"knightly" poems
Now tell me such a tale sir
while I am tightly bound
of captive maidens held sir
where evil knights abound.
Then taken to be used sir
in their castles of renown
of tortured girls so sweet sir
who are forced so to kneel down.
Then tell me of the dungeons sir
within the fortress drear
with chains upon the walls sir
where I might be held in fear.
Then show me what it means sir
to be such a prisoner
where nothing else is real sir
but myself as a damsel fair.
Then make me live the thought sir
that I might so lie within
and tortured all day long sir
for each imagined sin.
Then secretly find pleasure sir
in all that’s done to me
while my knightly captor sir
has me on my knees.
Then eventually confess sir,
to all my worldly sins
while my sadistic lord sir
is making me more commit .
Then tie me even tighter sir
with every knot aware
rough ****** I now need sir
to think myself as there.
Then make me taste your whip sir
to force me to submit
of the marks you leave sir
you care not a single whit.
Then take me as you will sir
and drive me really wild
make sure I’m deeply kissed sir
where I feel it burn inside.
Then hold me in your keep sir
and bend me to your will
and use my body more sir
for my needs are never still.
Then stand me on the brink sir
and show me just the edge
of where I shall be pushed sir
with just the slightest nudge.
Then tie me up and leave sir
to dream and squirm at will
of the ways I might be used sir
in your castle on the hill.
********
From the Francesca Anderssen collection of 101 **** Verses 2016
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 9:35 AM UTC
The young and bold Sir Lancelot
Had shunned the lady of Shalott
And all the swooning maidens, dear.
His heart belonged to Guinevere.
And were she not to Arthur, wed,
She'd have the heart-sick knight instead.
But so it goes, such is the luck
Of sad sir Lancelot du Lac.
When first he came to Camelot
The orphan knight, Sir Lancelot
Did prove his worth to Arthur's Court
In jousting, and such noble sport
And with his charm and courtly grace,
His confidence and handsome face,
He won the heart of Guinevere,
And so he found his heart's one fear.
But so it goes, such is the luck
Of sad Sir Lancelot du Lac.
In tournaments and deeds of arms,
He never fell to earthly harms.
His Lady's scarf about his breast,
He held aloft his knightly chest
And for her honor always strove,
And worshiped her with courtly love.
But she is wed, such is the luck
Of sad Sir Lancelot du Lac.
Beneath a tree, the young knight slept
And one day, four queens on him crept,
The chief of them, Morgan Le Fay.
With magic, they stole him away.
A choice they begged of him to make,
That one of them his heart should take.
But love is strong. They had no luck
In tempting Lancelot du Lac.
When Melegans stole Guinevere
A cart, Sir Lancelot did steer
To reach the hold where she was kept,
Then toward the treacherous knight he leapt.
He bested him with slash and blow,
But to Sir Lancelot's great woe
His Lady simply laughed in jest
And saw no honor in his quest,
For he arrived upon a cart.
Thus, broken was the young knight's heart,
And in a rage he left the place.
He longed just for his Lady's grace.
But so it goes, such is the luck
Of sad Sir Lancelot du Lac.
The young and bold Sir Lancelot
Had shunned the lady of Shalott
And all the swooning maidens, dear.
His heart belonged to Guinevere.
And were she not to Arthur, wed,
She'd have the heart-sick knight instead.
But so it goes, such is the luck
Of sad Sir Lancelot du Lac.
So when he quested for the Grail
He made a promise he would fail.
He said he'd not love Guinevere,
But as he spoke, he shed a tear.
He knew one day their love would end
The table round, and hurt their friends.
So when this promise he did break
The land of Camelot did quake.
For Agrivan, King Arthur, told
His wife did love Lancelot bold
And Arthur sent her to the pyre
To end her sinful love, in fire.
But Lancelot, his queen, did save
And Arthur fell into the grave
And all the knights of Table Round
Were torn apart, could not be bound.
And thus the fall of Camelot
Was caused by one Sir Lancelot.
But so it goes, such is the luck
Of bold Sir Lancelot du Lac.
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 9:29 PM UTC
And lights.
She looked a little pale
In the yellow light.
The spots had been
Changed to white.
And when the white
Couldn't hide her pallor,
She asked the makeup
To put on a brighter colour.
They didn't ask if she had eaten.
They tried once,
Came back browbeaten.
