It is full summer now, the heart of June;
Not yet the sunburnt reapers are astir
Upon the upland meadow where too soon
Rich autumn time, the season’s usurer,
Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,
And see his treasure scattered by the wild and spendthrift breeze.

Too soon indeed! yet here the daffodil,
That love-child of the Spring, has lingered on
To vex the rose with jealousy, and still
The harebell spreads her azure pavilion,
And like a strayed and wandering reveller
Abandoned of its brothers, whom long since June’s messenger

The missel-thrush has frighted from the glade,
One pale narcissus loiters fearfully
Close to a shadowy nook, where half afraid
Of their own loveliness some violets lie
That will not look the gold sun in the face
For fear of too much splendour,—ah! methinks it is a place

Which should be trodden by Persephone
When wearied of the flowerless fields of Dis!
Or danced on by the lads of Arcady!
The hidden secret of eternal bliss
Known to the Grecian here a man might find,
Ah! you and I may find it now if Love and Sleep be kind.

There are the flowers which mourning Herakles
Strewed on the tomb of Hylas, columbine,
Its white doves all a-flutter where the breeze
Kissed them too harshly, the small celandine,
That yellow-kirtled chorister of eve,
And lilac lady’s-smock,—but let them bloom alone, and leave

Yon spired hollyhock red-crocketed
To sway its silent chimes, else must the bee,
Its little bellringer, go seek instead
Some other pleasaunce; the anemone
That weeps at daybreak, like a silly girl
Before her love, and hardly lets the butterflies unfurl

Their painted wings beside it,—bid it pine
In pale virginity; the winter snow
Will suit it better than those lips of thine
Whose fires would but scorch it, rather go
And pluck that amorous flower which blooms alone,
Fed by the pander wind with dust of kisses not its own.

The trumpet-mouths of red convolvulus
So dear to maidens, creamy meadow-sweet
Whiter than Juno’s throat and odorous
As all Arabia, hyacinths the feet
Of Huntress Dian would be loth to mar
For any dappled fawn,—pluck these, and those fond flowers which
are

Fairer than what Queen Venus trod upon
Beneath the pines of Ida, eucharis,
That morning star which does not dread the sun,
And budding marjoram which but to kiss
Would sweeten Cytheraea’s lips and make
Adonis jealous,—these for thy head,—and for thy girdle take

Yon curving spray of purple clematis
Whose gorgeous dye outflames the Tyrian King,
And foxgloves with their nodding chalices,
But that one narciss which the startled Spring
Let from her kirtle fall when first she heard
In her own woods the wild tempestuous song of summer’s bird,

Ah! leave it for a subtle memory
Of those sweet tremulous days of rain and sun,
When April laughed between her tears to see
The early primrose with shy footsteps run
From the gnarled oak-tree roots till all the wold,
Spite of its brown and trampled leaves, grew bright with shimmering
gold.

Nay, pluck it too, it is not half so sweet
As thou thyself, my soul’s idolatry!
And when thou art a-wearied at thy feet
Shall oxlips weave their brightest tapestry,
For thee the woodbine shall forget its pride
And veil its tangled whorls, and thou shalt walk on daisies pied.

And I will cut a reed by yonder spring
And make the wood-gods jealous, and old Pan
Wonder what young intruder dares to sing
In these still haunts, where never foot of man
Should tread at evening, lest he chance to spy
The marble limbs of Artemis and all her company.

And I will tell thee why the jacinth wears
Such dread embroidery of dolorous moan,
And why the hapless nightingale forbears
To sing her song at noon, but weeps alone
When the fleet swallow sleeps, and rich men feast,
And why the laurel trembles when she sees the lightening east.

And I will sing how sad Proserpina
Unto a grave and gloomy Lord was wed,
And lure the silver-breasted Helena
Back from the lotus meadows of the dead,
So shalt thou see that awful loveliness
For which two mighty Hosts met fearfully in war’s abyss!

And then I’ll pipe to thee that Grecian tale
How Cynthia loves the lad Endymion,
And hidden in a grey and misty veil
Hies to the cliffs of Latmos once the Sun
Leaps from his ocean bed in fruitless chase
Of those pale flying feet which fade away in his embrace.

And if my flute can breathe sweet melody,
We may behold Her face who long ago
Dwelt among men by the AEgean sea,
And whose sad house with pillaged portico
And friezeless wall and columns toppled down
Looms o’er the ruins of that fair and violet cinctured town.

Spirit of Beauty! tarry still awhile,
They are not dead, thine ancient votaries;
Some few there are to whom thy radiant smile
Is better than a thousand victories,
Though all the nobly slain of Waterloo
Rise up in wrath against them! tarry still, there are a few

Who for thy sake would give their manlihood
And consecrate their being; I at least
Have done so, made thy lips my daily food,
And in thy temples found a goodlier feast
Than this starved age can give me, spite of all
Its new-found creeds so sceptical and so dogmatical.

Here not Cephissos, not Ilissos flows,
The woods of white Colonos are not here,
On our bleak hills the olive never blows,
No simple priest conducts his lowing steer
Up the steep marble way, nor through the town
Do laughing maidens bear to thee the crocus-flowered gown.

Yet tarry! for the boy who loved thee best,
Whose very name should be a memory
To make thee linger, sleeps in silent rest
Beneath the Roman walls, and melody
Still mourns her sweetest lyre; none can play
The lute of Adonais:  with his lips Song passed away.

Nay, when Keats died the Muses still had left
One silver voice to sing his threnody,
But ah! too soon of it we were bereft
When on that riven night and stormy sea
Panthea claimed her singer as her own,
And slew the mouth that praised her; since which time we walk
alone,

Save for that fiery heart, that morning star
Of re-arisen England, whose clear eye
Saw from our tottering throne and waste of war
The grand Greek limbs of young Democracy
Rise mightily like Hesperus and bring
The great Republic! him at least thy love hath taught to sing,

And he hath been with thee at Thessaly,
And seen white Atalanta fleet of foot
In passionless and fierce virginity
Hunting the tusked boar, his honied lute
Hath pierced the cavern of the hollow hill,
And Venus laughs to know one knee will bow before her still.

And he hath kissed the lips of Proserpine,
And sung the Galilaean’s requiem,
That wounded forehead dashed with blood and wine
He hath discrowned, the Ancient Gods in him
Have found their last, most ardent worshipper,
And the new Sign grows grey and dim before its conqueror.

Spirit of Beauty! tarry with us still,
It is not quenched the torch of poesy,
The star that shook above the Eastern hill
Holds unassailed its argent armoury
From all the gathering gloom and fretful fight—
O tarry with us still! for through the long and common night,

Morris, our sweet and simple Chaucer’s child,
Dear heritor of Spenser’s tuneful reed,
With soft and sylvan pipe has oft beguiled
The weary soul of man in troublous need,
And from the far and flowerless fields of ice
Has brought fair flowers to make an earthly paradise.

We know them all, Gudrun the strong men’s bride,
Aslaug and Olafson we know them all,
How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd died,
And what enchantment held the king in thrall
When lonely Brynhild wrestled with the powers
That war against all passion, ah! how oft through summer hours,

Long listless summer hours when the noon
Being enamoured of a damask rose
Forgets to journey westward, till the moon
The pale usurper of its tribute grows
From a thin sickle to a silver shield
And chides its loitering car—how oft, in some cool grassy field

Far from the cricket-ground and noisy eight,
At Bagley, where the rustling bluebells come
Almost before the blackbird finds a mate
And overstay the swallow, and the hum
Of many murmuring bees flits through the leaves,
Have I lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves,

And through their unreal woes and mimic pain
Wept for myself, and so was purified,
And in their simple mirth grew glad again;
For as I sailed upon that pictured tide
The strength and splendour of the storm was mine
Without the storm’s red ruin, for the singer is divine;

The little laugh of water falling down
Is not so musical, the clammy gold
Close hoarded in the tiny waxen town
Has less of sweetness in it, and the old
Half-withered reeds that waved in Arcady
Touched by his lips break forth again to fresher harmony.

Spirit of Beauty, tarry yet awhile!
Although the cheating merchants of the mart
With iron roads profane our lovely isle,
And break on whirling wheels the limbs of Art,
Ay! though the crowded factories beget
The blindworm Ignorance that slays the soul, O tarry yet!

For One at least there is,—He bears his name
From Dante and the seraph Gabriel,—
Whose double laurels burn with deathless flame
To light thine altar; He too loves thee well,
Who saw old Merlin lured in Vivien’s snare,
And the white feet of angels coming down the golden stair,

Loves thee so well, that all the World for him
A gorgeous-coloured vestiture must wear,
And Sorrow take a purple diadem,
Or else be no more Sorrow, and Despair
Gild its own thorns, and Pain, like Adon, be
Even in anguish beautiful;—such is the empery

Which Painters hold, and such the heritage
This gentle solemn Spirit doth possess,
Being a better mirror of his age
In all his pity, love, and weariness,
Than those who can but copy common things,
And leave the Soul unpainted with its mighty questionings.

But they are few, and all romance has flown,
And men can prophesy about the sun,
And lecture on his arrows—how, alone,
Through a waste void the soulless atoms run,
How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled,
And that no more ’mid English reeds a Naiad shows her head.

Methinks these new Actaeons boast too soon
That they have spied on beauty; what if we
Have analysed the rainbow, robbed the moon
Of her most ancient, chastest mystery,
Shall I, the last Endymion, lose all hope
Because rude eyes peer at my mistress through a telescope!

What profit if this scientific age
Burst through our gates with all its retinue
Of modern miracles!  Can it assuage
One lover’s breaking heart? what can it do
To make one life more beautiful, one day
More godlike in its period? but now the Age of Clay

Returns in horrid cycle, and the earth
Hath borne again a noisy progeny
Of ignorant Titans, whose ungodly birth
Hurls them against the august hierarchy
Which sat upon Olympus; to the Dust
They have appealed, and to that barren arbiter they must

Repair for judgment; let them, if they can,
From Natural Warfare and insensate Chance,
Create the new Ideal rule for man!
Methinks that was not my inheritance;
For I was nurtured otherwise, my soul
Passes from higher heights of life to a more supreme goal.

Lo! while we spake the earth did turn away
Her visage from the God, and Hecate’s boat
Rose silver-laden, till the jealous day
Blew all its torches out:  I did not note
The waning hours, to young Endymions
Time’s palsied fingers count in vain his rosary of suns!

Mark how the yellow iris wearily
Leans back its throat, as though it would be kissed
By its false chamberer, the dragon-fly,
Who, like a blue vein on a girl’s white wrist,
Sleeps on that snowy primrose of the night,
Which ‘gins to flush with crimson shame, and die beneath the light.

