There art those who liveth to writeth
And those who writeth to liveth....
The distinction between the duo is

The one who writeth to liveth
He's the lonely one
Seeking truest amare...
Writing daily on it....
Giving all with no return...

And he writeth to liveth...
Because he knoweth if he puts down that ink blotted pen.....

It's all over!!!!

i.

A Vintage Alfajor necklace
To veil mine sovereign belle;
Betrothed for heaven's comfort
We hath already been through hell.

ii.

Ourn bygone time
Hath strengthened us for forthcoming rapture;
I'll be right next to her, in her allure
No death, forever, happily ever after.

iii.

I'll tryeth daily, tis none maby's
I'll doeth anything, for mine Filipino baby;
As tis I'll maketh her, forget her past
I'll be her bishop, she shalt be mine eternal hourglass.

iv.

As time goeth fast, I mustn't lose the thought
That tommorrow doth not always cometh, we dieth, get lost;
Though she hath found me, I knoweth what being saved mean's
I wilt liveth every day as mine last, and liveth it for mine queen.

v.

So dearest reyna, soulmate, and best friend
When thou doth readeth this, know ourn love shalt not end;
As we both understandeth, this planet is just a passage to the next
We wilt meeteth in this life, and afterward's, pag-ibig at it's best.


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

Mine Filipino rose
For thee I shalt;

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Guillotine
As mine head falleth;
Into oldened basket.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

The mountain pinnacles slumber; valleys, crags, and caves
are silent.

“LISTEN to me,” said the Demon, as he placed his hand
upon my head. “The region of which I speak is a dreary
region in Libya, by the borders of the river Zaeire. And
there is no quiet there, nor silence.

“The waters of the river have a saffron and sickly hue; and
they flow not onward to the sea, but palpitate forever and
forever beneath the red eye of the sun with a tumultuous and
convulsive motion. For many miles on either side of the
river’s oozy bed is a pale desert of gigantic water-lilies.
They sigh one unto the other in that solitude, and stretch
towards the heaven their long and ghastly necks, and nod to
and fro their everlasting heads. And there is an indistinct
murmur which cometh out from among them like the rushing of
subterrene water. And they sigh one unto the other.

“But there is a boundary to their realm—the boundary
of the dark, horrible, lofty forest. There, like the waves
about the Hebrides, the low underwood is agitated
continually. But there is no wind throughout the heaven. And
the tall primeval trees rock eternally hither and thither
with a crashing and mighty sound. And from their high
summits, one by one, drop everlasting dews. And at the
roots, strange poisonous flowers lie writhing in perturbed
slumber. And overhead, with a rustling and loud noise, the
gray clouds rush westwardly forever until they roll, a
cataract, over the fiery wall of the horizon. But there is
no wind throughout the heaven. And by the shores of the
river Zaeire there is neither quiet nor silence.

“It was night, and the rain fell; and, falling, it was rain,
but, having fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass
among the tall lilies, and the rain fell upon my head—
and the lilies sighed one unto the other in the solemnity of
their desolation.

“And, all at once, the moon arose through the thin ghastly
mist, and was crimson in color. And mine eyes fell upon a
huge gray rock which stood by the shore of the river and was
lighted by the light of the moon. And the rock was gray and
ghastly, and tall,—and the rock was gray. Upon its
front were characters engraven in the stones; and I walked
through the morass of water-lilies, until I came close unto
the shore, that I might read the characters upon the stone.
But I could not decipher them. And I was going back into the
morass when the moon shone with a fuller red, and I turned
and looked again upon the rock and upon the
characters;—and the characters were DESOLATION.

“And I looked upwards, and there stood a man upon the summit
of the rock; and I hid myself among the water-lilies that I
might discover the action of the man. And the man was tall
and stately in form, and wrapped up from his shoulders to
his feet in the toga of old Rome. And the outlines of his
figure were indistinct—but his features were the
features of a deity; for the mantle of the night, and of the
mist, and of the moon, and of the dew, had left uncovered
the features of his face. And his brow was lofty with
thought, and his eye wild with care; and in the few furrows
upon his cheek, I read the fables of sorrow, and weariness,
and disgust with mankind, and a longing after solitude.

“And the man sat upon the rock, and leaned his head upon his
hand, and looked out upon the desolation. He looked down
into the low unquiet shrubbery, and up into the tall
primeval trees, and up higher at the rustling heaven, and
into the crimson moon. And I lay close within shelter of the
lilies, and observed the actions of the man. And the man
trembled in the solitude;—but the night waned, and he
sat upon the rock.

“And the man turned his attention from the heaven, and
looked out upon the dreary river Zaeire, and upon the yellow
ghastly waters, and upon the pale legions of the water-lilies.
And the man listened to the sighs of the water-lilies,
and to the murmur that came up from among them. And
I lay close within my covert and observed the actions of the
man. And the man trembled in the solitude;—but the
night waned, and he sat upon the rock.

“Then I went down into the recesses of the morass, and waded
afar in among the wilderness of the lilies, and called unto
the hippopotami which dwelt among the fens in the recesses
of the morass. And the hippopotami heard my call, and came,
with the behemoth, unto the foot of the rock, and roared
loudly and fearfully beneath the moon. And I lay close
within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And
the man trembled in the solitude;—but the night waned,
and he sat upon the rock.

“Then I cursed the elements with the curse of tumult; and a
frightful tempest gathered in the heaven, where before there
had been no wind. And the heaven became livid with the
violence of the tempest—and the rain beat upon the
head of the man—and the floods of the river came
down—and the river was tormented into foam—and
the water-lilies shrieked within their beds—and the
forest crumbled before the wind—and the thunder
rolled—and the lightning fell—and the rock
rocked to its foundation. And I lay close within my covert
and observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in
the solitude;—but the night waned, and he sat upon the
rock.

“Then I grew angry and cursed, with the curse of silence,
the river, and the lilies, and the wind, and the forest, and
the heaven, and the thunder, and the sighs of the water-lilies.
And they became accursed, and were still. And
the moon ceased to totter up its pathway to heaven—and
the thunder died away—and the lightning did not
flash—and the clouds hung motionless—and the
waters sunk to their level and remained—and the trees
ceased to rock—and the water-lilies sighed no
more—and the murmur was heard no longer from among
them, nor any shadow of sound throughout the vast
illimitable desert. And I looked upon the characters of the
rock, and they were changed;—and the characters were
SILENCE.

“And mine eyes fell upon the countenance of the man, and his
countenance was wan with terror. And, hurriedly, he raised
his head from his hand, and stood forth upon the rock and
listened. But there was no voice throughout the vast
illimitable desert, and the characters upon the rock were
SILENCE. And the man shuddered, and turned his face away,
and fled afar off, in haste, so that I beheld him no more.”

…

Now there are fine tales in the volumes of the Magi—in
the iron-bound, melancholy volumes of the Magi. Therein, I
say, are glorious histories of the Heaven, and of the Earth,
and of the mighty Sea—and of the Genii that overruled
the sea, and the earth, and the lofty heaven. There was much
lore, too, in the sayings which were said by the sybils; and
holy, holy things were heard of old by the dim leaves that
trembled around Dodona—but, as Allah liveth, that
fable which the demon told me as he sat by my side in the
shadow of the tomb, I hold to be the most wonderful of all!
And as the Demon made an end of his story, he fell back
within the cavity of the tomb and laughed. And I could not
laugh with the Demon, and he cursed me because I could not
laugh. And the lynx which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came
out therefrom, and lay down at the feet of the Demon, and
looked at him steadily in the face.

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.

I miss thee, I hath to admit
I want to witness again thy stunning smile so sweet
And how th' sun always kindly, and generously, touchest thy dark hair
Then shalt thou breakest into endless jokes and childish wit
'Fore rising a tender smile, as we greet each other by th' circular stairs.

I bet thou art still remarkable and stupendous as usual
Thou whom I'th known since last grey fall
By th' ponderous sleeping lake; in th' midst of a burly night;
Thou stared through me with a pair of unfathomable eyes;
as though thou couldst makest everything in my heart-better and right;
and yon, yon colourlessness of th' night, shinest so beautifully as butterflies.
Thou wert, indeedst, not th' paleness I had dreamed,
thou wert not bleak, thou wert not mean.
Thou still shined brightly though chilled and dimmed,
thou wert damp, but sunny-just like th' nearby shuffling trances
to which I had never been.
At times thou canst seem lazy, ah-but thou'rt indeedst not!
As just I do, thou liveth thy life from dot to dot,
thou leapest from time to time in my story,
thou, though far away, somehow always seem near,
and be sitting here idly with me and my poetry.
Thou might be close not to my ears,
but I canst listenest to thee; as thou eat and pray,
and as thou waketh, to every single inevitable day.
T'is life, which canst somehow be bitter,
shalt at times corruptest thy happiness and thy laughter;
wringing thee into false devotion and meanness,
but be sure, my love, t'at I shalt be thy cure;
I shalt be thy unhealed passion and all-new tenderness.
I shalt be thy first salvation, honesty and satiation;
I shalt be a scarf t'at giveth thee warmth, and thy hated mediation;
hated and dejected by t'is dreadful world, my love,
t'is world which knowest not t'at love is everything above.
And I shalt be thy heaven, and holiness,
and thy greenest grass when it is too dark,
as t'is world hurts and drivest away from frankness;
and within its grim sacrifice, lettest go of its single spark.
Ah, thee, thy innocence is just like my own soul,
but it is what makest thee divine as gold;
thou art ever pure, and incessantly pure,
and thy jokes and ventures and preachings flawless and true.
And in t'is weary life-which is sometimes faultless but unsure,
thou always makest me feel honoured;
makest me feel brand new.