"Diet only for ma'am"
Her abdomen perfectly satisfied;
Her soul craving for more.
And camera.
The perfect shot
Ended with a sweeping glance
Across the set
At her hero all decked
In the knightly splendour.
She was a princess whom
He saved from a dragon.
Little did anyone know
That after a day's worth
Of angry cameras panning
Her face and scrutinising her life,
She needed saving
Mostly from herself.
And action.
This time, a thriller.
She walks down the corridor set
- Director's thumbs-up,
To hunt down the culprit
Who snatched her family.
She gives the perfect action sequence,
Complete with blood trickles.
"An award winner, surely."
She is done with the shoot
And heads home, her van.
Someone is waiting.
He had been waiting since she left
Him that summer.
Waiting for an excuse, at first.
Then acceptance.
Then forgiveness.
She gave it her best performance,
But could not fake the relief
When he approached with an apology
And a gun.
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 5:48 AM UTC
Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 11/3/2019
My homeland - dear land,
where for the first time I saw the sun
and where I came to know God;
Where my father, brothers and mother kind
taught me prayers in my maternal tongue.
My homeland - villages and cities,
planted from the times of Piasts among Lechic fields;
Rivers, forests, flowery leas and meadows,
where larks sing their sweet songs of hope.
My homeland - our forefathers' glory,
Chrobry's Notched Sword and Cecora Mace,
Knightly Spirit, noble and brave,
bitter defeats and victories great.
My homeland - quiet green fields
for centuries trampled by hostile armies,
burial mounds and sad graves
that have covered our freedom defenders.
My homeland - heroic spirit of the Polish people,
that by miracle lives amid hunger and cold;
- hope that always blooms in hearts,
with work for the fathers, and song for the young!
Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)
Nov 3, 2019
Nov 3, 2019 at 11:32 AM UTC
Patience is a whimsical weather,
a scenery beneath a pale moonlit night;
somehow a velvet rope,
which binds memories between the lines.
Patience gains that trust
rare in a world of waiting,
a knightly sacrifice
that only someone's words can end.
It should not be talked about,
it has its own voice to speak for itself,
it means no boundaries,
no time, no conflicts.
It is a bizarre blossom,
a man could ever hold in his hands.
And patience is a kind of love,
explained in every bewildered circumstance.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC
Why are you so crazy
You want so much from me
You want me to be knightly
Yet you're no sort of Lady
I'm a citizen-soldier
There are none much bolder
I won't fall on a knife
Just to ease your life
I'm the one in the mud
All covered in Blood
Yet the way you're acting
You think I'm a king
You want me in a shiny Chestplate
You think it's the perfect mate
I'll tell you one thing
I'll not deliver you a ring
Shiny Armour
It's purely glamour
It contains no honour
Untested metal
Sure to crumble
I'm a citizen-soldier
Suited for God's honour
I'm not a Knight in Shining Armour
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
Men, can’t live with them – can’t live without them. So strong and firm, yet gentle and understanding on return. Exciting but never bending – always curious with women.
Men where does the beast console his wounds – do they crawl away in the dark to lick the deepest cut or into a woman’s arms gently laying on her breasts? Hopefully so, but maybe not. Men also place their bruises upon the hands of the Maker while women gently sob tears into the night.
Men never give up being knightly, strong and rescuing the damsel in distress. Sometime men just cause stress.
Gifts, love, uncertainty, cuddling, nested in the strong arms are a woman torn, broken, bent beyond reproach. Her heart goes limp, she sighs.
Men are always ready with the first aid kit and those soft, smothering kisses and long, lost, longing eyes.
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 4:20 AM UTC
You'll never breathe the air that you desire
You aim high up only to fall in complete dire
You search for pieces of what's left unattended
The pain for pleasure heavenly greeted
The thrill rides will never be on favour
Hallucination agents dilating pupils
Producing optics illussion of colours
Reflecting mirror emotions taints
Through cracks of the window panes
Countings stars that steal flames
Flickering lights of blinding fame
De Ja Vu striked you rebelling
For this world not the reality claimed
Only temporary trial and error games
For what's down beneath indulging
This sweet bedazzling lies conjuring
Worshippers who breathe yet still denying
Organizing multiple ******** swines
Downloading stereotypical in the line
To shore your life's daze in waves
Capturing precious ocean's bay
Till the knightly light gives way
For the elegant moon cautiously lay
Theatrical role play of regrets portray
From worrying writes which convey
Nirvana awaits for those who ....