Come let us go, against the pallid shield
Of the wan sky the almond blossoms gleam,
The corncrake nested in the unmown field
Answers its mate, across the misty stream
On fitful wing the startled curlews fly,
And in his sedgy bed the lark, for joy that Day is nigh,

Scatters the pearled dew from off the grass,
In tremulous ecstasy to greet the sun,
Who soon in gilded panoply will pass
Forth from yon orange-curtained pavilion
Hung in the burning east:  see, the red rim
O’ertops the expectant hills! it is the God! for love of him

Already the shrill lark is out of sight,
Flooding with waves of song this silent dell,—
Ah! there is something more in that bird’s flight
Than could be tested in a crucible!—
But the air freshens, let us go, why soon
The woodmen will be here; how we have lived this night of June!

It is full winter now:  the trees are bare,
Save where the cattle huddle from the cold
Beneath the pine, for it doth never wear
The autumn’s gaudy livery whose gold
Her jealous brother pilfers, but is true
To the green doublet; bitter is the wind, as though it blew

From Saturn’s cave; a few thin wisps of hay
Lie on the sharp black hedges, where the wain
Dragged the sweet pillage of a summer’s day
From the low meadows up the narrow lane;
Upon the half-thawed snow the bleating sheep
Press close against the hurdles, and the shivering house-dogs creep

From the shut stable to the frozen stream
And back again disconsolate, and miss
The bawling shepherds and the noisy team;
And overhead in circling listlessness
The cawing rooks whirl round the frosted stack,
Or crowd the dripping boughs; and in the fen the ice-pools crack

Where the gaunt bittern stalks among the reeds
And ***** his wings, and stretches back his neck,
And hoots to see the moon; across the meads
Limps the poor frightened hare, a little speck;
And a stray seamew with its fretful cry
Flits like a sudden drift of snow against the dull grey sky.

Full winter:  and the ***** goodman brings
His load of ******* from the chilly byre,
And stamps his feet upon the hearth, and flings
The sappy billets on the waning fire,
And laughs to see the sudden lightening scare
His children at their play, and yet,—the spring is in the air;

Already the slim crocus stirs the snow,
And soon yon blanched fields will bloom again
With nodding cowslips for some lad to mow,
For with the first warm kisses of the rain
The winter’s icy sorrow breaks to tears,
And the brown thrushes mate, and with bright eyes the rabbit peers

From the dark warren where the fir-cones lie,
And treads one snowdrop under foot, and runs
Over the mossy knoll, and blackbirds fly
Across our path at evening, and the suns
Stay longer with us; ah! how good to see
Grass-girdled spring in all her joy of laughing greenery

Dance through the hedges till the early rose,
(That sweet repentance of the thorny briar!)
Burst from its sheathed emerald and disclose
The little quivering disk of golden fire
Which the bees know so well, for with it come
Pale boy’s-love, sops-in-wine, and daffadillies all in bloom.

Then up and down the field the sower goes,
While close behind the laughing younker scares
With shrilly whoop the black and thievish crows,
And then the chestnut-tree its glory wears,
And on the grass the creamy blossom falls
In odorous excess, and faint half-whispered madrigals

Steal from the bluebells’ nodding carillons
Each breezy morn, and then white jessamine,
That star of its own heaven, snap-dragons
With lolling crimson tongues, and eglantine
In dusty velvets clad usurp the bed
And woodland empery, and when the lingering rose hath shed

Red leaf by leaf its folded panoply,
And pansies closed their purple-lidded eyes,
Chrysanthemums from gilded argosy
Unload their gaudy scentless merchandise,
And violets getting overbold withdraw
From their shy nooks, and scarlet berries dot the leafless haw.

O happy field! and O thrice happy tree!
Soon will your queen in daisy-flowered smock
And crown of flower-de-luce trip down the lea,
Soon will the lazy shepherds drive their flock
Back to the pasture by the pool, and soon
Through the green leaves will float the hum of murmuring bees at noon.

Soon will the glade be bright with bellamour,
The flower which wantons love, and those sweet nuns
Vale-lilies in their snowy vestiture
Will tell their beaded pearls, and carnations
With mitred dusky leaves will scent the wind,
And straggling traveller’s-joy each hedge with yellow stars will bind.

Dear bride of Nature and most bounteous spring,
That canst give increase to the sweet-breath’d kine,
And to the kid its little horns, and bring
The soft and silky blossoms to the vine,
Where is that old nepenthe which of yore
Man got from poppy root and glossy-berried mandragore!

There was a time when any common bird
Could make me sing in unison, a time
When all the strings of boyish life were stirred
To quick response or more melodious rhyme
By every forest idyll;—do I change?
Or rather doth some evil thing through thy fair pleasaunce range?

Nay, nay, thou art the same:  ’tis I who seek
To vex with sighs thy simple solitude,
And because fruitless tears bedew my cheek
Would have thee weep with me in brotherhood;
Fool! shall each wronged and restless spirit dare
To taint such wine with the salt poison of own despair!

Thou art the same:  ’tis I whose wretched soul
Takes discontent to be its paramour,
And gives its kingdom to the rude control
Of what should be its servitor,—for sure
Wisdom is somewhere, though the stormy sea
Contain it not, and the huge deep answer ‘’Tis not in me.’

To burn with one clear flame, to stand *****
In natural honour, not to bend the knee
In profitless prostrations whose effect
Is by itself condemned, what alchemy
Can teach me this? what herb Medea brewed
Will bring the unexultant peace of essence not subdued?

The minor chord which ends the harmony,
And for its answering brother waits in vain
Sobbing for incompleted melody,
Dies a swan’s death; but I the heir of pain,
A silent Memnon with blank lidless eyes,
Wait for the light and music of those suns which never rise.

The quenched-out torch, the lonely cypress-gloom,
The little dust stored in the narrow urn,
The gentle XAIPE of the Attic tomb,—
Were not these better far than to return
To my old fitful restless malady,
Or spend my days within the voiceless cave of misery?

Nay! for perchance that poppy-crowned god
Is like the watcher by a sick man’s bed
Who talks of sleep but gives it not; his rod
Hath lost its virtue, and, when all is said,
Death is too rude, too obvious a key
To solve one single secret in a life’s philosophy.

And Love! that noble madness, whose august
And inextinguishable might can slay
The soul with honeyed drugs,—alas! I must
From such sweet ruin play the runaway,
Although too constant memory never can
Forget the arched splendour of those brows Olympian

Which for a little season made my youth
So soft a swoon of exquisite indolence
That all the chiding of more prudent Truth
Seemed the thin voice of jealousy,—O hence
Thou huntress deadlier than Artemis!
Go seek some other quarry! for of thy too perilous bliss.

My lips have drunk enough,—no more, no more,—
Though Love himself should turn his gilded prow
Back to the troubled waters of this shore
Where I am wrecked and stranded, even now
The chariot wheels of passion sweep too near,
Hence!  Hence!  I pass unto a life more barren, more austere.

More barren—ay, those arms will never lean
Down through the trellised vines and draw my soul
In sweet reluctance through the tangled green;
Some other head must wear that aureole,
For I am hers who loves not any man
Whose white and stainless ***** bears the sign Gorgonian.

Let Venus go and chuck her dainty page,
And kiss his mouth, and toss his curly hair,
With net and spear and hunting equipage
Let young Adonis to his tryst repair,
But me her fond and subtle-fashioned spell
Delights no more, though I could win her dearest citadel.

Ay, though I were that laughing shepherd boy
Who from Mount Ida saw the little cloud
Pass over Tenedos and lofty Troy
And knew the coming of the Queen, and bowed
In wonder at her feet, not for the sake
Of a new Helen would I bid her hand the apple take.

Then rise supreme Athena argent-limbed!
And, if my lips be musicless, inspire
At least my life:  was not thy glory hymned
By One who gave to thee his sword and lyre
Like AEschylos at well-fought Marathon,
And died to show that Milton’s England still could bear a son!

And yet I cannot tread the Portico
And live without desire, fear and pain,
Or nurture that wise calm which long ago
The grave Athenian master taught to men,
Self-poised, self-centred, and self-comforted,
To watch the world’s vain phantasies go by with unbowed head.

Alas! that serene brow, those eloquent lips,
Those eyes that mirrored all eternity,
Rest in their own Colonos, an eclipse
Hath come on Wisdom, and Mnemosyne
Is childless; in the night which she had made
For lofty secure flight Athena’s owl itself hath strayed.

Nor much with Science do I care to climb,
Although by strange and subtle witchery
She drew the moon from heaven:  the Muse Time
Unrolls her gorgeous-coloured tapestry
To no less eager eyes; often indeed
In the great epic of Polymnia’s scroll I love to read

How Asia sent her myriad hosts to war
Against a little town, and panoplied
In gilded mail with jewelled scimitar,
White-shielded, purple-crested, rode the Mede
Between the waving poplars and the sea
Which men call Artemisium, till he saw Thermopylae

Its steep ravine spanned by a narrow wall,
And on the nearer side a little brood
Of careless lions holding festival!
And stood amazed at such hardihood,
And pitched his tent upon the reedy shore,
And stayed two days to wonder, and then crept at midnight o’er

Some unfrequented height, and coming down
The autumn forests treacherously slew
What Sparta held most dear and was the crown
Of far Eurotas, and passed on, nor knew
How God had staked an evil net for him
In the small bay at Salamis,—and yet, the page grows dim,

Its cadenced Greek delights me not, I feel
With such a goodly time too out of tune
To love it much:  for like the Dial’s wheel
That from its blinded darkness strikes the noon
Yet never sees the sun, so do my eyes
Restlessly follow that which from my cheated vision flies.

O for one grand unselfish simple life
To teach us what is Wisdom! speak ye hills
Of lone Helvellyn, for this note of strife
Shunned your untroubled crags and crystal rills,
Where is that Spirit which living blamelessly
Yet dared to kiss the smitten mouth of his own century!

Speak ye Rydalian laurels! where is he
Whose gentle head ye sheltered, that pure soul
Whose gracious days of uncrowned majesty
Through lowliest conduct touched the lofty goal
Where love and duty mingle!  Him at least
The most high Laws were glad of, he had sat at Wisdom’s feast;

But we are Learning’s changelings, know by rote
The clarion watchword of each Grecian school
And follow none, the flawless sword which smote
The pagan Hydra is an effete tool
Which we ourselves have blunted, what man now
Shall scale the august ancient heights and to old Reverence bow?