Ah, Kozarev, thou art my immortal twin star,
and thy lips my sophisticated fragrant moon;
thou art my umbrella in yon idyllic heaven afar,
fade away not, but thou drifted away too soon!
My love, but sketchest again our undying night,
t'is time with a new ***** of light,
and giveth me comfort within which,
and flinch no more, for I shalt not flinch.
Thy genuinity is my nature,
thy childishness is my cure;
for t'ere are no more lips as naive as thine,
though t'ey oftentimes seemest spotless,
and t'eir toughness, seemest fine.

Ah, Kozzie, only fate t'at shalt makest out paths eventually align;
fate who hath sent me sweet prophecies, and a truthful bold sign.
Let me be thy grace, and thy sole, immortal lady;
let me be such craze, so t'at thou shalt always be with me.
I shalt be thy doll, and thy very own addict;
I shalt nursest, and cherishest thee every day of the week.
And joy, and its miraculous delight shalt be ours alone,
fallen fast asleep by night, and renewed by upcoming morns.
Together shalt we teasest every passing minute and hour;
and treatest all 'em nicely, just like how we deemeth t'at laugh, of ours.
And when nightfall greetest, sleep, my love, sleep;
thy red, innocent cheeks shalt I kiss; thy greatest dreams shalt I keep.

Kozarev, and fliest me again to th' melancholy Sofia,
wherein our peace shalt dwellest, and be cheered and alive.
But let me first fetch my old, talkative umbrella;
for Sofia shalt be full of rain; but one t'at makest it safe, and thrive.
Ah, Sofia, our little haven like yon nearby oak chatroom,
old as it is, but still-tenderer t'an t'is ever lonely gloom;
I bet Sofia is still warmer t'an t'is fraudulent war of my heart,
though it is, of now, far and sat by a land wholly apart.
Oh, Sofia, in which our love shalt be adequate, but still-inadequate,
for our love is more benign, ye' at times-more capricious t'an fate.
And it is raw, but ripe, like a mature cherry;
it hath neither tears, nor hate, nor brave worry!
Ah, my love; but again fly me, fly me, t'ere-
for cannot I waitest to live my life with thee;
and so promise t'at I shalt not bend, nor go else anywhere,
so long as thou shalt stayest, and liveth thy future years with me.

Oh, and I shalt forsaketh thee no more;
and disdaineth thee no more-thou art my sonata!
My delight liest in hearing thy sonnets be told;
thou sitting by me 'fore moonlight, down on th' starlit piazza!
Ah, Kozarev, please no longer makest my heart sore-
I am sick to death, I detestest t'is grief to th' core;
Burnest my heart's cries, and indulgest me in thy arms,
I shalt brimmest in thy glory; and gratefully lost, in thy charms.

As th' world turnest so weak and rough,
we shalt be th' sole ones to fall in love;
but our idyll is one t'is envious world cannot gather;
as it growest bleaker, as it turnest worse.
But Kozarev, having thee by my side shalt be enough;
and my days shalt be no more sad, nor tough;
Thou art th' candle, t'at lightest up th' life within me,
thou art th' candy, t'at livenest up all my poetry.

Incipit Prohemium Secundi Libri.

Out of these blake wawes for to sayle,
O wind, O wind, the weder ginneth clere;
For in this see the boot hath swich travayle,
Of my conning, that unnethe I it stere:
This see clepe I the tempestous matere  
Of desespeyr that Troilus was inne:
But now of hope the calendes biginne.
O lady myn, that called art Cleo,
Thou be my speed fro this forth, and my muse,
To ryme wel this book, til I have do;  
Me nedeth here noon other art to use.
For-why to every lovere I me excuse,
That of no sentement I this endyte,
But out of Latin in my tonge it wryte.

Wherfore I nil have neither thank ne blame  
Of al this werk, but prey yow mekely,
Disblameth me if any word be lame,
For as myn auctor seyde, so seye I.
Eek though I speke of love unfelingly,
No wondre is, for it no-thing of newe is;  
A blind man can nat Iuggen wel in hewis.

Ye knowe eek, that in forme of speche is chaunge
With-inne a thousand yeer, and wordes tho
That hadden prys, now wonder nyce and straunge
Us thinketh hem; and yet they spake hem so,  
And spedde as wel in love as men now do;
Eek for to winne love in sondry ages,
In sondry londes, sondry ben usages.

And for-thy if it happe in any wyse,
That here be any lovere in this place  
That herkneth, as the storie wol devyse,
How Troilus com to his lady grace,
And thenketh, so nolde I nat love purchace,
Or wondreth on his speche or his doinge,
I noot; but it is me no wonderinge;  

For every wight which that to Rome went,
Halt nat o path, or alwey o manere;
Eek in som lond were al the gamen shent,
If that they ferde in love as men don here,
As thus, in open doing or in chere,  
In visitinge, in forme, or seyde hire sawes;
For-thy men seyn, ech contree hath his lawes.

Eek scarsly been ther in this place three
That han in love seid lyk and doon in al;
For to thy purpos this may lyken thee,  
And thee right nought, yet al is seyd or shal;
Eek som men grave in tree, som in stoon wal,
As it bitit; but sin I have begonne,
Myn auctor shal I folwen, if I conne.

Exclipit prohemium Secundi Libri.

Incipit Liber Secundus.

In May, that moder is of monthes glade,  
That fresshe floures, blewe, and whyte, and rede,
Ben quike agayn, that winter dede made,
And ful of bawme is fleting every mede;
Whan Phebus doth his brighte bemes sprede
Right in the whyte Bole, it so bitidde  
As I shal singe, on Mayes day the thridde,

That Pandarus, for al his wyse speche,
Felt eek his part of loves shottes kene,
That, coude he never so wel of loving preche,
It made his hewe a-day ful ofte grene;  
So shoop it, that hym fil that day a tene
In love, for which in wo to bedde he wente,
And made, er it was day, ful many a wente.

The swalwe Proigne, with a sorwful lay,
Whan morwe com, gan make hir waymentinge,  
Why she forshapen was; and ever lay
Pandare a-bedde, half in a slomeringe,
Til she so neigh him made hir chiteringe
How Tereus gan forth hir suster take,
That with the noyse of hir he gan a-wake;  

And gan to calle, and dresse him up to ryse,
Remembringe him his erand was to done
From Troilus, and eek his greet empryse;
And caste and knew in good plyt was the mone
To doon viage, and took his wey ful sone  
Un-to his neces paleys ther bi-syde;
Now Ianus, god of entree, thou him gyde!

Whan he was come un-to his neces place,
'Wher is my lady?' to hir folk seyde he;
And they him tolde; and he forth in gan pace,  
And fond, two othere ladyes sete and she,
With-inne a paved parlour; and they three
Herden a mayden reden hem the geste
Of the Sege of Thebes, whyl hem leste.

Quod Pandarus, 'Ma dame, god yow see,  
With al your book and al the companye!'
'Ey, uncle myn, welcome y-wis,' quod she,
And up she roos, and by the hond in hye
She took him faste, and seyde, 'This night thrye,
To goode mote it turne, of yow I mette!'  
And with that word she doun on bench him sette.

'Ye, nece, ye shal fare wel the bet,
If god wole, al this yeer,' quod Pandarus;
'But I am sory that I have yow let
To herknen of your book ye preysen thus;  
For goddes love, what seith it? tel it us.
Is it of love? O, som good ye me lere!'
'Uncle,' quod she, 'your maistresse is not here!'

With that they gonnen laughe, and tho she seyde,
'This romaunce is of Thebes, that we rede;  
And we han herd how that king Laius deyde
Thurgh Edippus his sone, and al that dede;
And here we stenten at these lettres rede,
How the bisshop, as the book can telle,
Amphiorax, fil thurgh the ground to helle.'  

Quod Pandarus, 'Al this knowe I my-selve,
And al the assege of Thebes and the care;
For her-of been ther maked bokes twelve: --
But lat be this, and tel me how ye fare;
Do wey your barbe, and shew your face bare;  
Do wey your book, rys up, and lat us daunce,
And lat us don to May som observaunce.'