A strip of paper that was torn at the edge
Which could only be found deep within
Heart's page
©2014 Maman Screams
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:03 AM UTC
The Queen of the Diamond,
she of beauty and grace.
she of poise and elegance,
she of ribbon and lace.
The King of the *****
he of joking and laughter
he of roughness and fun,
he of jacket and leather.
The Queen stood tall,
over her subjects, the
serfs of the schoolyard.
The Barons, Earls, and Counts,
alike tried to garner her favor.
All to no avail, as the Queen
was not interested in their advances.
Or in affairs of the heart altogether.
She was busy with her own lofty goals,
yet, how the countesses talked...
The King was once but a serf,
a simple, silly, joking jester.
But he had a way, and a manner,
an ability to please and to appease,
in ways the nobles could not.
However, all he really was
was a punchline, a tool for laughter.
He longed for more, and then more.
He desired importance, and status,
and not the derision of the clowns.
The Queen graced him with
her royal presence, one spare day.
With his jokes, and jests, and
his knightly sincerity, the King
managed to win her over.
In time, they made an alliance.
A partnership, an agreement,
sealed by a regal kiss. Together,
They won what they both desired.
in spite of what others conspired.
The Queen got some solace from
the nagging hand-maids, her fellow
nobles and others asking when she'd
find herself a sweet suitor, a man.
So that she could focus on her dreams.
The King finally earned respect,
the kind that comes from moving up.
No longer was he just another serf,
he could instead joke and upshow
the smug nobles of the royal court.
Yet as the seasons passed, they came to
realize that little had they in common.
The Queen was studious and stern,
The King was slack and slow at work.
They had fun, but little was earned.
Respect only went so far really,
and the King could feel it was forced,
and the Queen still had to put up with
questions of when they would be wed.
Their struggles were still present.
Camelot would not amaze much longer,
as the King and the Queen would go
their separate paths, amicably as could be.
The Queen realized that only she could
determine her own self-worth.
A lesson that rang true for the King,
as well. Self-respect mattered more,
than 'respect' from others, that can flit,
and flutter. And so, through each other,
The King and Queen got what they needed.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 1:11 AM UTC
I’m Up! I’m Up!
…………………
The pink rag, soaked in ice cold water flops onto my capsulated face,
Caught in between the colorful alligator whom follows me in the darkness and a temperature guage, set to a boiling point of some sort.
I’m Awake! I’m Awake!
…………………...
The grown imitation of me is dragging the arctic rug across my crusted sockets of sight,
I arise with immediate surprise,
My head cranks left- right-
A man’s best friend shaking a seizure to feel warm and dry,
I visualize the bottom of my mattress laying quiet and still above my head,
The coffee beans brew the smell of one more morning to begin the dilation of rested lungs,
Get Up! Get Up!
The executioner of rested thought is a parasite to my inability to exercise- Worm-like movements of some algorithm-
Off with his head!
The king of my heart screams as the comforter slides off of my immobile flesh and the residue from my eyes attracts plenty of oxygen,
Drifting off, I again visualize that slumbered alligator, whom is chasing my dreams into the Rubbermaid playground,
The creature sways in my knightly moat as I taunt the teeth of a smirk so envious- Opposable stumps we tag as a thumbs up,
Ten minutes with this shadowed beast is all I need to chomp down on prey that only exists in the wild jungle of the morrow,
Splash! Splash!
………………
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 1:46 PM UTC
Lulling to the cicadas screeching
nightly
Bulging dew drops shimmering
brightly
Tree limbs grasping moonlight
tightly
Fireflies flickering ever so
slightly
Fairies tickling flowers; so
sprightly
Centaurs galloping bare, but
knightly
It's true that I should admit
rightly
Nights at the grove are nothing but sightly
Sep 28, 2020
Sep 28, 2020 at 6:47 AM UTC
more often than not, a knightly surge
combs a pawn me,
especially after the stroke of midnight, when
hermetically sealed in my rookery,
where bats in the belfry
flap their wings at the speed
of sound times ten
thence, this king heads to his counting house
(which doubles asthma
Perkiomen Valley bishopric)
to economize on space,
especially during tax time
(as April fifteenth slowly approaches,
me heartbeat doth) quicken
though becalmed, when imbibing
idyllic, fantastic, and bucolic kingdom
Americana paintings courtesy, sans nomen
Percevel Rockwell, thus jitteriness pacified,
particularly speaking
on the telly phone with Ken
Burns, whose trademark documentaries,
particularly War between the States,
where even roosting hen
got into the frayed scrimmage vis a vis, even
chilly being egged on to surrender as Ben
a fit to this American
Civil War Yankee incarnate,
whose doodling word
ya probably don't give a hoot -Amen!