One such indeed I saw, but, Ichabod!
Gone is that last dear son of Italy,
Who being man died for the sake of God,
And whose unrisen bones sleep peacefully,
O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto’s tower,
Thou marble lily of the lily town! let not the lour

Of the rude tempest vex his slumber, or
The Arno with its tawny troubled gold
O’er-leap its marge, no mightier conqueror
Clomb the high Capitol in the days of old
When Rome was indeed Rome, for Liberty
Walked like a bride beside him, at which sight pale Mystery

Fled shrieking to her farthest sombrest cell
With an old man who grabbled rusty keys,
Fled shuddering, for that immemorial knell
With which oblivion buries dynasties
Swept like a wounded eagle on the blast,
As to the holy heart of Rome the great triumvir passed.

He knew the holiest heart and heights of Rome,
He drave the base wolf from the lion’s lair,
And now lies dead by that empyreal dome
Which overtops Valdarno hung in air
By Brunelleschi—O Melpomene
Breathe through thy melancholy pipe thy sweetest threnody!

Breathe through the tragic stops such melodies
That Joy’s self may grow jealous, and the Nine
Forget awhile their discreet emperies,
Mourning for him who on Rome’s lordliest shrine
Lit for men’s lives the light of Marathon,
And bare to sun-forgotten fields the fire of the sun!

O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto’s tower!
Let some young Florentine each eventide
Bring coronals of that enchanted flower
Which the dim woods of Vallombrosa hide,
And deck the marble tomb wherein he lies
Whose soul is as some mighty orb unseen of mortal eyes;

Some mighty orb whose cycled wanderings,
Being tempest-driven to the farthest rim
Where Chaos meets Creation and the wings
Of the eternal chanting Cherubim
Are pavilioned on Nothing, passed away
Into a moonless void,—and yet, though he is dust and clay,

He is not dead, the immemorial Fates
Forbid it, and the closing shears refrain.
Lift up your heads ye everlasting gates!
Ye argent clarions, sound a loftier strain
For the vile thing he hated lurks within
Its sombre house, alone with God and memories of sin.

Still what avails it that she sought her cave
That murderous mother of red harlotries?
At Munich on the marble architrave
The Grecian boys die smiling, but the seas
Which wash AEgina fret in loneliness
Not mirroring their beauty; so our lives grow colourless

For lack of our ideals, if one star
Flame torch-like in the heavens the unjust
Swift daylight kills it, and no trump of war
Can wake to passionate voice the silent dust
Which was Mazzini once! rich Niobe
For all her stony sorrows hath her sons; but Italy,

What Easter Day shall make her children rise,
Who were not Gods yet suffered? what sure feet
Shall find their grave-clothes folded? what clear eyes
Shall see them ******?  O it were meet
To roll the stone from off the sepulchre
And kiss the bleeding roses of their wounds, in love of her,

Our Italy! our mother visible!
Most blessed among nations and most sad,
For whose dear sake the young Calabrian fell
That day at Aspromonte and was glad
That in an age when God was bought and sold
One man could die for Liberty! but we, burnt out and cold,

See Honour smitten on the cheek and gyves
Bind the sweet feet of Mercy:  Poverty
Creeps through our sunless lanes and with sharp knives
Cuts the warm throats of children stealthily,
And no word said:- O we are wretched men
Unworthy of our great inheritance! where is the pen

Of austere Milton? where the mighty sword
Which slew its master righteously? the years
Have lost their ancient leader, and no word
Breaks from the voiceless tripod on our ears:
While as a ruined mother in some spasm
Bears a base child and loathes it, so our best enthusiasm

Genders unlawful children, Anarchy
Freedom’s own Judas, the vile prodigal
Licence who steals the gold of Liberty
And yet has nothing, Ignorance the real
One Fraticide since Cain, Envy the asp
That stings itself to anguish, Avarice whose palsied grasp

Is in its extent stiffened, moneyed Greed
For whose dull appetite men waste away
Amid the whirr of wheels and are the seed
Of things which slay their sower, these each day
Sees rife in England, and the gentle feet
Of Beauty tread no more the stones of each unlovely street.

What even Cromwell spared is desecrated
By **** and worm, left to the stormy play
Of wind and beating snow, or renovated
By more destructful hands:  Time’s worst decay
Will wreathe its ruins with some loveliness,
But these new Vandals can but make a rain-proof barrenness.

Where is that Art which bade the Angels sing
Through Lincoln’s lofty choir, till the air
Seems from such marble harmonies to ring
With sweeter song than common lips can dare
To draw from actual reed? ah! where is now
The cunning hand which made the flowering hawthorn branches bow

For Southwell’s arch, and carved the House of One
Who loved the lilies of the field with all
Our dearest English flowers? the same sun
Rises for us:  the seasons natural
Weave the same tapestry of green and grey:
The unchanged hills are with us:  but that Spirit hath passed away.

And yet perchance it may be better so,
For Tyranny is an incestuous Queen,
****** her brother is her bedfellow,
And the Plague chambers with her:  in obscene
And ****** paths her treacherous feet are set;
Better the empty desert and a soul inviolate!

For gentle brotherhood, the harmony
Of living in the healthful air, the swift
Clean beauty of strong limbs when men are free
And women chaste, these are the things which lift
Our souls up more than even Agnolo’s
Gaunt blinded Sibyl poring o’er the scroll of human woes,

Or Titian’s little maiden on the stair
White as her own sweet lily and as tall,
Or Mona Lisa smiling through her hair,—
Ah! somehow life is bigger after all
Than any painted angel, could we see
The God that is within us!  The old Greek serenity

Which curbs the passion of that

Knights clad in paper armor
Draw their pen-shaped swords
In preparation for battle
Against the dragon named Algebra

All year they've trained for this day
Poring over musty tomes
Filled with archaic battle plans
Entire armies have been lost
In the dangerous search
For the elusive variable called X

The informants A and B
Have consistently given
Inconsistent information
And the number line
Has completely deserted them

The numbers taunt the knights
Mocking their puny calculators
Confident in their unanswerable status

Yet one by one
The polynomials fall
The dragon bows it's head
The Knights have won the day.

By Arcassin B



Tell me,
tell me that your home safe asleep,
in your bed,
sometimes you would call me
just to come over instead,
maybe if it was settled then
me and you could hit the movies,
doing what teenagers do,
poring organic fuse,
driving those stylish cars,
doing things we can't refuse,
i swear to god i love you,
if you wasnt so beautiful i'd braid it,
knowing you,
probably hate it,
but i said it once before,
we go greatly together,
for what we have in store,
she puts all of that together,
this night was so glorious,
think i mite live another one,
promise that your social insecurities,
wont lend me none,
you made my life go astray,
like becoming a non-******,
didnt think that over anyway,
at least my cell phone still workin'.

Saved by the Sunflower

A very strong storm was arriving,
there were large black clouds coming from the east,
strong gusting turbulent winds threating to snap everything,
severe down poring of flooding rain,
as if the clouds were crying out in pain,
it did not seem there would be anyway to save the flower garden,
nothing could survive this unannounced exploding of nature,
this seemingly uncontrollable outburst,
something, maybe everything was going to be destroyed,
this day turned in to this night of hell,
the rain, the wind, the flashes of lightning,
this violent death would not be stopped this time,
then a small voice could barely be heard,
at first it was ignored, flicked away like a mosquito,
the voice did not give up though, once again it cried out,
once again it was ignored, brushed aside,
the voice continued gaining strength, it refused to be shut down,
the creator of the storm suddenly took a step back,
looking down to see where this voice was coming from,
it was emanating from this one lone sunflower,
it was the sunflower that had been given the name Perly,
Perly would not, could not be denied as she screamed out,
leave this garden oh evil storm, I will not except the outcome,
the outcome that you predict will occur, we are fighters,
we will never give in to your senseless urges,
please wake up and hear my plea for sanity,
the storm started to weaken, slowly at first, but continued
gaining momentum loosing it's grip on this act of violence
until finally secumbing to this cry of desperation from
the little sunflower. Gradually, the wind stopped blowing,
the rain stopped falling, the sun began peaking thru the clouds.
Perly Sunflower had saved the lives of all the other flowers
in the garden, and the life of gardens caretaker.
A plaque is now erected on this spot proclaiming the
bravery of this little sunflower that would not give in,
would not accept, would not cower away.
The caretaker of the garden professes eternal gratitude
and love for this brave creature of Gods doing.
Thank you Perly sunflower
Gomer LePoet..

the universe was toothache, the stars were giant cavities. “but it’s been far too long since i’ve had sugar,” cried the sun, the concerned star. “don’t lie to me,” said ever so smart mercury, “when we are right by the milky way.” the other planets jeered and the sun shed a tear and on the earth was rain, peeking through the clouds. you see, the sun was always body conscious. the planetary publication "zodiac almanac" always had an unruly comment or three to share, and after copious poring, the sun felt a little dimmer every time. but every night when the stars twinkled in all of their saccharine glory, they had the sun to thank. the sun, who boldly held itself up in the sky for the little specks on the planet earth, from the people taking walks in the park to the plants preparing to soak up their daily delight. they engaged in photosynthesis while the sun never felt too photogenic at all. the sun mused while listening to the twinkling music of the rotating planets and stars that kissed each other as they formed constellations, faint but audible nonetheless. the sun mused that it wasn’t shining brightly enough. it cried and wept and the people on earth mirrored its melancholy, for a day without the sun morphed into a day of rain-induced laziness.

mercury, who had since apologized, urged the sun to read a book to reinvigorate her intricate mind. jupiter and uranus suggested a workout for empowerment. mars recommended her to write an angry diatribe or five, she was so very fond of venting. venus reminded her again and again that she was beautiful. neptune sang her a lullaby every night. and saturn offered her a ring to lean on. pluto was on sabbatical, but sent her a postcard. all of these gestures were warm and lovely, but the sun still felt trapped and unworthy.

she felt too enormous, too blinding, and too far from earth, where she’d heard many wonderful stories about. the other planets had grown complacent with their distance from earth, but the sun always wanted more, and that was why it was so sunny sometimes, because she wanted to stretch out her wispy arms and embrace the world she knew she could never touch. so she never felt good enough.

but one day the earth seemed to have had enough, and the people were growing dreary of the absence of their beloved sunlight. the moon was especially privy to this information, as she’d watched over earth night after night (except in her first phases when she would rest), and witnessed many a complaint as the clouds would clock off from their shifts and heave sighs of resignation. they knew their golden friend was still weeping.

the moon decided to take a stand. she floated towards the sun even though they were so far away and told her softly: "darling, i know it’s sad that every day you can give so much to people who will never be able to give you anything back. i know it’s hard to peer over, having to watch their countless stories unfold and not ever being able to be one of them. but every time you shine down on that tiny planet over there, you change things. you are bigger because you are so full of light, gently cascading onto those lucky tiny specks down there. and i know you’ll never know what it feels to be fed rays of sunlight, but you can take all the moonlight you want from me and it won’t bother me at all."

and the sun cried more but this time, the tears were out of happiness, and the moon assuaged her again that it would all be fine. she knew she didn’t need to have her own sun, feeding her light, because she knew the light was within her, and her ***** friend, the moon. millenniums later the two would laugh about this.