'A! God forbede!' quod she. 'Be ye mad?
Is that a widewes lyf, so god you save?
By god, ye maken me right sore a-drad,  
Ye ben so wilde, it semeth as ye rave!
It sete me wel bet ay in a cave
To bidde, and rede on holy seyntes lyves;
Lat maydens gon to daunce, and yonge wyves.'

'As ever thryve I,' quod this Pandarus,  
'Yet coude I telle a thing to doon you pleye.'
'Now, uncle dere,' quod she, 'tel it us
For goddes love; is than the assege aweye?
I am of Grekes so ferd that I deye.'
'Nay, nay,' quod he, 'as ever mote I thryve!  
It is a thing wel bet than swiche fyve.'

'Ye, holy god,' quod she, 'what thing is that?
What! Bet than swiche fyve? Ey, nay, y-wis!
For al this world ne can I reden what
It sholde been; som Iape, I trowe, is this;  
And but your-selven telle us what it is,
My wit is for to arede it al to lene;
As help me god, I noot nat what ye meene.'

'And I your borow, ne never shal, for me,
This thing be told to yow, as mote I thryve!'  
'And why so, uncle myn? Why so?' quod she.
'By god,' quod he, 'that wole I telle as blyve;
For prouder womman were ther noon on-lyve,
And ye it wiste, in al the toun of Troye;
I iape nought, as ever have I Ioye!'  

Tho gan she wondren more than biforn
A thousand fold, and doun hir eyen caste;
For never, sith the tyme that she was born,
To knowe thing desired she so faste;
And with a syk she seyde him at the laste,  
'Now, uncle myn, I nil yow nought displese,
Nor axen more, that may do yow disese.'

So after this, with many wordes glade,
And freendly tales, and with mery chere,
Of this and that they pleyde, and gunnen wade  
In many an unkouth glad and deep matere,
As freendes doon, whan they ben met y-fere;
Til she gan axen him how Ector ferde,
That was the tounes wal and Grekes yerde.

'Ful wel, I thanke it god,' quod Pandarus,  
'Save in his arm he hath a litel wounde;
And eek his fresshe brother Troilus,
The wyse worthy Ector the secounde,
In whom that ever vertu list abounde,
As alle trouthe and alle gentillesse,  
Wysdom, honour, fredom, and worthinesse.'

'In good feith, eem,' quod she, 'that lyketh me;
They faren wel, god save hem bothe two!
For trewely I holde it greet deyntee
A kinges sone in armes wel to do,  
And been of good condiciouns ther-to;
For greet power and moral vertu here
Is selde y-seye in o persone y-fere.'

'In good feith, that is sooth,' quod Pandarus;
'But, by my trouthe, the king hath sones tweye,  
That is to mene, Ector and Troilus,
That certainly, though that I sholde deye,
They been as voyde of vyces, dar I seye,
As any men that liveth under the sonne,
Hir might is wyde y-knowe, and what they conne.  

'Of Ector nedeth it nought for to telle:
In al this world ther nis a bettre knight
Than he, that is of worthinesse welle;
And he wel more vertu hath than might.
This knoweth many a wys and worthy wight.  
The same prys of Troilus I seye,
God help me so, I knowe not swiche tweye.'

'By god,' quod she, 'of Ector that is sooth;
Of Troilus the same thing trowe I;
For, dredelees, men tellen that he dooth  
In armes day by day so worthily,
And bereth him here at hoom so gentilly
To every wight, that al the prys hath he
Of hem that me were levest preysed be.'

'Ye sey right sooth, y-wis,' quod Pandarus;  
'For yesterday, who-so hadde with him been,
He might have wondred up-on Troilus;
For never yet so thikke a swarm of been
Ne fleigh, as Grekes fro him gonne fleen;
And thorugh the feld, in everi wightes ere,  
Ther nas no cry but "Troilus is there!"

'Now here, now there, he hunted hem so faste,
Ther nas but Grekes blood; and Troilus,
Now hem he hurte, and hem alle doun he caste;
Ay where he wente, it was arayed thus:  
He was hir deeth, and sheld and lyf for us;
That as that day ther dorste noon with-stonde,
Whyl that he held his blody swerd in honde.

'Therto he is the freendlieste man
Of grete estat, that ever I saw my lyve;  
And wher him list, best felawshipe can
To suche as him thinketh able for to thryve.'
And with that word tho Pandarus, as blyve,
He took his leve, and seyde, 'I wol go henne.'
'Nay, blame have I, myn uncle,' quod she thenne.  

'What eyleth yow to be thus wery sone,
And namelich of wommen? Wol ye so?
Nay, sitteth down; by god, I have to done
With yow, to speke of wisdom er ye go.'
And every wight that was a-boute hem tho,  
That herde that, gan fer a-wey to stonde,
Whyl they two hadde al that hem liste in honde.

Whan that hir tale al brought was to an ende,
Of hire estat and of hir governaunce,
Quod Pandarus, 'Now is it tyme I wende;  
But yet, I seye, aryseth, lat us daunce,
And cast your widwes habit to mischaunce:
What list yow thus your-self to disfigure,
Sith yow is tid thus fair an aventure?'

'A! Wel bithought! For love of god,' quod she,  
'Shal I not witen what ye mene of this?'
'No, this thing axeth layser,' tho quod he,
'And eek me wolde muche greve, y-wis,
If I it tolde, and ye it **** amis.
Yet were it bet my tonge for to stille  
Than seye a sooth that were ayeins your wille.

'For, nece, by the goddesse Minerve,
And Iuppiter, that maketh the thonder ringe,
And by the blisful Venus that I serve,
Ye been the womman in this world livinge,  
With-oute paramours, to my wittinge,
That I best love, and lothest am to greve,
And that ye witen wel your-self, I leve.'

'Y-wis, myn uncle,' quod she, 'grant mercy;
Your freendship have I founden ever yit;  
I am to no man holden trewely,
So muche as yow, and have so litel quit;
And, with the grace of god, emforth my wit,
As in my gilt I shal you never offende;
And if I have er this, I wol amende.  

'But, for the love of god, I yow beseche,
As ye ben he that I love most and triste,
Lat be to me your fremde manere speche,
And sey to me, your nece, what yow liste:'
And with that word hir uncle anoon hir kiste,  
And seyde, 'Gladly, leve nece dere,
Tak it for good that I shal seye yow here.'

With that she gan hir eiyen doun to caste,
And Pandarus to coghe gan a lyte,
And seyde, 'Nece, alwey, lo! To the laste,  
How-so it be that som men hem delyte
With subtil art hir tales for to endyte,
Yet for al that, in hir entencioun
Hir tale is al for som conclusioun.

'And sithen thende is every tales strengthe,  
And this matere is so bihovely,
What sholde I peynte or drawen it on lengthe
To yow, that been my freend so feithfully?'
And with that word he gan right inwardly
Biholden hir, and loken on hir face,  
And seyde, 'On suche a mirour goode grace!'

Than thoughte he thus: 'If I my tale endyte
Ought hard, or make a proces any whyle,
She shal no savour han ther-in but lyte,
And trowe I wolde hir in my wil bigyle.  
For tendre wittes wenen al be wyle
Ther-as they can nat pleynly understonde;
For-thy hir wit to serven wol I fonde --'

And loked on hir in a besy wyse,
And she was war that he byheld hir so,  
And seyde, 'Lord! So faste ye me avyse!
Sey ye me never er now? What sey ye, no?'
'Yes, yes,' quod he, 'and bet wole er I go;
But, by my trouthe, I thoughte now if ye
Be fortunat, for now men shal it see.  

'For to every wight som goodly aventure
Som tyme is shape, if he it can receyven;
And if that he wol take of it no cure,
Whan that it commeth, but wilfully it weyven,
Lo, neither cas nor fortune him deceyven,  
But right his verray slouthe and wrecchednesse;
And swich a wight is for to blame, I gesse.

'Good aventure, O bele nece, have ye
Ful lightly founden, and ye conne it take;
And, for the love of god, and eek of me,  
Cacche it anoon, lest aventure slake.
What sholde I lenger proces of it make?
Yif me your hond, for in this world is noon,
If that yow list, a wight so wel begoon.

'And sith I speke of good entencioun,  
As I to yow have told wel here-biforn,
And love as wel your honour and renoun
As creature in al this world y-born;
By alle the othes that I have yow sworn,
And ye be wrooth therfore, or wene I lye,  
Ne shal I never seen yow eft with ye.

'Beth nought agast, ne quaketh nat; wher-to?
Ne chaungeth nat for fere so your hewe;
For hardely the werste of this is do;
And though my tale as now be to yow newe,  
Yet trist alwey, ye shal me finde trewe;
And were it thing that me thoughte unsittinge,
To yow nolde I no swiche tales bringe.'

'Now, my good eem, for goddes love, I preye,'
Quod she, 'com of, and tel me what it is;  
For bothe I am agast what ye wol seye,
And eek me longeth it to wite, y-wis.
For whether it be wel or be amis,
Say on, lat me not in this fere dwelle:'
'So wol I doon; now herkneth, I shal telle:  

'Now, nece myn, the kinges dere sone,
The goode, wyse, worthy, fresshe, and free,
Which alwey for to do wel is his wone,
The noble Troilus, so loveth thee,
That, bot ye helpe, it wol his bane be.  
Lo, here is al, what sholde I more seye?
Doth what yow list, to make him live or deye.

