sunbeam,
In waters jumped the little seraphim.

Frosted in sheer elation she galloped
Upon the crest of so gentle a wave,
But every sea creature lifted its head,
Whilst doleful as marigold by a grave,

And in faint whispers didst bid her adieu,
"Farewell Lenore," till she was out of view,
Away where mortals of yore never knew,
Away where none canst ever have a clue.

In a while, the sun had shone her last ray
And solitary stars were beaming bright
Upon heaven's timelessly stonking bay,
But she still alone In the dead of night.

By luck, on yonder was a galleon
Of a sundeck decked with bright neon,
Her glossy sails as if from diamond hewn,
With words golden blazoned upon her stern:

Come thou little maiden, come thou aboard,
But little did innocent Lenore know,
At the back words in clear ruby-red read:
“To the kingdom of eternal sorrow.”

Not so long faded the night, dawn was nigh,
Heaven's molten gold began oozing by,
Whilst silvery clouds waltzed athwart the sky,
That Lenore's eyes slavered with ecstasy.

But then, there came a dog in the manger,
A hateful wave assailed the galleon
And heavens raged with roaring thunder
That echoed louder than the hungriest lion.

Tossing her where the sea kisses the skies,
Hence now but a speck on the horizons,
And there she galloped by and by downwards
Till wrecked upon shadowy blue islands

That bore words by the shores: “Little maiden,
Welcome thou to the kingdom of Nineva,
Where mortals shalt see thee never again,
For here you'll dwell forever and ever.”

This sent poor Lenore reeling far in mind
That with cinder-like eyes stumbled behind
But her galleon she could hardly find
For it had long vanished into the wind.

But hark! Yonder woods sprang a companion,
A lad whose names were Edgar Alan Poe;
Bestrode upon a snowy fair stallion
Who unto her whispered softly and low:

“If the moon be fair, then thy skin fairer,
If the stars be bright, then thine eyes brighter,
If snow be white, then thy lip’s gems whiter,
If the sun be hot, then thy hair hotter,

Then tell me, what bringeth thou to Nineva,
A realm of eternal sorrow and fear,
Where no mortal hath escaped ever,
But ever doomed in dungeons of despair?”

Despite her visage was lugubrious,
Her worries were all now but fugacious,
That yonder fair floral woods susurrous
Galloped whilst trees sang in tunes mellifluous.

For Edgar’s words of kindness had soothed her
Now doth she beam with ethereal luster
Like of night lanterns upon heavens shore
Scintillating in a wondrous cluster.

Alas! strange and covetous myriad eyes
By yon brier coveted the beauty queen
That as passes a fiend in the night skies
Did spy upon her with eyes all unseen

'Tis then when Edgar was away hunting
Whilst the beauty queen was all alone singing
When those dreamy figures came whispering
Amongst each other whilst wildly smiling.

Bestrode upon many a snowy fair horse,
Their strange faces, as pale as death her self.
Their voices, as if thousand snakes didst hiss,
Betwixt them, there lordly sprang an elf

Who unto her said, "how sweet thou dost sing,
Thy melodious voice would so please our king,
Unto thee, rubies and pearls shalt he bring,
Of banished gold shalt be thy nuptial ring."

"Nay", softly replied the little maiden,
To thy king I canst not walk down the isle,
For in violent love I'm with a swain,
Thy king's treasures outweigh not his smile.

"Wretch", why dost thou abhor our proposal?
For soon thou art to regret having done so,
So cried the elf, "opting for a mortal
Than a mighty king who is immortal"?

"Hark! Fair moon, see that morrow by noontide
Thou art by the edge of yon verdant moor,
For then thou shalt come with us yonder side
Neath the sea, and dwell with us evermore."

At this, a wild wind danced by many a leaf
And so vanished the strange troop of the elf
That she busted with a sigh of relief
Though deep within, her soul kindled with grief.

Not long, news sprinkled into the swain's ear
Who gathered a troop of a thousand men
Each bearing a bow, a hummer and spear,
All ready to guard the beauty queen.

When came morrow, they took little Lenore
And laid her beneath a lone sycamore
That stood by the edge of a lonely moor,
And then all matched towards the shingly shore.

No army led by any hostile king
Towards them could ever come any near.
There job was great that they did chant and sing
Songs of triumph of the fled days of yore.

Alas! To match towards the sycamore,
There pale and cold laid innocent Lenore
With not any single bone of poor her
Broken, but her breath taken evermore.

Mute, forlon, and motionless stood the swain
With bitter tears galloping from his eye,
With his soul 'neath a sepulchre of pain
That from yon day on, the realm he did curse.

For in Nineva, a realm dim and deep,
There not a mean ray of light canst now creep,
And there all creatures night and day dost weep
Till sweet Lenore wakes from eternal sleep.


©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros, Kampala, Uganda. 16th.July.2018.

#tale #adventure #fantasy #Lenore #EdgarAlanPoe #Nineva
"Nineva" is a magical kingdom in "Kikos's Legendarium"...a miscellany of tales of mystery and maccabre like you've never heard of. Tales such as: The Enchanted Gold, The Dwarf Of Nineva, Woods Have Eyes, Jazabel The Witch, The Novelty Tea ***, The Witch's Cauldron, The Lonely Hut, The Nectar Stream, among so many others.
And this tale is as well one of a grand scene in an adventurous movie script im penning.

#Each line in decasyllables
#Lenore is a name of a maiden I borrowed from Edgar Alan Poe's tales of mystery.
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