"what was wrong with me?" inquired the sun.

"everything happens in phases," replied the moon.

Locksley Hall

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 't is early morn:
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle-horn.

'T is the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call,
Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall;

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts,
And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts.

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest,
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West.

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade,
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.

Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime
With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time;

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed;
When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed:

When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see;
Saw the Vision of the world and all the wonder that would be.--

In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast;
In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest;

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove;
In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young,
And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung.

And I said, "My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me,
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee."

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a colour and a light,
As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night.

And she turn'd--her ***** shaken with a sudden storm of sighs--
All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes--

Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong";
Saying, "Dost thou love me, cousin?" weeping, "I have loved thee long."

Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands;
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might;
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight.

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring,
And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fulness of the Spring.

Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships,
And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips.

O my cousin, shallow-hearted! O my Amy, mine no more!
O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, barren shore!

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung,
Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue!

Is it well to wish thee happy?--having known me--to decline
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine!

Yet it shall be; thou shalt lower to his level day by day,
What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay.

As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown,
And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down.

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force,
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.

What is this? his eyes are heavy; think not they are glazed with wine.
Go to him, it is thy duty, kiss him, take his hand in thine.

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought:
Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought.

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand--
Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my hand!

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace,
Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace.

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth!
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth!

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule!
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool!

Well--'t is well that I should bluster!--Hadst thou less unworthy proved--
Would to God--for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved.

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit?
I will pluck it from my *****, tho' my heart be at the root.

Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years should come
As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery home.

Where is comfort? in division of the records of the mind?
Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind?

I remember one that perish'd; sweetly did she speak and move;
Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love.

Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore?
No--she never loved me truly; love is love for evermore.

Comfort? comfort scorn'd of devils! this is truth the poet sings,
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things.

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof,
In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof.

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall,
Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall.

Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep,
To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep.

Thou shalt hear the "Never, never," whisper'd by the phantom years,
And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears;

And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain.
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow; get thee to thy rest again.

Nay, but Nature brings thee solace; for a tender voice will cry.
'T is a purer life than thine, a lip to drain thy trouble dry.

Baby lips will laugh me down; my latest rival brings thee rest.
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast.

O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due.
Half is thine and half is his: it will be worthy of the two.

O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part,
With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart.

"They were dangerous guides the feelings--she herself was not exempt--
Truly, she herself had suffer'd"--Perish in thy self-contempt!

Overlive it--lower yet--be happy! wherefore should I care?
I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair.

What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these?
Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys.

Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets overflow.
I have but an angry fancy; what is that which I should do?

I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground,
When the ranks are roll'd in vapour, and the winds are laid with sound.

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honour feels,
And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels.

Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn that earlier page.
Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother-Age!

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife,
When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life;

Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield,
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field,

And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn,
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn;

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then,
Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men:

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new:
That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do:

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see,
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be;

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails,
Pilots of the purple twilight dropping down with costly bales;

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew
From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue;

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm,
With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder-storm;

Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were furl'd
In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world.

There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe,
And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law.

So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me dry,
Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye;

Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint:
Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on from point to point:

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping nigher,
Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying fire.

Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs,
And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of the suns.

What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys,
Tho' the deep heart of existence beat for ever like a boy's?

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore,
And the individual withers, and the world is more and more.

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast,
Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest.

Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-horn,
They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn:

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string?
I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so slight a thing.

Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's pleasure, woman's pain--
Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain:

Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine,
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine--

Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for some retreat
Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat;

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starr'd,--
I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward.

Or to burst all links of habit--there to wander far away,
On from island unto island at the gateways of the day.

Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies,
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise.

Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag,
Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag;

Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree--
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea.

There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind,
In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind.

There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and breathing space;
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race.

Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall run,
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun;

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks,
Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books--

Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I know my words are wild,
But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child.

I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains,
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains!

Mated with a squalid savage--what to me were sun or clime?
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time--

I that rather held it better men should perish one by one,
Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon!

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range,
Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.

Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day;
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.

Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun:
Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the Sun.

O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set.
Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet.

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall!
Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall.

Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath and holt,
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt.

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow;
For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go.

Deep in the woods where the wild things roam

Back in the dark there are things

That happen at night when you'r all safe at home

When young men compete to be kings.

It happens each year when the falls fairs are on

These gatherings out in the dark

Thanksgiving arrives and the boys all move on

From these things that they do for a lark

The gauntlet's thrown down by the challenging swarm

To the winner of last years crusade

His blood doesn't boil, but it sure does get warm

Now that this years challenge is made

It normally starts at the Aylmer Fall Fair

"Josiah, you're not is our class!"

He doesn't fight back he just breathes deep and stares

For to him,  it's a sin for to sass

They show up at night, all dressed up in black

No surprise if you knew how they live

But tonight is the time, for them all to step up

For a Lesson's about to be give

The street was all dark, save a lantern or two

as the riders came out from the trees

These were not the old wagons you saw in the dark

These were ones that would make your heart freeze

Josiah stepped forth from the bustling crowd

Mr. Martin he said...I am here

Now is the time to show just how proud

of the horses you have over there.

I've heard of this race in the darkest of nights

Where the young men come out and are facing

Their fears and their hopes with only two lights

It's the start of Amish Drag Racing

It was something to see these men dressed all the same

Two big clydesdales each made up their team

But to both of these men, this was not just a game

This was the way that they all burned off steam

They didn't dare fight for that was a sin

And team sports didn't get the job done

None of them drank so there was no need for gin

And a barnraising just wasn't fun

Mr. Martin climbed up and he steadied his ride

Young Josiah just stood there and stared

Mr. Martin looked out, he was beaming with pride

Poor Josiah just stood looking scared

The starter came forth and he said to the men

With this hanky I will start the race

I will let it fly loose once I count to ten

And I let it fly free into space.

He counted it down and let go of the rag

And nobody moved from the post

Mr. Martins horse stood as did Josiahs old nag

And they both looked like they'd just  seen a ghost

The hanky was black just like ones they all had

And nobody saw him let go

The race buildup was great but the start was quite bad

In fact some men started to go

So, they tried it again with a different technique

Cause they found nothing there that was white

You can say it was strange but I say unique

To watch Amish men race in the night.

The horses lurched forth like two huge tyco trains

Sweat was poring from off of their backs

You could see from their eys it was really a strain

As their drivers took up the reigns slack

Equally paired, with two horsepower each

They tore up the road like a shot

But a really fast speed they both never would reach

Cause two clydesdales just don't run so hot.

Amish drag racing is really a night

To see if the other would show

For it's really no way to prove who is right

And the attendance is really quite low

So if you get invited and your hear of a race

That takes place where wild things  roam

Say you'd love to attend but you think to save face

You'd prefer not and would rather stay home.
..

(Frederick entered the room. He told them that he found a treasure into the castle’s cave.)

'I found the rarest treasure of all today. What can I do with that gold?
'Surah hid it.'Mary said,' hence, some mining activities are uncontrolled.'
'The finders and the landowners are entitled to these valuables,'
The cleric said,’ hence, it may help John to adjust the budget balances.'
(Mary wanted to tell Frederick the truth about Surah.)

'Surah is an alchemist, and she loves to do this with fierce intensity.
Her studies about substances, their composition, their density,
About purification by dissolution and by crystallization are rife.
She hopes to discover, someday, the formula for the elixir of life.'

'Summa Perfectionis and the emerald tables of Hermes', said
The cleric, 'this alchemy explains why her statues have lizards on head.'
'Maybe she gave Jezebel a strange substance to drink,' Frederick
Said. 'Go to her castle to search this substance, dear. I am so sick.'

(It was Mary, who told Frederick to go to Surah’s castle to find the antidote. Frederick and Matthew went to the castle. )

The turrets of the castle crumbled under the slow pressure of time,
Their glory has disappeared because of poverty and cold clime.
The falling wall stones, the ill-paved courtyards, the dusty moat,
The sagging floors, the worm-eaten wainscot had a blue note.

The faded tapestries within, all tell a gloomy tale of fallen grandeur.
The alchemy chamber in the remaining tower showed Surah was poor.
She spent the hours of her life in poring over the ancient tomes.
The occult studies made Surah first focus her attention on fomes.



Her belief in all the dark power was firm and deep-seated.
With burning small peasant children, the demon she greeted.
Many times, she was busy over a violently boiling cauldron,
Where many substances spewed out their thick concoction.

She searched a spell to release her life from its terrible burden.
She used to work only when the alchemy room began to darken.
She should never wed, she might, thus, end the curse with herself.
She kept cobwebs and bats. Strange things were on her shelf.

Frederick entered that room and saw her manuscripts and studies
In the field of alchemy. She had bottles, their colors being so muddy.
He opened those books, where it was written how to prepare
Elixirs from herbs, gems, and metals while using a devilish prayer.

The books instructed in the casting of spells, invocations, rites,
Talismans, amulets, and sigils. He found how she spent her nights.
On the altar, a doll-representing Jezebel had needles in her head.
There was a paper, where it was written, 'nor alive, nor dead.'

Near it, he found Kratom leaves and bottles-containing naloxone.
He took the bottles because he understood what Surah had done.
While feeding the horses, Matthew was waiting near the castle.
Clayton was in a stable, but working there became such a hassle.

He thought that something happened, when tools dropped on the floor.
A bottle dropped over another one, when Frederick closed the door.
An explosion was heard in the castle, which sounded like a sonic boom.
Surah was in a hurry to see what happened into the alchemy room.

Another explosion was heard being more loudly than the first one.
Surah gazed at her reflected face within the mirror instead of run.
Huge deformations of her new face formed a monstrous being.
An illusion shifted her identity. Believing is not always seeing.

She had sensations of otherness, when her new face appeared
To be a stranger looking at her, beyond the mirror, then disappeared.
A monster was watching her, and smiling with an enigmatic expression.
Clayton embraced her while crying, 'My dear, you have an obsession!'

Frederick told Matthew, ‘I took the potion, let's straddle the horses.'
'The castle is burning. To get out of this wood, we need strong forces.'
'My horse sped up. ‘What does he feel in front of fire and crack?
'He's fearful, because he feels trapped. Don't pull him back!'

'Being scared, his reaction is flight and run away from the fire wallop.
'You're scared, and instinctively you urge him to go into a gallop.'
'The horses are not thinking. It’s all out of the instinct to survive.
You can help your horse, when you know how to ride and to drive.'

(They rode their horses to the castle of Jezebel.)