'But if ye lete him deye, I wol sterve;
Have her my trouthe, nece, I nil not lyen;
Al sholde I with this knyf my throte kerve --'  
With that the teres braste out of his yen,
And seyde, 'If that ye doon us bothe dyen,
Thus giltelees, than have ye fisshed faire;
What mende ye, though that we bothe apeyre?

'Allas! He which that is my lord so dere,  
That trewe man, that noble gentil knight,
That nought desireth but your freendly chere,
I see him deye, ther he goth up-right,
And hasteth him, with al his fulle might,
For to be slayn, if fortune wol assente;  
Allas! That god yow swich a beautee sente!

'If it be so that ye so cruel be,
That of his deeth yow liste nought to recche,
That is so trewe and worthy, as ye see,
No more than of a Iapere or a wrecche,  
If ye be swich, your beautee may not strecche
To make amendes of so cruel a dede;
Avysement is good bifore the nede.

'Wo worth the faire gemme vertulees!
Wo worth that herbe also that dooth no bote!  
Wo worth that beautee that is routhelees!
Wo worth that wight that tret ech under fote!
And ye, that been of beautee crop and rote,
If therwith-al in you ther be no routhe,
Than is it harm ye liven, by my trouthe!  

'And also thenk wel that this is no gaude;
For me were lever, thou and I and he
Were hanged, than I sholde been his baude,
As heyghe, as men mighte on us alle y-see:
I am thyn eem, the shame were to me,  
As wel as thee, if that I sholde assente,
Thorugh myn abet, that he thyn honour shente.

'Now understond, for I yow nought requere,
To binde yow to him thorugh no beheste,
But only that ye make him bettre chere  
Than ye han doon er this, and more feste,
So that his lyf be saved, at the leste;
This al and som, and playnly our entente;
God help me so, I never other mente.

'Lo, this request is not but skile, y-wis,  
Ne doute of reson, pardee, is ther noon.
I sette the worste that ye dredden this,
Men wolden wondren seen him come or goon:
Ther-ayeins answere I thus a-noon,
That every wight, but he be fool of kinde,  
Wol deme it love of freendship in his minde.

'What? Who wol deme, though he see a man
To temple go, that he the images eteth?
Thenk eek how wel and wy

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.

i.

Within the oven
Wherein the thirst is never quenched;
Mine sweet Jane cooleth me
With her word's, and love to me meant.

ii.

I liveth for her the morrow
I liveth for her sunder the eve';
Her everything to me meaneth all thing's
She's the lifeblood, whom I need.

iii.

Mine aching body needeth her
Mine hand's, they needeth her feel;
A birthgiver to mine happiness
Mine gosh, her amour's so real.

iv.

****, beautiful, masterpiece of God
For her mine soul, belongeth to, and throb's;
I'll seeith her soon, in the Asian fogged dawn
I'll seeith mine muse, the pure one of God.

v.

She's all I desire, when the flood's do rain
She's the glory in sadness, in mine pain;
She's whom I liveth, when mine blood leak's
I canst sayeth none more, I'll let mine love speak.




©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane dedication/mine Reyna/soul

i.

Mine artistry inamorata
Airburshed on tapestry upon;
Fernando Amorsolo canvas.

ii.

Thou art mine Atlantis
The air I sucketh in;
Mine piece of God, timeless.

iii.

What id do without thee?
I couldst not liveth;
I'll giveth thee mine last drop, of blood mine dear.

iv.

Cometh near
Shadow's dance with us;
Filipino perfume's, ancient dusk.

v.

In the negrito of Luzon
Bead's shalt bounce ourn neck's;
Red one's, yellow one's, tribal seed connect.



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane dedication

May I for my own self song’s truth reckon,
Journey’s jargon, how I in harsh days
Hardship endured oft.
Bitter breast-cares have I abided,
Known on my keel many a care’s hold,
And dire sea-surge, and there I oft spent
Narrow nightwatch nigh the ship’s head
While she tossed close to cliffs. Coldly afflicted,
My feet were by frost benumbed.
Chill its chains are; chafing sighs
Hew my heart round and hunger begot
Mere-weary mood. Lest man know not
That he on dry land loveliest liveth,
List how I, care-wretched, on ice-cold sea,
Weathered the winter, wretched outcast
Deprived of my kinsmen;
Hung with hard ice-flakes, where hail-scur flew,
There I heard naught save the harsh sea
And ice-cold wave, at whiles the swan cries,
Did for my games the gannet’s clamour,
Sea-fowls, loudness was for me laughter,
The mews’ singing all my mead-drink.
Storms, on the stone-cliffs beaten, fell on the stern
In icy feathers; full oft the eagle screamed
With spray on his pinion.
    Not any protector
May make merry man faring needy.
This he little believes, who aye in winsome life
Abides ’mid burghers some heavy business,
Wealthy and wine-flushed, how I weary oft
Must bide above brine.
Neareth nightshade, snoweth from north,
Frost froze the land, hail fell on earth then
Corn of the coldest. Nathless there knocketh now
The heart’s thought that I on high streams
The salt-wavy tumult traverse alone.
Moaneth alway my mind’s lust
That I fare forth, that I afar hence
Seek out a foreign fastness.
For this there’s no mood-lofty man over earth’s midst,
Not though he be given his good, but will have in his youth greed;
Nor his deed to the daring, nor his king to the faithful
But shall have his sorrow for sea-fare
Whatever his lord will.
He hath not heart for harping, nor in ring-having
Nor winsomeness to wife, nor world’s delight
Nor any whit else save the wave’s slash,
Yet longing comes upon him to fare forth on the water.
Bosque taketh blossom, cometh beauty of berries,
Fields to fairness, land fares brisker,
All this admonisheth man eager of mood,
The heart turns to travel so that he then thinks
On flood-ways to be far departing.
Cuckoo calleth with gloomy crying,
He singeth summerward, bodeth sorrow,
The bitter heart’s blood. Burgher knows not—
He the prosperous man—what some perform
Where wandering them widest draweth.
So that but now my heart burst from my breast-lock,
My mood ’mid the mere-flood,
Over the whale’s acre, would wander wide.
On earth’s shelter cometh oft to me,
Eager and ready, the crying lone-flyer,
Whets for the whale-path the heart irresistibly,
O’er tracks of ocean; seeing that anyhow
My lord deems to me this dead life
On loan and on land, I believe not
That any earth-weal eternal standeth
Save there be somewhat calamitous
That, ere a man’s tide go, turn it to twain.
Disease or oldness or sword-hate
Beats out the breath from doom-gripped body.
And for this, every earl whatever, for those speaking after—
Laud of the living, boasteth some last word,
That he will work ere he pass onward,
Frame on the fair earth ‘gainst foes his malice,
Daring ado, …
So that all men shall honour him after
And his laud beyond them remain ’mid the English,
Aye, for ever, a lasting life’s-blast,
Delight mid the doughty.
    Days little durable,
And all arrogance of earthen riches,
There come now no kings nor Cæsars
Nor gold-giving lords like those gone.
Howe’er in mirth most magnified,
Whoe’er lived in life most lordliest,
Drear all this excellence, delights undurable!
Waneth the watch, but the world holdeth.
Tomb hideth trouble. The blade is layed low.
Earthly glory ageth and seareth.
No man at all going the earth’s gait,
But age fares against him, his face paleth,
Grey-haired he groaneth, knows gone companions,
Lordly men are to earth o’ergiven,
Nor may he then the flesh-cover, whose life ceaseth,
Nor eat the sweet nor feel the sorry,
Nor stir hand nor think in mid heart,
And though he strew the grave with gold,
His born brothers, their buried bodies
Be an unlikely treasure hoard.

Mine pet;

When coming to America, I shalt showeth thee
All fifty states, of the United States
Mine queen....