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 2:21 AM UTC
Why does this have to be so difficult
When I just want them to like me?
Why does my mouth not stop when it’s supposed to
When I find myself being disgusting again?
I mean
If I really believed
And you had the chance to die in my name again
Would you?
I’m only human
There are like
Billions of us
And I was never kingly
Or knightly
Chivalry sounds like something you do when you stab someone
I’ve never stabbed anyone
How come you made all these other poets famous and not me?
Do they serve beer in heaven?
I like beer
But beer is bad for me
Am I bad for me?
What part of me does audacity come from?
How
I survived cancer
But somehow feel defeated
When I can’t get a phone number
I mean
I am only human
But am made from your image
And I know everyone says you’ve got a sense of humor
So I just wanna know what carnival mirror
I fell out of
Careless like a soda stain on an end table
Bitter like my mouth an hour after coffee
Why can’t I sleep at night?
Are ghosts real because I think my house is haunted?
If I was born to do something when will I know?
Or if there really are answers somewhere
Where should I go?
Is my life really just some kind of TV show?
Is it boring?
Is it long?
Is it going to be short?
Hey Hey Hey
Do you hear me?
If I truly believed
Would you tell me?
Because I know for sure I was built funny
My ears aren’t small enough to withstand
The bass drum boom
Of the things my heart keeps sayin?
Speaking with a sound
Like a train
Always heading forward
But never knowing
Really
Where to go
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 7:16 AM UTC
brown skin farmer girl (this changeling poem)
~
we are I’ve decided
alike and unlike.
I know, an epiphany.
we are both brown skinned,
the sun has wrested my skin
buried it in dark loamy,
soiled brown side by side,
now alike.
your hair is long(er)
now, mine too.
a cascading mountain ranging,
edging south from your Columbia,
to my Columbia
over my ears, down my neck,
which like yours, dreams knightly
of being loved by endless kisses,
a prince(ss) charmant
~
*we could not be
more different,
than how god us designed.
but here’s the rub,
people change,
they dream of becoming,
reinventing the original design,
and this explains
not the why, but the how,
how this poet came to write
this changeling poem*.
~
and you think we could not be more different and
more alike, and you would be rightly correct.
Jul 25, 2020
Jul 25, 2020 at 8:08 AM UTC
Or ever the knightly years were gone
With the old world to the grave,
I was a King in Babylon
And you were a Christian Slave.
I saw, I took, I cast you by,
I bent and broke your pride.
You loved me well, or I heard them lie,
But your longing was denied.
Surely I knew that by and by
You cursed your gods and died.
And a myriad suns have set and shone
Since then upon the grave
Decreed by the King in Babylon
To her that had been his Slave.
The pride I trampled is now my scathe,
For it tramples me again.
The old resentment lasts like death,
For you love, yet you refrain.
I break my heart on your hard unfaith,
And I break my heart in vain.
Yet not for an hour do I wish undone
The deed beyond the grave,
When I was a King in Babylon
And you were a ****** Slave.
789
I’m not anyone’s idea of Cinderella.
Sadly, I won’t be attending the ball.
My slippers aren’t glass, and no one will ask
for my hand in this grand entrance hall.
My lips aren’t blood, and my skin is not snow
No dwarves do I have, let alone seven.
There’s no evil Queen to lock me in sleep,
no Prince to redeem me from Heaven.
I don’t have gold locks, a tower length long.
No witch keeps me locked here beside her.
No spindle pricked fingers, nor dragons on guard.
Nothing special this night will occur.
I’m alone in this world, no Prince of my own.
No one waiting to kiss these lips lightly.
There’s no dashing great steed, no gallant deed.