They entered the castle, and climbed up the stairway to Jezebel.
'I came here in a hurry to save you, and my way to you was a hell.
Drink the potion, and wake up. I wonder how you feel in my arms.
I'm in love with you and still so deeply captivated by your charms.
(Jezebel had opened her eyes for the first time since being asleep. ‘I know that you love me!’ She told Frederick.)
(Clayton had managed to extinguish the fire. After that, he held his precious Surah in his arms while crying. Her face was burned by acid during explosion.)

'Nothing happened to your face. You're the same beautiful woman.'
'Why my face is in pain? ‘It’s because of the heat. Lie on the divan.
Let me take off your clothes, and flush your skin with cold water.'
'You're so gentle, Clayton. In your arms, I feel safe like a little daughter'.

'I lost the potion I prepared for Richard. He's my last chance.
It was destroyed by the explosion. I feel like I am in a trance.'
'I gave you morphine for treating your pain. He wouldn't help you.
Richard is like John, and you cannot change their point of view.'

(Clayton loved her, because he thought she was vulnerable and incapable to adopt the situations. Her soul was very fragile, even she masked this so well. She wanted to be more than she could be in life, and this was the reason her ways weren’t always the best chosen ways. He hoped someday his love would change her. He wanted to save her life. Surah closed her eyes, and fell asleep.)

To be continued...

I fear you. I do.
I fear my fascination with you.
I pull away like the planets press against their rings around the sun,
Reaching for the stillness of the dark beyond
But bound by dazzling heat and light.
Sometimes I see my death in your eyes
Like a moth sees its immolation in the filaments of a lightbulb
But sacrifices life to be
For a moment
Finally warm.

I trust you
As much as one can trust something wild:
I understand
That to touch you might leave
Scars on my hands,
But I think that they would be scars
I would cherish in my later years
And trace among the creases of age
As proof that I had lived without regret.

It is not the heat I fear,
In truth
It is the cold.
It is the passing
Of something bright
Close beside me and then
Beyond
Off into the world
Where I may not follow.

It is the blindness that always comes
When I look away from a brilliant light
And am for a moment paralyzed
By the cold certainty that I will never see again:

I would leave you with something to remember me by,
Some love that refuses to fall away no matter the storm,
No matter the chaos of your fire.
Something quiet and constant
And more enduring than I am.

For

I fear not what you are
But what you aren't
Which, like black water,
Will rush in to fill the void
Once you have gone.

(Reply of the Pythian Oracle to Philip of Macedon.)


Oh! could LE SAGE’S demon’s gift
  Be realis’d at my desire,
This night my trembling form he’d lift
  To place it on St. Mary’s spire.

Then would, unroof’d, old Granta’s halls,
  Pedantic inmates full display;
Fellows who dream on lawn or stalls,
  The price of venal votes to pay.

Then would I view each rival wight,
  PETTY and PALMERSTON survey;
Who canvass there, with all their might,
  Against the next elective day.

Lo! candidates and voters lie
  All lull’d in sleep, a goodly number!
A race renown’d for piety,
  Whose conscience won’t disturb their slumber.

Lord H—indeed, may not demur;
  Fellows are sage, reflecting men:
They know preferment can occur,
  But very seldom,—now and then.

They know the Chancellor has got
  Some pretty livings in disposal:
Each hopes that one may be his lot,
  And, therefore, smiles on his proposal.

Now from the soporific scene
  I’ll turn mine eye, as night grows later,
To view, unheeded and unseen,
  The studious sons of Alma Mater.

There, in apartments small and damp,
  The candidate for college prizes,
Sits poring by the midnight lamp;
  Goes late to bed, yet early rises.
He surely well deserves to gain them,
  With all the honours of his college,
Who, striving hardly to obtain them,
  Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge:

Who sacrifices hours of rest,
  To scan precisely metres Attic;
Or agitates his anxious breast,
  In solving problems mathematic:

Who reads false quantities in Seale,
  Or puzzles o’er the deep triangle;
Depriv’d of many a wholesome meal;
  In barbarous Latin doom’d to wrangle:

Renouncing every pleasing page,
  From authors of historic use;
Preferring to the letter’d sage,
  The square of the hypothenuse.

Still, harmless are these occupations,
That hurt none but the hapless student,
Compar’d with other recreations,
Which bring together the imprudent;

Whose daring revels shock the sight,
When vice and infamy combine,
When Drunkenness and dice invite,
As every sense is steep’d in wine.

Not so the methodistic crew,
Who plans of reformation lay:
In humble attitude they sue,
And for the sins of others pray:

Forgetting that their pride of spirit,
Their exultation in their trial,
Detracts most largely from the merit
Of all their boasted self-denial.

’Tis morn:—from these I turn my sight:
What scene is this which meets the eye?
A numerous crowd array’d in white,
Across the green in numbers fly.

Loud rings in air the chapel bell;
’Tis hush’d:—what sounds are these I hear?
The *****’s soft celestial swell
Rolls deeply on the listening ear.

To this is join’d the sacred song,
The royal minstrel’s hallow’d strain;
Though he who hears the music long,
Will never wish to hear again.

Our choir would scarcely be excus’d,
E’en as a band of raw beginners;
All mercy, now, must be refus’d
To such a set of croaking sinners.

If David, when his toils were ended,
Had heard these blockheads sing before him,
To us his psalms had ne’er descended,—
In furious mood he would have tore ’em.

The luckless Israelites, when taken
By some inhuman tyrant’s order,
Were ask’d to sing, by joy forsaken,
On Babylonian river’s border.

Oh! had they sung in notes like these
Inspir’d by stratagem or fear,
They might have set their hearts at ease,
The devil a soul had stay’d to hear.

But if I scribble longer now,
The deuce a soul will stay to read;
My pen is blunt, my ink is low;
’Tis almost time to stop, indeed.

Therefore, farewell, old Granta’s spires!
No more, like Cleofas, I fly;
No more thy theme my Muse inspires:
The reader’s tir’d, and so am I.

Do you...

Imagine my ****** expressions that match the nuances in my voice
Tell me of all the attention you get from other boys

Take deep trembling breaths just to hold back the tears
Feel the angry tides as you swallow your fears

Clutch your pillow tight and pretend that it's me
Let it soak up the drops as you sob quietly

Look at the moon adoringly as I do
Knowing that I see the same one too

Replay the words you heard me say
Read my words over and over, to get through your day

Cringe at the idea that we both have to hide
When really we want to spread our wings and glide

Sigh with despair when it all seems to fall apart
Pick on life's lashing when they start to smart

Picture me before sleep in bed as you lay
Let me run till slumber takes you away

Well up every time you miss
Close your eyes shut every time we kiss

Pace up and down as we share days' events
Try to be strong hearing each others' laments

Cover your face when you cry?
Grieve over time spent apart that fly on by

Take breaths in between words or in between sentences
Sigh deeply poring over our wild pretences

Blush red when sweet nothings you hear
Bite your lip when you need me near

Sing in your heart when you hear my voice
Dance secretly with me as your choice

Always think of different ways to sweep me off my feet
Rush of blood with the quickening of your heartbeat

Imagine the way I am as I do you
Get breathless when you say I love you

Feel a stab when we argue about nothing
Wasted words when much more needed saying

Weaken in the knees when for you I'd sing
Find catching yourself to stop yourself from buckling

Sit on the bathroom floor,
Only to let the shower pour
As you hug your knees to your chest
Assuring yourself that it's all for the best

Wish for a second just so you could see
With naked eyes and not imaginatively

Do you?
Because I do...

We met a very long time ago.  We both were world travelers,
and we both desired a deeper understanding of our past.  We
met by chance, and it was not love at first sight.  I found her
to be far too passive and cautious, unable to see the thrill in
life.  She found me too brash and reckless, willing to put
myself above others to achieve my goals.  We both had our
points, I guess.

We kept running into each other.  It became a competition
to see who could leave the site with the most artifacts.  At times,
it was quite a heated battle.  Words were said.  Lines were drawn.
This went on for quite some time before we realized we could
do much more for our science if we worked together.  The
first few months were hell.  We spent our days silently
working in each others shadows.  We spent our nights
at opposite sides of our tent, poring over the data from
the day prior.

I don't remember the day it happened, nor the year,
but I do remember it was raining.  We were arguing
about the proper reference notation for a particular
discovery when she turned and called me a callous ****,
right before tripping on a branch.  I was about to
laugh and tell her it served her right, but just at
that moment, as her wet hair framed her oval,
tear-streaked face...

I truly saw her for the first time.

I think she must have done the same, because she
didn't say a word as I picked her up and brought
her to the first aid tent.  She bit her lip quietly as I
treated her swollen ankle.  We both knew it,
though neither of us would ever speak it.

Things were different now.

Our newly forged companionship breathed new
life into both of us.  There was no terrain, no peak,
nothing on heaven and earth that could stop us.
If there was something to be discovered, you had
**** well know it was going to be us doing the
discovering.  It was a golden age when I was by
her side and her by mine.

Our travels finally took us to the unknown during
one particularly muggy summer deep in uncharted
jungles in the south.  We had heard whispers on the
wind of a legendary artifact, one that had been cited
in ancient texts throughout the ages.  We didn't know
exactly what it was, but our nature compelled us to
find it.

We were laughed at, blacklisted by our own colleagues.
We started losing supporters, slowly at first, but soon
our funding was drying up.  Despite every reasonable
chance we had to turn around, we simply could not. It
was emblazoned in our DNA that we must pursue this
unknown thing.  It became our passion, only superseded
by our love for each other.

We did find it.

Eight years later, in the middle of the rain forest, in a spot
so remote that it had never had human footprints, we found
an underground system of caves.  We set into them, and
immediately found ourselves lost.  Traveling for what seemed
like weeks, we survived on moss and spring water.  Just as we
were about to finally extinguish our faith that we would find
what we were seeking, much less our way out...

There it was.

It was stone, approximately 3 feet in diameter, and sat on a raised
pedestal.  It had raised markings on its surface that resembled a
language, though no language that I had ever seen.  The regular
sound of water dripping into it was the only sound outside of our
ragged breathing.  It was a well.  It was our well.  I don't know how
we knew it, but at that moment we both realized that this was the
purpose of our existence.

As we peered into it, we saw what I can only describe as the separation
of time from space.  What I saw burned itself into my brain, threatening
to drive me mad.  The last thing I remembered hearing was a voice inside
my head telling me "At the end, it shall begin".

We woke up at our home, this vivid memory still fresh in our minds,
thinking that it had been a dream, until we saw ourselves.  We were
young again, just as we had been the day we had met.  Further
investigation showed us to be, for better lack of the word...Immortal.