Alabama; Down south, the place of the little river canyon national reserve, at the top of lookout mountain, where bird's canst be heard.
Alaska; A place far out west, a wild domain, a place untamed, where thou canst let out thy wildness.
Arizona; a place of ourn beloved poet ( soul survivor) a native American land, where cacti run the land's, and dirt is bright red.
Arkansas; To hot spring's national park, where beauty canst be seen in the dark, and soaked in through the warm bubbled water.
California; A place redwood tree's and Sequoia's, a land for the strange, and weird thing's, where all cometh together.
Colorado; where mine oldest brother liveth, where the crystalline water as a drink it giveth, and the *****'s peak highly amour'.
Connecticut; A place of Eastern sandshores, where we canst walketh in ourn galore, holding hand's, I'll sayeth me more!!!
Delaware; Delmara peninsula where we canst seeith awe-shocking elegance, where we canst travel in all remembrance.
Florida; thither mine middle brother's terra firma, a place of alligator's, swamp's, ocean waves, surfer's and hot sun drop's.
Georgia; The place where slave's fought hard, Atlanta city, a big place of life, fast and slow.where rich men go to liveth large.
Hawaii; Tropical island like thy own, not connected to the mainland though, swaying tree's like thy own, heavenly splendor.
Idaho; Where we canst get the best potatoes, I'll make them mashed, with gravy, chicken and tomatoes, I'll feed thee good.
Illinois; Where the huge city of Chicago sit's, large skyscraper's, and city bliss. Where the water sparkles the view.
Indiana; Marengo Cave National Landmark, where we canst sneak inside the cave's, then to Indianapolis, to wander through the shade.
Iowa; To Pikes Peak state park, where the Mississippi and Wisconsin river's meet to start, a beautiful picture indeed.
Kansas; Off to Rock City, an odd place where two-hundred boulders rest, then to Kansas Cosmosphere and Space Center to explore a place of knowledge, learning of the new, and happiness.
Kentucky; To Mammoth Cave National Park, in strangeness we shalt walk the dark, with lantern's to carry ourn shadow's.
Louisiana; Also the well known area of New orlean's, where jazz music doesn't stop and the people art it's scene. Where people overcometh!!!!
Maine; To get some of the best seafood around, the eastern wind shalt bloweth us around, as love thou shouldst bring a coat dear.
Maryland; Where Edgar Allen poe was born, where the Raven sung and mourned, though the sunshine shines it's people.
Massachusetts; The land of Many Irishmen and fishermen, settling thee down in Boston, where the accent of the easterly go loudly.
Michigan; The state just above me, they haveth natural lake's and the chill is breezed, the soul's art kind, and people dream, their alive.
Minnesota; where the snow piles to thy ride, the whitened picture is Christmas to thy eye's, as thou wilt need to dress warm.
Mississippi; Deep down south, where the language changes, word's art more southern and slang it clingeth, onto thy lip's.
Missouri; First to the St. Louis arch, it bend's to the sky and is six hundred and twenty five feet from thy heart, as high we shalt view.
Montana; Western freedom, wherein nature is painted, horses roam, thing's aren't tainted, guileless and natural.
Nebraska; Betwixt the corn stalks and field's, farmer's work hard and people art real, as hard work like thy country is known.
Nevada; To Las Vegas the desert Oasis, light's art big, as room's art spacious, different is here with a million face's, gambler's taketh their chances.
New Hampshire; Near Lake Winnipesaukee, a sensible area where being's doeth their best, eastward again, bringeth hot dress.
New Jersey; To Atlantic City on the boardwalk, a place of tales and beach defined walk, sunshined day's where lingo talk's, and the traveling shalt be sweet.
New Mexico; Dusty native land, the dirt is grained, the pinnacles of silence is maintained, by God's still voice.
New York; Aka- The big apple, where immigrant's once cameth through, immigrant's as me thou and you. Meaning were all the same.
North Carolina; Blue Ridge *****'s peak the entry, ancient places here art serene, tranquil relaxing is here mine queen!!!
North Dakota; farther again out west, talk to the Indian's to get the best, they'll giveth thee information to inform the rest.
Ohio; Mine state, the heart of the country, I mean by it's shape, were surrounded by all, we sit on a lake, we hath cornfield's, barn's, southern Hill's, northern star's, kind folk's and fancy cars, mixed with great stores for shopping, as I'll buyeth thee as much as thy heart canst be enlarged.
Oklahoma; Indigenous territory, creatures art relaxed, no need for no hurry.
Oregon; Where tree's groweth big, rainfall is the normal, and wild children art the kid's, beautiful scenery is blossoming mist.
Pennsylvania; On the eastern edge of the Appalachian Top's, green none make believe, the quietness is beauty, a part of God!!!

Anyone canst existeth,
But canst thou liveth?
Tis the question!


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

The GLOBE hath gone infected
Media mobs
MOGUL infected
Bilderberg GODS!!!
Mother's shalt turneth against daughter's
And father against son
RISE of thine technology oh man
For thou shalt looseth by thine own guns
Thou shalt SCREAM PEACE...
Ourn savior hath come
ANTICHRIST beast
To the one's who chooseth dumb
CHIPS in thy hand's
Shackled at the feet
BURIED in sand
Defecation SECRETE
Babies shalt HOWL
No **** to be given
I bet I'll be gone
This time
By THANKSGIVING
Liveth out thy life,
PAY presidential bills
Down thy DRINK
Swallow thine pills
Mocketh me if thou WILT
Awaketh human slave
The CHAPTER is coming
To the end of thine DAY'S!!!!

'Tis about time I said goodbye;
to thyself-t'at is but full of deceit, and lies.
Ah, just yesterday, rainbows wert snared by thy eyes;
but soon t'eir soul flickered like a flame, and died.

Ah, thee, th' son of night, and th' beauty of day;
My love for thee was, indeed, more t'an what poems canst say.
Oh, but why didst thou, with a smile so sweet,
flirt with me, as last Monday we w'rt fated t' meet?
My love, thou should'a stayed behind;
if thou wanted me not; with all t'ose secrets
thy so dearly kept and cherished, in thy mind.
I am now th' one to blame;
I am like one infinite morning, whose innocence
led me to believe in th' foreign falsehood of fame.
Ah, as how my heart jumped about like a selfish swan
Whenst thy lips silenced mine; oh, all wert just a good sign!
But how couldst thou stomp away and leave me alone?
Thou bask now, in my seedless cries, raw tears, and scorn;
Thou art cruel, cruel, cruel! Oh-thou filled me with disgust!
Thou art like disdain, and its mean garden;
Yes, thou art a semblance of whose ungratefulness!
Ungrateful and smeared with greedy terror;
Sending sane souls and spines about running with tremor;
And in which t'ere are neither flowers, nor hills, nor mountains
Everything is glaring; everything is burnt-
and under a nightless sky, a pitiful; yet irregular sky,
With rage thou shalt destruct my lavender;
thou art now an enemy, but yesterday a fake lover!
Ah, canst I believe it not-how I first came to love thee,
whenst thou wert just but a soulless entity!
Oh, how stupid I was-yes, too credulous and insipid;
for falling for a mask so infamous, and putrid.
I am now turning away-hopefully I am still late not,
and towards a better lover my whole conscience canst afford.

Ah, thee, but at today's moonless dawn
I sprang from sleep whenst I rigidly dreamed of thee;
I had hoped t'at thy shadow would never show
But kept it venturing to stay t'ere and haunt me.
How I would mock things t'at are stubborn;
t'ese hath I vowed, so deeply and heartily-
ever since I first was born.
Thou art a wicked, wicked witch;
thou treated me like litter;
like I was but a gouty piece of filth.
Thou art bright not, like th' river,
but th' sinned soil and clawed greenness under;
thou art not th' glow thou used to be,
ah, neither art thou th' angel t'at spoke and joked with me.
Thou art mean, mean, mean;
thou art a mean man and creature altogether;
Thou wert once part of my breath;
but now even thinking of thee
shalt goodly fill me with dread, and images
of erotically defeated triumph;
and flavourless, ye' anonymous, death.
But even if thou wert to die, I would grieve not;
for thou art not worthy of any more of my tears;
instead I would raise my hands and sweetly thank our dear Lord;
for returning my pride; and destroying my wounded fears.

Thou shalt from now on-liveth in my mind not,
and in which, in t'is most dignified, though absurd, conscience-
I sweareth t'at thee canst no more rejoice;
for I prefer stopping our unfinished story short;
and I detest now, every bit of thy flesh,
much less th' delusive meanness of thy voice.
Thou art to me but a bad dream,
and thy presence is even less meaningless
t'an a lad's pleading ghost;
Thou art trapped in stillness, as thou may seem,
ah, and may thy sins lead thee only, in th' years
to come, to thy worst.
Thou art worthy not of t'is grand earth!
In a marred graveyard should thy now dwellest,
'fore ruining thyself more, and makest all thy sins 'ven worse.
Ah, thou who art not a being of neither th' West nor East;
as even in God's mind, thou should be th' least,
I dread thee as how His Majesty spurns a fiend;
thou art neither my lover, nor playmate, nor any friend.

I hope by t'is poem th' world shalt see;
how notorious and vicious thou hath been
to one sinless me.
I am just a writer, with t'is poem in my hand-
but despite-I am just a woman, a fragile, and sometimes
infantile; lover and friend.
A lover, to a man worthy of my love;
a loyal friend, to all fellows-thoughtful and honest;
With whom my poetic soul shalt live;
and with whose courage,
t'is loving breath shalt ever thrive, in my left years-
and ever continue to joke, gather, and laugh.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
A past t'at is mine, a poem t'at's gone;
A censured love impaired and sourly torn;
A carving of my soul, of my early years;
A sonata and melody t'at hath passed by;

Estefannia, Estefannia;
A drama t'at canst never lie;
Even in illness and dark hysteria;
Thou breathe and liveth on inside of me;
Thou forgivest and forgetest me every single day;

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Our stories are one and so is our poetry;
Whenst I writest, and so wilt thou;
Thou art part of me, a twin to my flesh;
Thou gigglest and wakest me up to a morning dew.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
A poet like me now and in th' past;
T'ese memories of thine shalt ever last;
Like twists of fate t'at shalt ne'er halt;
Like a feeling t'at shalt stay e'erlasting.