Sadly, no more men who act knightly.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 3:41 AM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
My desire,
Is hellish fire,
A Fresh teenage body such as myself,
Am I a liar or deceiver,
Would you believe her,
In sickness and health,
My thoughts and frames are calibrated,
See through the windows of her soul
I didn't have to love it,
Was frustrated,
But I reframe from that
And just let everyone and everything go,
To get one more night of love making and
Kissing soft throats,
I would love her with all my heart,
But most of it is decayed,
But sometimes for romance , you go
For what you know,
Touch of her hair,
Smiles that glare brightly,
When she needs her superman,
Instead I'll be there knightly.
Get it.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 1:03 PM UTC
I dream of a quiet room-
A room that feels like a 1969 peace rally,
A room that is bright and happy
A space without space
Where we can lay and be sappy-
while loving eachother
like beasts who care more about smiling
than they do about breathing-
With a simple belief that keeps repeating:
Make love not war.
I dream of a room
Where it's okay to lay in bed for hours-
Laugh at the world as it goes sour...
Leaving the universe with a bad taste of spilt milk
across this galaxy,
But it won't matter to me-
To you-
To us-
together we'll discuss
All the fears...
The fears that rage us,
The ones that cage us-
The ones that try to make us-
But we won't let them win...
Instead we'll hold hands
And lay silently facing-
the world is our canvas;
Our bodies,
The paints;
And it won't matter if someone cries devil
Cause we both know the love of saints,
In a room that lays quiet
Built of dangling paper stars
That dance over our heads nightly
Reminding us to be brave and knightly-
As we slay this universe
With our arms around each other, tightly
This is a room that erases old scars
And prepares us for new ones-
Reminds us what victory taste like
Time...and time again.
"How many?" You asked-
One for every time I had this thought...
While laying in this space
like a lost astronaut-
without you.
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
mumbles, rumbles, grumbles & groans
*permeate the bedroom still,
woman tosses, turns and exclaims
mumbles, groans, all twisted into
a single minutes-long rumbling*
*torn I am, let it pass, or stroke the hair,
caress the shoulder, or risk awakening her
to continue her alert discontent, or salve her,
thereby saving her from herself, for me, us*
*do you know forever?
do you know perpetuity!
this diurnal/nocturnal border line battling
dilemma, comes early morn, ever faithfully*
and I dreading her dreaming:
court the new day’s chance-ry,^
plead my case, make new laws to protect
the infants, lunatics and the restless
and those would be their Knight Errant Protectors!
<>
^ The Court of Chancery was a court of equity in England and Wales that followed a set of loose rules to avoid a slow pace of change and possible harshness (or "inequity") of the common law. The Chancery had jurisdiction over all matters of equity, including trusts, land law, the estates of lunatics and the guardianship of infants.
A knight-errant is a figure of medieval chivalric romance literature. The adjective errant (meaning "wandering, roving") indicates how the knight-errant would wander the land in search of adventures to prove his chivalric virtues, either in knightly duels (pas d'armes) or in some other pursuit of courtly love.
Jun 4, 2023
Jun 4, 2023 at 7:23 AM UTC
It needs an offer indeed.
An offer of a better life,
Bettered with choosing love,
Choice of a wise dear partner,
Dearest be that earnest one,
Earning more than just filthy money,
Filth of loneliness be glowed away,
Glow of love I herewith mean,
Hereto in love's inventive embrace,
Invent they together do just happiness,
Justified are my sacrifices in knightly manner,
Knightly in shining armour of lovely feelings,
Lovely days will descend more lightly,
More than anything else I need love,
Needful of your own love,
Own my heart you do with that pulling force,
Pulling it up towards your queer self,
Queer for me you are definitely more rightly attractive,
Rightly I demand your hand in sweet desperation,
Sweetly sitting in my mouth like my teeth 32,
Teeth - your teeth I have for them the utmost love,
Utmost importance I give to your voice always,
Voice of your adolescence and as I remember when we talked,
We had lengthy conversations which were x-rayed then,
X-rayed with the help of your own,
Your love is what I will long for after reaching the zenith higher,
Zenith of success calls me and how?
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 9:14 AM UTC
She was a lady of valor and of might,
But she was also weak, scared and couldn’t fight;
Her love was as passionate as lovers could be,
But her tears were as painful as thorns should be.
You informed her not that you’re leaving,
Soon, you’ll see her bitterly crying;
Until she has foreseen the doom,
You couldn’t respond ‘cause her face was of gloom.