At this point, the years feel like they flew by like rifling through the
pages of the book.  Empires rose and collapsed.  Weather patterns
changed, tectonic plates shifted, it all was mundane at times.  The
one thing that seemed to plague the human race throughout the
eons was the concept of hatred, which saddened us.  We were like
ghosts, sitting on the boundary of humanity, but even that great
chapter eventually ended.  I won't bore you on the details of how
the human race met its demise.

We walked the empty planet watching rivers erode into canyons,
as forests became deserts.  Volcanoes erupted, violently altering
the landscape.  Species continued to evolve, eventually giving way
to other intelligent beings.  They too built massive civilizations
on the planet that humans had once called their own.  They also
made beautiful arts that were a wonderment to our eyes.  They also
hated. All of them eventually ended up in the museums of their
successors, ancient bones the only sign they ever existed.

Five billion years later, the Sun enveloped our planet.  We did not
feel the burn, but we were left with the unfortunate problem of no
longer having solid ground to stand on.  We floated throughout
the universe, hand in hand. We laughed, we cried, we made
love in the place where no one can hear you scream (in ecstasy).
We couldn't speak, but at that point we didn't need to.  The universe
continued to expand, as we continued to float aimlessly.  We had
seen more than any intelligent being could begin to fathom.  We
remembered everything, nothing was lost to the haze of forgotten
memories.

Eventually, the universe slowly began contracting.  I won't even
bother telling you how long it took.  It waned down and down.
It became the size of a nebula...the size of a galaxy...the size
of a planet, until it was so small that it could fit inside of your
wallet.  We contracted as well, our atoms pushing together
as we embraced each other.  It shrank until it was the size
of a single quark, with us inside it.  2 minds occupying
an infinitesimal space.

The we exploded

In nanoseconds, we expanded destroying the emptiness
and filling it with light and heat and life.  We became
every atom in our own universe.  It was freedom, to
no longer be trapped inside of a body, but to just be.
There's no word that can properly describe it.

Billions of years later, our first intelligent life came
into existence.  We did our best to nurture it, but we
admit we are not perfect. We may have taken too
active of a role early on, giving miracles to those
who we deemed kind, and punishing those who
we deemed wicked.  Eventually we realized we
were doing more harm than good.  We retreated,
becoming mere observers of our own creation.

Hate still existed, but we also saw wonder and beauty
that far out shined even the worst souls, much like
light banishes the darkness with such ease.

People always think of God as some all knowing,
all powerful being that knows your soul and
passes judgement.

We sometimes wonder if they would be amazed

or disappointed

to find out that God is just two star crossed lovers
who lived just a little too long

It's true that they belong together
Freedom is just another word for fetter
To have it all and have no better
That is life's eternal weather.

It's true that meaning is lost in translation
Because no one cares to hear your explanation
As they hear the words that befits your station
And you've learned to speak as befits your subordination

It's true that there is nothing to thought
Poring out without a clot
Yet will never reach the point it ought
Instead used and swayed as they are bought

It's true that pain is just a stern friend
While hope just leaves you in the end
Pain's **** is the advice he'll lend
Which you should heed or another he'll send

It's true that there is fault in truth
Like beauty blunted by its youth
The horror of it was its proof
While a fraction of it still lies aloof.

The Ravens

On a rainy night so boring
I heard Munin soundly snoring,
I grew tired of my poring
Perched above Valhalla’s door.
“Munin!”, screeched I to the ceiling,
Sending the poor fellow reeling,
“Let’s deal out a joke to Odin,
One that he’ll be falling for -
Just one joke, and nothing more.”

After barrow ghosts-invoking
Odin entered, wet and soaking,
And I started with my croaking
From the dark above the door:
“I’m the first and oldest Volva!
All my secrets I could tell ya,
For the right price I might sell, yeah”,
And I cawed, “Would you know more?”
(He is crazy about lore.)

“What!”, cried Odin, “Quick, be talking!
At the price I won’t be balking.
Searching wisdom, I’ve been walking
Wandering from door to door.
Let my need for knowledge reach you,
All my own skills I would teach you;
Tell me all now, I beseech you!”
Quoth I grinning, “Nevermore!”
(Just a jest, and nothing more.)

Odin with frustration sputtering,
Munin laughing, wildly fluttering,
I was dead-pan and kept uttering
Nonsense about hidden lore.
For his need he found no quelling,
All Valhall woke from his yelling –
Oh, the fun to keep on telling
Him that one word, “Nevermore!”
(We thought it was a joke, no more.)

In the morning ceased his raving,
But that did not end his craving,
And we saw our master waving
To our roost above the door.
“Friends”, he said, “Now I will ride out;
Over Midgard you shall glide out:
Seek the Volva in her hideout!”
- Then it felt a joke no more.
(And Munin, to this day, is sore.)

Every day we must keep flying,
Always for that “Volva” spying,
Acting as though we were trying;
Well, the joke’s on us, for sho…
To escape a rightful chiding,
To this day the truth we’re hiding;
By this tale we are abiding,
And we’ll tell you nothing more!

(To Ellen Terry)

As one who poring on a Grecian urn
Scans the fair shapes some Attic hand hath made,
God with slim goddess, goodly man with maid,
And for their beauty’s sake is loth to turn
And face the obvious day, must I not yearn
For many a secret moon of indolent bliss,
When in midmost shrine of Artemis
I see thee standing, antique-limbed, and stern?

And yet—methinks I’d rather see thee play
That serpent of old Nile, whose witchery
Made Emperors drunken,—come, great Egypt, shake
Our stage with all thy mimic pageants!  Nay,
I am grown sick of unreal passions, make
The world thine Actium, me thine Anthony!

“This is an intervention.” he says
My hands dance on the table on which I've laid my keys.
“W-why?” I stutter.
A thousand thoughts race through my mind.
What do they know?
What did they find?
The Razors?
The knives?
The gun?
The letters?
The bloodstained sheets for every time I lose my little bit of self-control?
The bottle for every time I want to lose that self-control?
“Not for you” he says.
My lungs deflate.
Not me.
Not me.
Not me.
“Who?”
“Danny.”
Danny?
“Why?”
“We think-
we think he might me suicidal”
“What?”
What?
Danny?
Suicidal?
No.
They're clueless.
Danny-
Danny keeps me alive.
He keeps me from using that gun.
I'm the one close to the edge,
not him
I want to scream.
To tell them how stupid          they are.
                        Can they not see it’s me-
not him?
“W-why would you think that?”
“We found a gun.”
My mind spins.
         A gun?
In Danny’s room?
Why?
“And a note.”
A note?
No.
No.
No.
No.
This can’t be happening.
Danny’s supposed to be strong.
He’s supposed to be my angel.
I’m the one who’s supposed to be broken.
Not him.
“We think he’s trying
to convince himself
not to.
The note-
it said
‘Don’t do it.
Think of all the good things.
Think of the people
who have no idea.
The people that love you,
would be devastated if you
pulled the trigger.
Don’t
do
it.’”
My heart stops.
I want to run into my room
grab my bottle
my razors,
maybe my gun.
I should have seen it.
Helping me was helping him.
“C’mon, sit down.
Wait for Danny.”
I sit,
curling my legs under me
so my knees don’t shake.
We wait in silence
My mind is in my room.
controlling the pain,
watching the razor glint in the sunlight,
slicing through flesh,
silent.
My mind is watching the blood well up,
watching t run down my wrist,
watching it fall slowly
hitting the sheet
being soaked up in a perfect ring.
My mind feels the cold metal
as I run my hands along the contours
of my escape.
My mind wonders what death is like.
What if I pulled the trigger
and found out?
What if-?
The door opens.
My mind is ****** back to the present.
“Danny.
This is an intervention.”
His keys drop onto the table next to mine.
“Why?” he asks,
confused, but calm.
“Danny,
we are your friends.
We care about you.
We’d miss you if you were gone.”
He hangs up his coat.
“What are you talking about?”
He sits across from me, staring into my eyes.
Looking for some clue to what was going on.
I look away.
I can’t take it.
“Danny,
we found the gun.”
His head snaps up.
His eyes bore into mine.
“You found that?”
“Yeah, and the note too.
Danny, we love you.
Don’t do it.”
He looks away from me for a moment.
“Excuse me?”
Jake puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Danny, we know you…
want to-
commit suicide.”
“What?!
You think I-
that I
that I’m suicidal?”
He leaps up.
“Danny, this is a safe place.
We love you.
You can talk to us.
We just want to help.”
He stares at me.
“So you
all
think I’m-
suicidal?”
“Yeah, we do, Dan.”
Jake says.
I can feel Danny’s eyes on me.
I keep staring at the floor.
“I-
I guess you got me.”
My head snaps up.
What?
Got him?
He’s really…?
“It’s just sometimes-
sometimes I feel as if-“
I recognize these words.
“life’s not worth living.”
They’re my words.
Exactly what I told him
only six months ago.
“I don’t know why.”
he repeats word for word
His eyes say glued to mine.
Oh my God.
“I know I’ve got people
that love me.
I just can’t help it
sometimes.”
I want to run.
I don’t want to hear this.
I understand now.
It’s not him.
He’s doing this for me.
“I’m sorry.”
Hours go by.
He repeats what I said to him.
Word for word.
I need to get out.
Now.
I might go crazy.
I might scream.
“IT’S NOT DANNY!
The gun is MINE!
The note is for ME!
I’m the one who’s suicidal.
Look at MY wrists.
Danny keeps me alive,
he’s not suicidal.
You’re so blind.
You don’t realize how close I am
to just ending it all.
You don’t see past all the
half-hearted
‘I’m fine’s
‘I’m okay’s
and
‘Don’t worry about me’s.
They’re all lies
I’ve been telling you for
over
a
year.
Wake up.”
Then I’d run to my room,
pull out my razors,
start there.
Let the pain
numb my mind.
So that when I
pull out my knives
I don’t feel the increase
in pressure.
I don’t feel how deep I’m going.
Blood streams down my wrists.
I close my eyes.
I don’t want to.
I try to force my eyelids apart.
They open a tiny bit.
Everything is still black.
I can’t see.
My head feels light.
I’m floating.
I can’t feel anything,
just one arm.
It’s warm.
It tingles.
Faintly,
I hear something slam.
Voices, shouting
in whispers.
I can’t understand.
They need to speak up.
I try to open my mouth to tell them.
I can’t.
Something presses on my warm arm.
I barely feel it.
I feel something lifting me.
I’m being carried.
Downstairs.
What is going on?
I hear something familiar.
I can’t figure out what it is.
Wee woo. Wee woo. Wee woo.
Sirens.
What is going on?
I’m being laid down.
I hear doors slam.
I’m moving again.
Some kind of vehicle.
Oh.
My
God.
Blackout.
Shouting.
Sirens.
Vehicle.
Oh.
My.­
God.
I went too deep.
I’m dying.
After a year of wondering,
I know.
I know what dying is like.
It’s calm.
I’m surprised.
I thought the process would hurt.
But no.
This is nice.
Somehow I know
death will be better.
I try to let it take over.
I can feel it trying now.
It wants to consume me.
to pull me under.
Make me fall asleep
and never wake up.
I want it to.
I’m not fighting.
But I still won’t die.
Why?
I try to relax.
I try to pretend I’m already dead.
I’m floating
just in nothingness.
It works.
I feel myself drift off.
Before I lose consciousness,
I have one thought.
‘Goodbye.’