I combeth thy hair and feelest thy lips;
I touchest thy skin and walketh by thy feet;
My past is one, and too is thine;
Just like thou owneth half of me and of mine;

I liveth and breatheth by thy soul in me;
I hath my veins wherein floweth thy blood;
I and thou shalt ne'er be apart;
Thou art with me, in flesh and in my heart.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
A poet of life and love and hatred;
A seer into wintry and sunny days;
A speaker t'at ne'er be portrayed;
A lonely soul at night and in broad daylight.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
A mystery lover one hath yet not found;
A fine artist shattered by her grounds;
A midnight and morning and afternoon poet;
A wanderer cursed for even her own good;

Estefannia, Estefannia;
One betrayed by her own gown;
Detested by night and its hazel dystopia;
For all sirs wanteth her t' be alone;
To die in her weeps and moronic hysteria.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Still a lily blooming in yon rotten air;
With cheeks too balmy and sickly and fair;
Ah, so w'ere is love, w'ere might t'is love be?
Might t'ere be not one love for she?

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Alone in her dreamy gardenia;
Longing for love and admission;
In a ruptured world and academia;
Within a dry, and sour dream of oblivion.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Clever in her poems and fantasies;
Witty in her charms and parodies;
Ah, but such a soul is often forgotten;
T'ey wantest her to fade and be gone in seconds.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Ah, what a despised, poor honest soul;
Tangled in a planet filled with filth and foul;
A name t'at a gent shalt ne'er call;
A soul t'at one e'er seeks to fall;

Estefannia, Estefannia;
A soul a gent shan't bot'er to remember;
A love a prince destroys, and swaps, and shatters;
A patience ****** into many calls and delays;
A poem t'at finally hath no more to tell of and say.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
A poet with such abandoned peace of mind;
A dame uncloaked in storms and pouring rain;
A lover whose poems t'ey wishest to slaughter;
A diligent soul every gent longest to ******.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
To whom life hath become too pitiful;
To whom such worlds hath been greatly sinful;
Who seeks a love t'at not even exists;
Who is mocked and smothered by such beasts.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Whose labyrinth of love is lost somewhere;
But whose patience sounds sweeter and more beautiful;
Perhaps th' right time's to come, and thou'lt see an heir;
A young poet both legitimate and thoughtful;

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Within thy heartbeat recall my whisper;
Amongst the suns' rage and maleficent thunder;
But whenst love becomest two-faced and atrocious;
Thou art still a laugh t'at stays with me;

Estefannia, Estefannia;
For love is hateful, it is unfair;
For love ne'er smiles, nor shalt it care;
For thou art too pristine for its world and itself;
For thou art as pure and prone as pearls.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Perhaps fate shall unburden thee of what thou beareth;
And relieve thee of thy worried breath;
Ah, Estefannia, love shalt be a sign to thee tomorrow;
I hope it shalt be raining and see some snow.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Almighty is awake t'ere, and listening;
His verses are clear through such birds singing;
Singing and gliding and singing and gliding through th' suns;
Lurking by th' clouds and t'eir shivery Friday afternoon.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
For thee a love is riding through th' air;
A love carried by a magnificent persona;
T'at shalt emerge once thou finishest thy painting;
And hovering again through thy writing.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Let's now see night and its fatamorgana;
O'r past poets art all t'ere, watching and guiding thee;
So let not t'is love make thee fear;
For 'tis to arrive whenst thou may not hear.

Estefannia, Estefannia.
One shadow and one fear,
One laughter and one tear.
And t'ere is no mimicry in th' sky, my dear,
For all is one past, a past we canst no more hear.

Estefannia, Estefannia
Spells blew through thy fingers,
Just like t'ese archaic written words.
Like hasty clouds t'at run not off water,
Thou wert once trapped, within t'ese sullen words.

Estefannia, Estefannia
A song of thy voice t'at rings in my ears;
But a song of love, of slumbering vice and hate.
Ah, Estefannia, I am thy soul and still here;
For life is not yet over, and turning back is not late.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Write all again tomorrow and after;
For poems and thou shalt e'er be together;
For love is t'ere, as thou shalt still seek;
As a breeze t'at flows, whilst it cannot speak.

i

This is for thou both miss Vicki, and miss Beth Stclair, true poet's
Miss Beth StClair, thy sonnet style, brings back the old smile I see;
Miss Vicki, writing of love so quickly, so beautifully inspiring
Miss beth, thy word's got me flying I'll buyeth thy book real soon.

ii

Miss Vicki, thou art an old soul made of gold, a home amongst homes, as thou liveth in mine state, miss beth, I'd seeith thee if I go to England, amongst the Beatle street's we'll speaketh of ourn living's, and reciteth sonnet's of Shakespearian knowledge.

iii

Miss Vicki, thy jargon is wrapped like a bouquet, glazed with honey, thine words art displayed, people in this world like Thee I do prayeth, that thine life wilt be joyful, and harmonious in thy tommorrow, beth, I feeleth thine wild's, as the sixties thou hadst.

iv

Beth StClair, if it was back in the day, we'd be wonderful friend's, thou wouldst hath watched me on a stage, singing poetic thunder, miss Vicki, when thou feeleth down and under, continue to write thy creator in thy works, and I promise thou both, thou both hath

A friend in me......





©Brandon nagley
©Miss Vicki/miss Beth StClair dedication for both of you (:::::
©Lonesome poet's poetry

O . my Redeemer , what a Friend Thou art to me
O, what a refuge I have  found in Three;
Where the way was dreary, and my heart was sore oppressed,
"Twas Thy voice that lulled me to a calm sweet rest.

Nearer, draw nearer, till my soul is lost in Thee
Nearer, draw nearer, blessed Lord to me!

When in their beauty , stars unveil their silver light
Then ,O my Saviour , give me songs at night,
Songs of yonder mansions, where the dear ones gone before,
Sing  Thy  praise for ever on that peaceful shore.

Jesus , my Saviour ,when the last deep shadows fall,
When in the silence, I shall hear  Thy  call,
In Thine arms,reposing ,let me breathe my life away
And awake triumphant in eternal day.

Moreover, brethren, I would not that ye should be ignorant, how that all our fathers were under the cloud, and all passed through the sea;
And were all baptized unto Moses in the cloud and in the sea;
And did all eat the same spiritual meat; And did all drink the same spiritual drink: for they drank of that spiritual Rock that followed them: and that Rock was Christ. But with many of them God was not well pleased: for they were overthrown in the wilderness. Now these things were our examples, to the intent we should not lust after evil things, as they also lusted. Neither be ye idolaters, as were some of them; as it is written, The people sat down to eat and drink, and rose up to play. Neither let us commit fornication, as some of them committed, and fell in one day three and twenty thousand.Neither let us tempt Christ, as some of them also tempted, and were destroyed of serpents.Neither murmur ye, as some of them also murmured, and were destroyed of the destroyer.Now all these things happened unto them for examples: and they are written for our admonition, upon whom the ends of the world are come. Wherefore let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall. There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it. Wherefore, my dearly beloved, flee from idolatry. I speak as to wise men; judge ye what I say. The cup of blessing which we bless, is it not the communion of the blood of Christ? The bread which we break, is it not the communion of the body of Christ? For we being many are one bread, and one body: for we are all partakers of that one bread. Behold Israel after the flesh: are not they which eat of the sacrifices partakers of the altar? What say I then? that the idol is any thing, or that which is offered in sacrifice to idols is any thing? But I say, that the things which the Gentiles sacrifice, they sacrifice to devils, and not to God: and I would not that ye should have fellowship with devils. Ye cannot drink the cup of the Lord, and the cup of devils: ye cannot be partakers of the Lord's table, and of the table of devils. Do we provoke the Lord to jealousy? are we stronger than he?All things are lawful for me, but all things are not expedient: all things are lawful for me, but all things edify not.
Let no man seek his own, but every man another's wealth. Whatsoever is sold in the shambles, that eat, asking no question for conscience sake. For the earth is the Lord's, and the fulness thereof. If any of them that believe not bid you to a feast, and ye be disposed to go; whatsoever is set before you, eat, asking no question for conscience sake. But if any man say unto you, this is offered in sacrifice unto idols, eat not for his sake that shewed it, and for conscience sake: for the earth is the Lord's, and the fulness thereof. Conscience, I say, not thine own, but of the other: for why is my liberty judged of another man's conscience? For if I by grace be a partaker, why am I evil spoken of for that for which I give thanks? Whether therefore ye eat, or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God. Give none offence, neither to the Jews, nor to the Gentiles, nor to the church of God, Even as I please all men in all things, not seeking mine own profit, but the profit of many, that they may be saved.

