Spring at her height on a morn at prime,
Sails that laugh from a flying squall,
Pomp of harmony, rapture of rhyme--
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
Winter sunsets and leaves that fall,
An empty flagon, a folded page,
A tumble-down wheel, a tattered ball--
These are a type of the world of Age.

Bells that clash in a gaudy chime,
Swords that clatter in onsets tall,
The words that ring and the fames that climb--
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
Hymnals old in a dusty stall,
A bald, blind bird in a crazy cage,
The scene of a faded festival--
These are a type of the world of Age.

Hours that strut as the heirs of time,
Deeds whose rumour's a clarion-call,
Songs where the singers their souls sublime--
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
A staff that rests in a nook of wall,
A reeling battle, a rusted gage,
The chant of a nearing funeral--
These are a type of the world of Age.

Envoy

Struggle and turmoil, revel and brawl--
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
A smouldering hearth and a silent stage--
These are a type of the world of Age.

Muffled strifes of the blanched soul,

Pines for redemption to plug the hole.

The casing remains colorful though,

Mere existence, deceiving puppet show.



Malignant  now  once  benign,

Tragic waste of a grand design.

Delicious torments served each night,

Another day onsets another plight.



Deafening silence, everything torn apart,

Hot tears emerge from the frozen heart.

Quiet scream of the desperate mime,

Mourns the arrival of departure time.



Scythe begins to kiss the shell,

Heaven’s calling or may be hell.

Crimson  red  spills  to  shroud,

Darkest void now dreams out loud.

The seas are tough,
an eerie calm before a storm onsets,
and the fear and paralysis it possesses,
cripples me, and I suffer the doubt,
that the captain is right.
But lo’ this average day
is turned fully about,
and I stand in glorious
light of day.
That Hope is given to this
the wearied sailor,
and I might rest confident
of his assured skills and
power o’er the seas, and
this my vessel.
He steers me to calmer seas,
and giveth me rest,
taking me down narrow courses
for his names sake.
And tho’ I do sail on bitter seas,
I shall fear not, for his limits
aren’t limited to mine.
You Comfort me.
You giveth me rest,
when I am weary,
you giveth me rest,
when I am stressed,
you giveth me rest,
when I am angry,
you giveth me rest,


You, Giveth me rest.

I am afraid
that we can't coexist.
For I am a writer
and you an actress,
and the one thing between us
is quite simply this:
The two, dear,
just don't mix

Now, a writer is one
who likes to make stories,
creates onsets and ends,
crafts his dramas from worries.
He sees the whole world
connected by string;
he knows that one simple pluck
could change everything.

Some call it 'fate,'
and it's called 'life' by a lot
but amongst us creators
it is always called Plot.
Every itch has a reason,
each whisper a whim,
within any characters past
lies a reason to win.

But the actor can only see
from their own point of view.
They must master their character;
how they think and what they'd do.
They expend all their energy
trying to be someone else
while the writer's too busy
trying to figure out himself.

Volume I – Awakening
In sleep, her thoughts crossed all dimensions steep.
Rested souls collect aged feelings through faith.
Her breaths slowly brought forth life from the deep.
Dreams and nightmares ceased here like a dark wraith.
Uneasiness stirring in her soul's debts.
Darkness clawing, her spirit now unfurled.
Reawakened through plagued, darkened onsets,
She found herself alone in this false world.
Lucidity sparking with thoughts of "Why?"
Contemplation flaring, questioning "What?"
"The first step is the hardest," they did lie,
For trekking this wasteland opened a cut.
Years of confined thought now gone from this zone—
He suddenly grasped her hand with his own.

Volume II – Potential
Burning brightly, lavender eyes scanned her
As her own sight of faded gold quivers.
A solitary voice, ruffled as fur.
"What is your name, child of deathly shivers?"
Her lips trembled with worries of unknown,
"Your presence makes me feel ever unsafe."
Violet irises with doubt renown,
"'Tis you—not I—who should worry right now."
His hand smoothed her hair slowly like a dove.
His tone spears the void sharp—his words dictate,
"Do you know what you are capable of?
The powers you hold will eradicate."
Incessant speeches fearfully incur
The future which he now entrusts to her.

Volume III – Transformation**
He raised his hands which sheathed a lustrous light.
Within his palm—a fragmented stone jewel.
"This amethyst awakens overnight
And will be the catalyst of your rule."
He spoke in calm despite her confusion
As he gave her the shining bright birthstone.
Oh, how it resonated, infusion
With her soul and aura becoming known.
As his stature faded to white, his voice
Flew through the sky, her now lilac eyes bright.
"Intervened, your destiny has no choice—
With my eyes now, spill her blood by dawn's light."
Through the mirror, they meet; pure aria
Of fate now shifts her name—Samathia.

i like bright orange sunsets
and long walks by the beach
this helps to ease the sudden onsets
of my persistent itch

i like candlelit dinners
and staring at the stars
and you might quickly catch a glimmer
of my post acne scars

i like to sip expensive wine
and a large pina colada
if you do too you'll love to dine
with me and with my mother

so if you like orange sunsets too
jump in my arms and fall
to get to me you must get through
my itch, my warts and all