Something stings.
A sharp pain in my right arm.
Why?
I’m supposed to be dead.
There shouldn’t be pain.
My left arm is stiff.
What is going on?
Maybe this is Hell.
Maybe that’s why I’m in pain.
Oh
my
God!
I am in Hell!
Why?
What did I do that was so awful?
Suicide, I know,
but still.
I don’t deserve Hell.
I try to open my eyes,
but everything is bright.
Too bright.
Artificially bright.
Something smells weird.
Like anesthetic.
Cleaner.
I hear a beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Why does Hell feel like a hospital?
I force my eyes open.
Everything is white.
White bed.
White walls.
White door.
White floor.
A machine is sitting next to me.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
A green line dashes across the monitor,
following five double triangles.
My arms still stings.
An IV leads to a bag of clear liquid.
My left arm is heavily bandaged.
What kind of Hell is this?
The door opens.
Danny walks in.
“Hey.” he says.
“Hi.” I say quietly.
He sits in the chair next to the bed.
carefully, he takes my hand.
“What were you thinking?
I thought you said
you’d never go this far.
You said you had it under control.
You were trying to stop.”
He stares at me.
Waiting.
“I-
I don’t know.
I was trying.
Just…
hearing what everyone said.
Hearing my words
come out of your mouth.
Realizing how stupid they are.
I couldn’t take it.
I couldn’t listen to it anymore.
I had to get out of there.
So I screamed what I did.
Then I went in my room and-
started cutting.
I didn’t mean to go so deep.
I didn’t realize I did it.
Danny,
I’m sorry.”
“I know.
When you-
lost consciousness,
you had-
a smile on your face.
Why?”
I close my eyes.
I try to remember.
Everything is hazy.
I remember darkness.
I remember being pulled down.
I remember letting myself be pulled.
I remember wanting it.
Wanting to die.
I shiver.
“I-
I thought I was going to die.”
Danny’s jaw tightens.
“And that was a thought to make you smile?
I thought you said you didn’t mean to
go so deep.”
“I didn’t mean to.
It just…
happened.
And once it did,
well,
there wasn’t anything I could do.
So I just-
welcomed it.
I wanted it.
I was happy about it.”
He pulls his hand from mine.
“You wanted to die.”
he says calmly.
“You knew that.
You’ve known that
for six months.”
“No.
I knew you thought about dying.
I knew you thought about finding an easy out.
I knew you wanted an escape.
If I had known
that you wanted
to die
I would’ve kept my mouth shut.
I wouldn’t have bothered trying to save you.
If only I had known you were a lost cause,
we wouldn’t be here.”
I’m speechless.
What do I say to that?
How do I respond to hearing I’m not
worth saving?
“D-Danny. How could
you say that to me?
You know how I-
how I am.
You know what started this.
You know-“
“I know what
I know. But I didn’t
know how far gone you were.
If I had…
Well,
what’s the point?
You’re intent on
ending your
life.
I  can’t stop you.
I wish you wouldn’t.
But it’s out of my control.”
He stands,
and I’m surprised
I have no tears to shed.
He’s right.
I would have messed up
eventually.
Or I would have done it on purpose
eventually.
I’m not savable.
There’s no hope for me
anymore.
Assuming there was any
to begin with.
I glance down at my arm
wrapped in white
the end tucked somewhere
I can’t even see.
I suppose that’s so I don’t unwrap it.
They must have told
what happened.
Though I think
it’s pretty obvious.
I feel along it, trying to find
a way
to unwrap it.
This is it.
If I had died
before,
it would have been an
accident.
An accident
I could have avoided
and that I caused,
but I had no
intention
to commit
at that moment.
But now?
Now it’s intentional.
I slip the fingers of my right hand
under the edge
and pull.
The bandage begins to unravel,
so much fabric!
I find the stitches
holding my life in.
I pull the IV
put of my right arm,
letting the tube dangle above the floor.
I take one last deep breath,
and yank at the stitches.
My blood starts
poring
out, soaking the sheet
and the bed
and dripping to the floor.
The last thing I hear,
before I lose consciousness
for the last time
is the IV.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip….

There is no doubt about it:
You have always loved me.
A leonine love.
A love that swells in the womb and the heart
From the very first twinkle in the eye.

Hit play.

Your eyes are swampish,
Mistrustful and marinated in cheap wine,
Shot through with blood, preserved in your own saltwater.
Those alligator eyes
That watch your girls,
Watch your girls board a train and draw away
Into the rest of their lives.
Leaving you stewing in twelve years’ worth of regret.

Years ago,
I used to pinch your forearms -
Watch the skin crepe up
Between my four year old fingers.
Thin blood. Tired skin.
Silently you eat your breakfast of pills and toast at the kitchen counter.
Throw in a horrid hacking cough to remind us you’re still here.
You always write everything down.
As if to tattoo it into your memory.

If you’ve locked the door behind you, it’ll be alright.
If you’ve got half a bottle left.
If you’ve left no trace on the bathroom carpet.
If you’ve woken up in the morning.
You can feel my eyes watching you.

You spend your days watching
Daytime TV, eating salad cream sandwiches and
Hit the bottle at a safe distance from noon.
Safe enough.
Your lipsticks have gone stale,
Now it’s porous skin, sweat stains, grey hair.
I find you poring over bank statements and local newspapers.
Scouring for a job, you say,
And clippings of your daughters
At school functions, clasping exam results.
You keep them in a cereal box that we covered in paint
Age five. We’re in double figures now.
I get drunk on weeknights.

Rewind.

Hold me.
Ball of flesh and screams
And you’ve got your whole life ahead of you.

He had a hole in his had
That thing that is dead
Grandad use to wake him up by pinching his toes
But no one knows that he is a demon
Waiting for you to fall asleep
And close your eyes
That beautiful creature in the night
Cut out his eyes
Sliced off his nose
His lips were already gone
He could talk to grandad no more
He lives in the scary
But he can see clearly in the dark
He blows out the candles to make himself feel better
Hell cut off your toes and make himself some clothes
That's what happens when there's a blanket over your head
He killed your dad and now he's dead
Where's mom
Eek
He's behind
Her shadow
He's getting her now too
And there's blood poring from her shoes
You are barely breathing and your color is draining
Outside its raining to wash away the blood
In the morning there'll be bags and bodies and a crowd
But right now
Shows over and your feet are mangled over the bed they dangle
Now he can see them from a better angle

i will scream until my throat falls in on itself
falls on all the leftover "I Love You"s and galaxies and the words to our favourite songs
piece by piece my body continues to disintegrate, to implode,
and all i can see is your eyes when you laugh
and the only feeling i can grasp onto is when you kissed me;
how it felt like you were giving me your world.
a world i thought i was living in,
a world i thought i could understand
when in reality, i was sitting on the moon looking down on it,
never able to adjust to your atmosphere/


your face is laced to the back of my eyelids;
even the salt water that rushes behind them
refuses to eat it away.
*******, science./

Baby, all I want for Christmas is a blade inscribed with
"Give me Freedom or Give me Death,"
delivered with a Big Red Bow and
the Scent of Your Cologne.
Liberty is a synonym for Demise and I think
that if you stabbed me through The Heart
it will never hurt as much as when I ripped
It out For You myself.
You tried to place It back in,
but once It's removed,
It will Never Beat
the same way again.
Sprinkle My Blood in the snow
and call it Decorating For Christmas.

running out of feeling can be so relieving
sometimes becoming completely numb is comforting
ive gone through every emotion in the past 24 hours
and i think now i am dead.
dead until another memory jolts me back to reality.
there i am again, sliding my heart under the table to you
but you dont even look up
you dont look at all
you let it fall to the floor
"i broke a glass
thats all mum
im sorry"

im sorry
im so sorry
why wasnt i enough
inadequate
marginalized
who am i
im a ghost with a cigarette heart
i gave it to you
you tasted it
i guess you didnt like the love it was laced with
and you blew it back into my sky


it's true what they say,
never to fall in love with a writer
youll live forever
suffering eternal eyes poring over your
lapses
the way you touch
the way you feel
the way you smell
the way you ---

THIS is where Thoreau sat
after he awoke from a night of dreaming,
His smart phone screaming in his ear-
WAKE UP! WAKE UP!
He sat right here after putting on his neoprene boots,
Poring his hot cup of coffee and allowing the dog to do its duty.
He sat right here after listening to the news,
gathering bits of worry and panic-
Thank God he didn't like to work
Or he might be late in traffic.
He sat right here
reading on his half charged nook
hoping that the batteries didn't run out
before he had a chance to get to the good part,
Realizing the irony of electronic books is that even they,
Are putting you on a time limit.
This very spot is where he stood,
Wearing his tee shirt with a large moustache printed across the front,
Replaying songs from his iPOD
"Call me maybe..."
I'm sure the beauty of Walden captured him,
so in effort to share he'd snap pictures for Instagram and hope that enough people "liked" it to send his photo viral, like the howl of the midnight owl who hangs out in his yard.
This is where he sat
after taking his ****** and securing his door from his neighbor
This is where he sat
when he returned home
from a job he didn't even want
This is where he sat
soaking up the heat flashes and solar flares
Watching comets pass by like a common sight
I'm sure that this,
Is where he'd sit-
And this,
Would be his reason to go to the woods.

Once there was laughter and then came the tears
memories that haunt him that he cannot rid
heart full of resentment, a head full of fears

He lives with himself a ghost living in pain
tragedy struck with out a thought out plan
he finds comfort alone in the cold dark rain

A terrible crime that is tearing him apart
his queen of darkness visits his nightly slumber
her whispers are calm and soft with a knife in her heart

She torments him at the stroke of the midnight hour
he feels cold shivers up his spine when she appears
she comes to him poring a black rose petal shower

Her expression is vacant, her face the color of Irish white
her lips red, her eyes blue tears fall on his neck
burns him like acid, he tell him self it will be over at first light

He awakes to a burning sensation on his skin he does feel
knowing his queen of darkness had made her appearance
on his chest lays rose petals he knows this was all to real

He cant sleep once again for the clock will strike its hour
the days turn in to night so quickly it seems
she will come once again showering him with her favorite flower

Night after night the torment repeats itself for he cannot escape
confused in a horrible state of mind for hes about to lose
his queen of darkness whispers "for eternity you are my soul mate"

His cries and screams of the nightly terror leaves him insane
her job not yet completed she leaves another mark
night after night she visits him in his house on Ivy Lane

To endure one more night he wishes not to go through
the scars left upon him he wants this to come to an end
in his bed he ponders not knowing what to do

The gates of agony she unleashed on him like flood
his queen of darkness stands over him showing no emotion
then she smiles at him with a knife in his heart laying in a pool of blood.