Her smile is mine life
Her life is mine smile...




©Brandon nagley
©lonesome poets poetry

After this I looked, and, behold,
a door was opened in heaven:
and the first voice which I heard was
as it were of a trumpet talking with
me; which said, Come up hither, and
I will shew thee things which must be
hereafter.
2 And immediately I was in the
spirit: and, behold, a throne was set
in heaven, and one sat on the throne.
3 And he that sat was to look upon
like a jasper and a sardine stone:
and there was a rainbow round
about the throne, in sight like unto
an emerald.
4 And round about the throne
were four and twenty seats: and upon
the seats I saw four and twenty elders
sitting, clothed in white raiment;
and they had on their heads crowns
of gold.
5 And out of the throne proceeded
lightnings and thunderings and
voices: and there were seven lamps
of fire burning before the throne,
which are seven Spirits of God.
6 And before the throne there was
a sea of glass like unto crystal: and
in the midst of the throne, and round
about the throne, were four beasts full
of eyes before and behind.
7 And the first beast was like a
lion, and the second beast like a calf,
and the third beast had a face as a
man, and the fourth beast was like a
flying eagle.
8 And the four beasts had each of
them six wings about him;and they
were full of eyes within: and they rest
not day and night, saying, Holy,
holy, holy, Lord God Almighty, which
was, and is, and is to come.
9 And when those beasts give
glory and honour and thanks to him
that sat on the throne, who liveth for
ever and ever,
10 The four and twenty elders fall
down before him that sat on the
throne, and worship him that liveth
for ever and ever, and cast their
crowns before the throne, saying,
11 Thou art worthy, O Lord, to
recieve glory and honour and power: for
thou hast created all things, and for
thy pleasure they are and were
created.

The Day a Healer Did Weep,


The day did start with desire in the power of prayer,
Yond day would end in horrible, lingering, despair.

The moniters sounded a wretched shrill of doom,
In a blink, an instant, I wast whisked from the cubiculo,

The time did do cometh with swift, and desperate, finality,
While I did pray, and did beg God's holp, did do cometh lethality.

The leadeth leech would not giveth in until did pull away,
With the hurlyburly's end, We did weep together yond day,

This healer with emotion withdrawn, did do break down as a tyke,
The lady did has't this loving effect on all, in the very same like.

Ay, a life ended one warm, sunny, day in K.C,
Nay one erned, but doctors, nurses, and me,

Thither wast nay flowers, nay mourners, nay half staff,
Mine heart ripped ope as with a warrior's gaff.  

I cherished, and did protect the lady all our time together,
I did fix all, did maketh things right, cometh high water, or nether,

I couldst nae fix this, nay matter how hard I would tryeth,
Thou can not imagine such teen as I did watch that lady vade, and die,

Nary one knave, nay matter whom they may ever beest,
Can beest did replace, Each life is precious, I wouldst decree,

I wilt declare this to thou, All those yond would listen,
Taketh nothing for did grant, leaveth not a thing missing.

Liveth each moment with thy love as t'would beest thy last,
Leaveth nay regrets in thy future, or eyeless in thy past,

Still cogitate thy love as thou did has't from the first,
Tf 't be true thou pause too long, thou can nea quench such a thirst.

Thither is nary joy in living with regret, teen, and grief,
Liveth each day did share as a gift, and treasure this life brief.  

(Translation)



"The Day a Healer Wept,,

The day started with hope in the power of prayer,,
That day would end in horrible, lingering, despair,,

The moniters sounded a wretched shrill of doom,,
In a blink, an instant, I was whisked from the room,,

The time came with swift, and desperate, finality,,
While I prayed, and begged God's help, came lethality,,

The lead Doctor would not give up until pulled away,,
With the battle's end, We wept together that day,,

This doctor with emotion withdrawn, broke down as a tyke,,
She had this loving effect on all, in the very same like,,

Yes, a life ended one warm, sunny, day in K.C.,,
No one grieved, but doctors, nurses, and me,,

There were no flowers, no mourners, no half staff,,
My heart ripped open as with a warrior's gaff,,

I cherished, and protected her all our time together,,
I fixed all, Made things right, Come high water, or nether,,

I couldn't fix this,  no matter how hard I would try,,
You can not imagine such pain as I watched her fade, and die,,

No one person, no matter whom they may ever be,,
Can be replaced, Each life is precious, I would decree,,

I will say this to you, All those that would listen,,
Take nothing for granted, Leave not a thing missing,,

Live each moment with your love as it would be the last,,
Leave no regrets in your future, or hidden in your past,,

Forever cogitate your love as you had from the first,,
If you pause too long, you can never quench such a thirst,,

There is no joy in living with regret, pain, and grief,,
Live each day shared as a gift, and treasure this life brief,,

Earl Jane nagley:

If only thou wouldst truly knoweth mine sweet Earl Jane, mine evident love for thee, mine treasure, mine all, mine gem, mine queen. If thou wouldst knoweth when I awaketh its thee I seeketh to hear. It's thee, who soothe's mine fear's. Yes, thou doth knoweth to an extent mine amour', mine affection's. Yet, if thou couldst seeith in mine heart and soul, the love, happiness, and peace, and wholeness thou hath brought me, than thou wouldst understand all mine pet. The all, thou hath given me. Thou hast given me a home, as I feeleth more than at home with thee. In all honest speaking, thou art mine home, mine residence, in which this blood floweth through. Thou art the lamp-way God Gaveth me to leadeth me beside the still water's, that the earth doth not give. Thou art the cloud nine; man seeketh to find. Thou art the diamond, the gold, that every miner looketh to get. Thou art that Ruby, hidden from men, seen by God, noticed by angel's, concealed, for celestial purpose. I am but a sinner mine love, a sinful peasant, blessed more than to hath received thee. As tis daily, I'm privileged, to even be in thine presence. As tis they sayeth, when one maketh one better, and maketh one want to do better, that is the one for thee. As thou maketh me want to do better daily, as yes, im a sinner, a man who hath done much wrong, against God in mine life, and mankind, and daily despite mine foolish sinfulness, and way's, thou hath given me a new renewed hope. As god put that hope into mine hand's, and sight. That hope, being thee mine Reyna. That hope is thine smile, thine laugh, thine happiness. Which, so thou knoweth, when thou art not happy; Mine pain's I feeleth from thy sorrow is immeasurable!!! Life, isn't life mine love, unless thou art in it. Unless thou art there next to me. And daily, daily I thanketh god, for such an angel to cometh and SAVETH ME. From mine foolishness, from mine way's, mine anguish. I kneweth not happiness; until thou hast came..As I always sayeth love, God brought us together for a reason. For me to learn thing's about mineself, through thee. And to learn thing's from thee about all thing's. As tis the same for thee amare, to learn from me. As to be guide's to one another, and if it take's a million generation's to get to thee, I wilt do it. Love is not scared, nor afraid mine love, or fearful. In love, as ourn God taught, the greatest thing is to lay ourn lives down for one another; in love!!!! As tis, laying mine life down for thee I wilt do daily, if good, or bad times Earl Jane nagley. I wilt be there, Maby not physically for the time being. But in thine soul, spirit, thought, dream's, in thee........ As thou art  in all of me. We art more than real as thou hath said love. MORE THAN!!!! As tis, nothing, nor noone, canst ever break preordained soulmate's up. As we look around love, and see the world throw the word love around as if some cheap store bought item. We aren't store bought queen Jane; we art creation's of God's own hand's, under his preordainment, and destiny for us. As in life, I liveth for thee, earl Jane nagley. And in death, as thou knoweth, we all hath destination's, and I wilt meeteth thee there to.......as I canst not thanketh thee enough, for saving mine life, mine being, mine happiness, and thou keepeth me alive...... And thou sayest that thou art no angel? Thou hath saved me......
I sayest that is MORE THAN ANGELIC... As thou art God's angel,  and mine messenger, who hath come to save me, as I thou....

Mine Reyna
Soulmate
Best friend
Lover
Amour
Filipino rose
Mine sweet earl jane nagley....


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

Queen;

This is a gratitude letter, to telleth thee, I'm blessed with thou,
Mine beloved, mine cherub, mine lifeblood;
Mine queen.

Sovereign;

God hath given me a ladder, I've climbed high past upward lantern's, past the entryway of spiritual pattern's;
Mine amour'.

Empress;

Stop thinking that I wilt leaveth, thou art more worthy than thou believeth, don't let the devil to thee deceiveth, this soul to thee I giveth.

Monarch;

On the street's, or in the park, in the shade, day, night and dark, in me thou liveth, in me thou lighteth a spark, forever, eternal.....
Love.............