It fell down; her tears of love was real,
She almost cry her heart out with pain the that she feels;
Your knightly arms will calm her,
On her face will be a carved laughter.
But it cannot be done any more.
You’re too far and you leaved her with a sore.
She was bewildered, wandering from the ocean floor.
In her beautiful visage her tears pour.
The enormous waves on the ocean’s surface,
Her rushing tears from her gloomy face;
On the fine seashore sands,
There she walks and behind the yacht she stands.
Your memoirs are her reminisces of the past,
On the sunset, there her eyes was caste.
Dawn came of no assurance,
She awakes but she responded with no compliance.
She yearns for your presence.
She weeps for your absence.
She longs for reconciliation.
She was beaten out of compassion.
Sep 17, 2017
Sep 17, 2017 at 2:35 AM UTC
A simple jacket.
A simple gesture.
A knightly task.
To some may seem simple.
To me, it’s a taking off of a mask.
Has anyone ever taken such great care of you?
Making sure you’re warm and sheltered from the cold?
The simple gesture of putting my jacket on for me is very bold.
This is something that I’ve never had before.
Such a simple task that was just for me.
I’m so lucky to spend these simple, sweet moments with you the sweetest man.
Feb 21, 2025
Feb 21, 2025 at 8:23 PM UTC
I head out unknowingly
into the ****** of fray
the tyrant's berserk
into frisky delay
the title screams
of a monsoon champagne
as I cast about
my insecure monologue relays
kings and queens
knightly rose golds
flattering **** all over castles
we all call home
vain painted faces
hiding
waiting
searching
poppy lemons in fertility skies
prairies danced upon
to beg for faulty mercy
in reality they stench of lies
shattered mirrors noses gone cold
tragedy struck this elegant mellow
solo trios in crowning malachite fur
guardians who seek for the murderer's slur
how mistreated, gallant fright
guardians topple bridges to hearts precise
yet I have built a fortress around mine
so I cannot possibly fall apart, concise
fog scurries, ghouls writhe, pounce in mist
the mountain and sky embrace, insist
the walls are caving, their laughter gone sour
as vain painted faces **** remove the powder
earth stretches, starkly white canoes
easing gently through streams, hello
me and my guardians, my guardians and I
we have built a garden
ruins no longer cowering in disguise
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 12:23 AM UTC
I glimpsed the Grail
Removed her mail:
And there beheld an epic tale:
Chivalric odes
With knightly codes
And brave Arthurian episodes . . .
Revealing there
Her essence bare
I touched on divers themes most fair.
The gauntlet flung,
My canto sung,
I read her poem—with my tongue.
My lady-squire
Upon her sire
Now reaped her harvest of desire.
My milk-white steed
Traversed her mead
And she dismounted, free indeed.
Fresh love consumed,
Our quest resumed;
Ideals of chivalry entombed.
Aug 30, 2019
Aug 30, 2019 at 4:54 PM UTC
You said from your ideal self
i heard from the real you
its a tale of the time when
the imperfect me met the imperfect you
Your fingers swirling stars,
you turn back when you want to whine,
your feeble likes and strong dislikes,
moving castle is your favourite story,
Rick and morty i have never watched but heard enough
to hold a talk,
random cartoons dose takes me high,
kiss smileys every morning and every night.
Gokarna, bijapur, karwar, veenu, manipal,
are few places I can count
an endless list of lab tours and
campus walks are not to be forgotten…fading is inevitably bound
I never told you that sometimes I walk behind you to know how it feels,
when you move on, far away from me.
After long notes and longer nights,
I am writing with the fewer words that I can find.
That street I pass every night knows I am hurt,
I scream your name with all my broken parts,
They say its a phase but I know its a ‘scar’,
only you can heal it with your gaze and touch.
I wonder how your smile has changed over the phone calls,
your breathe is all i know,
Its been long since I felt it, before I was caught in the right and the wrong.
Moral correctness is morally flawed,
because it listens to the stories of knightly mountains,
not the thin brook flowing down its bleeding rocks.
I am a burning candle who lights you when around,
but now you are gone I stand burning endlessly
I want you to cry, cry in my arms while my tears run down your neck,
silence be broken with pain and sorrow,
till the room is filled with smoke and the candle dies,
With the fading weep and drying tears darkness spreads in the world,
let the Gods above know that we have broken apart.
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 10:21 PM UTC