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

( french version)

Accentuer me reine de l'amour
Marquez-moi avec ton accent bonheur
Je suis nerveux jusqu'à
Traîné
Il est tu vraiment que je misseth

Atedly Je suis folle lonesomely
Mourir pour maudire mes
Souhaitant que je ne suis jamais né
Voler de la poignée à la naissance

Soulevée par celestials
Et la déesse étoiles
Rédaction sur tablette par le doigt
Mourir pour les planet mars

Un chanteur universelle
Chantez pour les anges
Et les hommes gais,

Mine de Blae yeux
Besoin conviction
Ils needeth car tu
Pour moi, dans letteth

Je suis à ta porte
Bangin dur ****
Laissez-moi en reine de ce soir
Tommorrow si tu, veux laisser moi vient à nouveau !!!

Genoux mines sont fatigués
Ma tête a besoin de repos
Est ton épaule libre pour moi maintenant?
As-je te donne tout le mien meilleur?

Pas dur
Tout simplement
Je suis un séraphin dans l'amour,
Prenant la patience
Alors patiemment
Attente autour avec les colombes,

Je traîne avec apparitions
Pour faciliter cette douleur de l'esprit mienne
Certains sont des êtres de Hellion
Leur cruel pour moi et méchant

Un black-jack puis-je pauvre sur ce fer dans
Un cabas d'Amare mienne,
Il est plein et lourd à
Doth tu exauce comment je suis effrayé?

Car je peux te délie
Je délie ma propre âme,
Je l'ai trouvé la seule reine
Tis celui que je me sens à la maison,

Une cabane, im suspendus à l'écart
Nu à ton monde,
Je veux juste le seul
Qui peux résoudre tous ces tourbillons,

Les temps d'art courte
Jours mines ne durera pas
Toujours
nous ne haveth pas longtemps pour vivant!
Je voudrais que tu donne tout
Et tout
Rêve mine, reine
Et celui à qui je respire

Je suis maintenant un caseworm
Mineself Protection de ne pas être laisser entrer,
Oter ton clypeate
Et lâché tout pour ta parenté

Je suis ton moitié Kindred
Je suis ton romeo à ta vie
Maby un jour tu seras donne tout .....

Un roi une reine,
Mari et femme !!!!          




( English version)

Accentuate me queen of love
Mark me with thy accent bliss
I'm strung up
Hung out
It's thou I truly misseth

Atedly I'm lonesomely mad
Dying to mine curse
Wishing I was never born
Flying off the handle at birth

Raised by celestials
And goddess stars
Writing on tablet by finger
Dying to the planet mars

A universal singer

Sing for angels
And merry men,

Mine blae eyes
Need conviction
They needeth for thou
To letteth me in

I'm at thy door
Bangin hard away
Let me in queen of tonight
Tommorrow if thou, wilt let me cometh again!!!

Mine knees are wearied
Mine head needs rest
Is thy shoulder free for me now?
Didst I giveth thee all of mine best?

Not to hard
Quite simply
I'm a seraphim in love,
Taking patience
So patiently
Waiting around with the doves,

I hang with apparitions
To ease this pain from mine mind
Some are hellion beings
Their cruel to me and unkind

A black-jack do I poor this iron out into
A cabas of mine amare,
It's full and heavy to
Doth thou heareth how I'm scared?

For I canst looseth thee
I'd looseth mine own soul,
I've found the only queen
Tis the one I feel at home,

A cabane, im hanging aloof
**** to thy world,
Just want the only one
Who canst fix all of these whirls,

The times art short
Mine days won't last
Forever
we don't haveth long to liveth
I'd giveth thou all
And anything
Mine dream, queen
And one to whom I breatheth

I'm now a caseworm
Protecting mineself from not being let in,
Taketh off thy clypeate
And let loose all for thy kin

I'm thy Kindred half
I'm thy romeo to thine life
Maby one day thou shalt giveth all.....

A king a queen,
Husband and wife!!!!

Protestant stand,
pick up your cross and liveth -
in the East.

© S. Wesley Mcgranor

An airgonaut, verily she is,
Hovering in time, healing
Mine mind; O'er the
luminaries, stationary,
Freely emissaries, of
The water of life on-
Which we liveth.
We shalt famigerate the copybook of god;
Sprinkling seed's, O'er the demonic breed's,
Stomping out the hatred, anger, a lightning bolt of peace to overcometh the ghost's of bad nature, with Jane's sceptering rod. Virtuous applause, as a wraparound stairway, leadeth us to the Almighty; thundering awe.

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

i.

Without her I
Am naught;
With her
I am all.

ii.

Without her I
Am lost;
With her
I am found.

iii.

Without her I
Am in mine grave;
With her, I am free
Not a slave.

iv.

Without her I
Am in peril;
With her
I canst seeith, speaketh, breatheth, liveth on her holy water.



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication

i.

Ernesto L. Gonzales
Aka "DedPoet";
A prayer up to heaven
As the angel's awaiteth and knoweth.

ii.

Thou hath blessed us all
With thy beauty and difference;
Not like the rest, one of the great's, the best
A man, a king, an angel amongst the innocent.

iii.

This is not thine death
This is thy new birth;
Put thy faith in god, not creature's nor human facade's
For seraph's and cherub's awaiteth thee,in the creator's church.

iv.

This is for thee, one of mine dearest supporter's
Thou art a friend, though didst not talk much;
I still felt thine pen, thine hand of gratitude
Thine family is blessed, to hath known a being of beatitude.

v.

Thy word's shalt liveth on, thither the great paradise
Thou shalt not be forgotten, thou art worth more in ourn eye's;
As thy life, is not worth material money nor gem's
Thy life is priceless, because it's from God, awaiting thee friend.

vi.

Ernesto L. Gonzales, a Godsend to Hellopoetry
Ernesto L. Gonzales, half divine messenger, part mortal breed;
Ernesto L. Gonzales, I thanketh thee for all thou hath done
Ernesto L. Gonzales, Jehovah's eternal poet, a chosen one.




May god bless you and your family ernesto, as remember poet friend Ernest, what a doctor said isn't always a death sentence, only Christ and god the father is your doctor, Christ heals ernesto all!!! Though if he does take you friend, may your soul rest in heaven, may the angel's bless you on your journey, and may you continue to speak your poetry in soul and spirit form,
May God bless you dedpoet, and have faith,
Your friend.
Brandon Cory Nagley...

©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Ernesto L. Gonzales[aka DedPoet) dedication

Shalt I sing a song for thee?
To maketh thee feeleth like heaven
shalt I maketh the world quite quaint for thee
To sense thee the serenity!
Oh divine soul!
Thee art an angel on the earth.
I knoweth no lovely verses.
Spread thy wings in the ope sky
Its for thee. For thee to fly!
Quite quaint moon in the silent night
Its for thee for dreams of thy eyes!
Adorable and greatest worth
Oh divine soul
Thee art an angel on earth.
Most precious is thy smileth
I'd capture still to liveth mine life.

From whence art thou cometh,
Oh, beautiful gazelle?
For since mine soul hath liveth,
Never before, set eyes, on such a belle.

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

Her brilliance, imminent
Untold story of love;

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

Some swain art twain
Though we art sole;
Some liveth on sand,
Ourn foundation's
Whole.

Some swain art lost
To temporal sight;
Though ourn birth's
Were matched, to
Meeteth in light.

Burst's that trickled,
Out from divinity,
Christ's foreordained-
Eachother to greet.

Strap's upon toes
Dirt to ourn feet;
Off the planet-
démodé; to
Those who
Hath gold
For safe
Keeps.

Remote from another,
By the blue polluted
Welkin; thus one day
We knoweth, ourn
Pinion's shalt be
As falcon's.

Splitting general edicts,
Trusting in God's rule;
Dying to the globe-
Blithe and mellow
Fool's.


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

She on the Twentieth
   Street liveth
In a plush penthouse;

And I in my own rustic crib
  Live by my ancient nib;
And for love, I'm no mouse.

The dollybird useth iThings
  Those by Apple made,
While I by my little things
  Run my blessed trade.

Though no kingly life
I do presently live
Nor have now fortune and fame
      Great, high queenly dame;

And I mayn't a costly gadget
        At the moment avoid
Like that dear iPhone or tablet;
Yet make not my affection void:

        I can be a commoner,
     But do need nay a coroner.

In these closely quarter's called apartments....
There's a porch right next to me
Third floor

There is a man named Anthony
Thirties in age or so,
Mine neighbor girl is who he's friends with
Yet friends he doth not seeketh....

He doth not liveth here
Yet myswell sayeth he doth...

The girl next to me
Dallas ( her name)
Isn't with Anthony
( as I said) just friends....
But I just saw Dallas bring over a guy friend...

As Anthony's outside taking a hit of his light drag in hurtful motion....

I canst seeith the pain that holds his face up
Like a lantern to a flame....
I seeith his hearts enflamed...

Though knowing him and Dallas art ust friend's..  
What canst the man do?

As I seeith him take a heavied puff
Blowing out all of his pains through the tobacco misty....

I seeith he dreaded going back inside
As his heart was screaming
( GET OUT, SHES MINE *****)
He kept his head hung low

As if going to the gallows.....