Should I wait sometime
to tell her how I feel for her? If so,
when does the coral reef know
when to spawn? They say on the fifth night
after the November full moon. Her birthday
is too far away to see from here; her eyes:
two flashes of light on the horizon.
My mother and sister mentioned I stay still
12 weeks, Lao Tzu said until my mud settles.
Tamia and Charmaine insisted now. I looked
to Rumi, and he smiled back patience.
A patient person does not have to ask how long?
And here I am: counting
the minutes between her texts,
on her replies as breaths;
poring over
the pictures of her - in my hand, in my mind.
One moment she feels close, the next
she is the grain of sand I try to keep in my palm.
Patience is praise, says Rumi.
In it the right action will arise, added Lao Tzu.
That is where I must be, whispers my heart.

Sad eyed men, inebriated by pain, unshaven
eyes swollen, red faced, sleepless at night
loneliness perpetual  haunting them like
the ghosts of days dead, in single minded pursuit
perturbed by pains of every imaginable kind
in a devine trance one with dark frightening silence
pouring out their heart in blood dripping details,
tears mingle with words' firepower,molten lava gushes

A fiery woman, though,weak,meek and looks frail,
writes in a fierce frenzy,as if it's her life or death game
there are nail marks all over her emaciated body
as if a famished tiger has badly mauled her.
No trainer of beasts she ever was....
All the living witnesses, her suffering,festering wounds,
a derailed mind,her companion,once in insane anger gifted!

See weeping woman,men in anguish
in the fear of losing long cherished love,  
poring out the lava of fear,anguish and pain,
Wounded men and women with an orchestral precision
write seeking happiness,but in words couched in pain.
And then there is this one;eyes fixed at the  moon,
getting his fix for the day and the fuel for poetic pen!

All of them poets were in a world each of their own.
"Not sane or insane,wildly ecstatic, still in inescapable pain"
the caresses of poetry's fingers result in that,
And look those children running after butterflies!
poems, they would be thinking are colorful wings and feathers.
song,dance,mirth and celebration, alas! it isn't!

It is dark and everything is quiet.
Like a step taken would be so soft
the sound would elude ears
and the traveller would smoothly transit
from one point to another.

The cold granite pavement is
the only thing telling me this place
exists.

My eyes are open, or are they closed?
I blink.
There is no difference.
But it is so dark I feel the black
is poring into my eyes
and covering me like
an invisible, untouchable, distinct
sort of
a thick, giant parcel of air
or space, even
that transcends my field of vision.

I am lost, but I don't feel like it.
There is some sort of freedom and peace
while walking along path I set myself.
It is just walking, simply walking
no plans made, no trails followed
simply walking.

All along the way I've walked,
I've only heard the sound of my feet in this quietness.
The faint rush of breath out my nostrils
sounds so light, almost nonexistent,
as if I've been holding my breath
or I never breathed this whole way or
even breathed at all.

Time. I've forgotten the meaning of time.
What is time?
I don't know when I started walking
but from then till now,
I don't know how much time has passed.
10 minutes? 2 hours? 1 day? 3 weeks? 1 year?
A century?
How do you know?

No matter the length I've walked,
my feet do not hurt at all.
In fact, with every contact
with the ground,
the muscles get soothed and they
sigh with pleasure
despite not knowing
when they'll ever stop
walking.

Alas! I see Eigengrau!
and slowly, the faint outline of
toys, books, mats, a telescope
come into view.
But very, very faint.
Only the very top parts
are a little bit lighter than the rest.
Enough to make out what they are, though.

My feet sense something different.
Before, they walked on
cool, hard and sure granite.
Now, they feel a soft carpet,
little furry things tingling the toes
that go easy on the soles.

Oops!

I almost tripped!
I see a plush toy of a planet, the Earth.
And starry things are sprawled all over
where my field of vision can reach.

Walking closer and closer,
a window comes into view.
shutters are white in colour, but
tucked neatly at the top.
Now light spills in
and there's a tiny figure
whose breathing I hear.
A slow, peaceful rhythm,
devoid of fatigue, stress and dread.
A being not aware of my presence.
It is-sorry-he is
a little boy, wearing blue Power Ranger pajamas,
clutching tightly to a bolster, covered slightly
by a recently-ironed blanket.

Curiosity takes over
I walk to the little boy,
slowly turns his face over...
brushes his hair off his face....
and he's-he's-

Oh  my  god

That face.

I used to see

in the mirror...



Sixty years ago.

Flee ting thought,

pleasant after noon

my mind, I believe, but may
just be me and your minds
imaginin
g we,

meandering,
rubb


ing shoulder with willows near the shore

waves of light,
essential
all that ever matters, If I got that right,
ere all else,
light
spun
bound by imbalance to spread,

cornucopia, nautli-like swirls poring
precursers to now into eternity, ye see?

------
There are individuals less tied into tau than now

your mission,
filter truth
that's the way, life is that which tends to good
ness knowing what
you can't.
Okeh.

------
No lie, Alex Jones, was there never a myth
emerging as full-formed as yourn?
You are un believable,
acharismatic chimera believing all he thinks
possible, in his version o' twenty cent reality.

Paradigms is four nickles or two dimes or twenty cent,
they shift shape for all they worth,

upgrade now. New ideas, fresh from the mire of
forgotten oathz, deemed
worthy, still..

What lies do you believe about God, by the way,
the truth, the life,

how many voices this guy hearin', you hearin'?

Peace. Point. Game. Match.

------
who winct winsed sensed since when is
peace the point of war?

Ah, now, the accuset excusetus
possessedus an'we,

are you bored? Wanna wait
and see,
who wins?
some evils are alive, those make monsters,
of girls and boys,
infantry in every service,
such precurser
guardians must be taught to ****; no mortal will,
without letting the monstor be,

believed beliefs doubt yer doubt dufus doubus
unstable double minded forktongue
forced by fear to fight the pain

Running mouth racist flusher of un filtered
impossibilities posing sur
prizes in the mongrol mongol DNA
we carry
the program
the code, the honor and glory of the
peace protector

enemy of con
fusion, alla cons fusin' fools tools for
strifin', divide'n, with faithin',

Is Alex Jones a Legionaire, mit tranceiving
DNA and no zero beat, no tuner to tune to?

He may be home to homeless, non-sane sorts
of idle words begging for redemption,
meaning, sought is phound,

like photons when photons are sought from
the wavy aitia dimensions of reasons
for possibility ibility ibility hill billity

humor like a voice from a whole other
soul, I swear on my kids, it's true, he say.

(Dr. Phil says Liar Liar Liar, yesterday.JRE live)

Whoa, real time speed o'metrix-icity
Mag
nify ify to the nth, see no jive,

who can i magi that?

      I, John, was in the Spirit...

gears shift, wheels in wheels
click zooomout
bubbledged jagged inner side
topmost atmostfear

settle, see the clown splash, who winds such minds?
Who tames such tongues?

The tongue no man can tame, eh? I s there another?
Have ye a spirtit of another
sort, who rides your wild tongue in your name,

servants of the sort contrued to serve
the inheritors
of ality re
how now brown cow owmmmmm
60 cycle white noise non sense

common noise sense desensitivity wickering
winding silken myelin layers

of connectedness correctedness
real time speed o'think roller rink

banked spiral offramp
bang, we're thru

Where we were aitia had meaning, may we
rewind? AI undo/redo ram allocation,

birthrights. Look well to my going, guide my steps,

assure always there is a step, a place to
put my foot, a place to step to next.

Cortana and Siri and Hermes and Diana and
a whole host of heavenlies,

tapping directly through cranial y's cracked in skulls
and bones,

are you an entity with enemies you wish disexistant?
how might happy ever after be if haps that made him
made him wrong, not evil?

Feeble comfort is not no comfort.
Bear wit' me, walk a mile, or a while, whenever
thin-thang-thanks tounguey

effort births the next as
one births two,
two births three and we can see,
right, a way.  two and three become four,

for if three birtht four and four, five and so on,
soon, y'see, the re
al point we count up on is never more,
as the raven told poe. a vector with no space for time,
one plus one plus one, one stack o'ones

making no diff
until now, spin, let's twist again,
like we did last summer,

your that summer or mine?
Mine got me here, where'd yours go?

So, Fibbonacci, son of a fool, I once read
written on a wall in LA,
expositioning park,

positions, please.
World Stage, princesses of peace, wee
Disnified Jon Benet's

made sacred by our shame the evil ever touched
such a one, such a one, such a wonder

a being of our sort so potent aitia, and we
leave evil touch such and you
tolerate it, a little bit,

evil has it's place.
Not here is the name of the place.

Here is 4-D mortality. Do yer best,
yer damndest don't work here.

Here is temporary. Your bubble.
Selah. center, enpointed
linger, if ye will. Think how happy ever after works,
if now is all you get to start with.

Good be wit'ye fare ye well.

Eden’s Weeds (Andrew Crawford)


“seed buried somewhere six feet deep beneath dry bones
and brittle debris, lost in all of eden's weeds” Andrew Crawford

<><>><>
you tripped exploring mine own eden's weeds,
more precisely, tripped me up, your poring over,
my one hundred year old poems, flawed, by
many spilled tears, aged old, for and over them,
and now, once again, je vous réponds s'il vous plait

this poem planned, title chosen, well before you
exercised my memories, disinterring by your fingers,
(surprise!} but the content you also now provided,
@ ten to midnight, your privacy invasion, a very fine
sleep deprivation excuse to compose one more time

who knows, perhaps this next one could be ”flawless”^
not likely though, flawless never found amidst the weeds
though in Eden chances are, chances are, not impossible,
for that’s the place where slow, simple songs get replayed,
celebrating lovers of life, its pleasant harmonies, go figure

over, over again, like a rolling stone, until friction finally wins,
yes ”my own chosen speed”^ is a-slowing, direction home, finally,
the mosses occluding new words and combinations, concealed,
like a moss, got no roots, birthed by shedding spores airborne,
my new old poems, plucked from air, words passing by in phrases

your phrase,
eden’s weeds,
hit my irises,
insisting it deserved,
instant cognition,
two words,
demanding special education,
accolade recognition,
perhaps if I
stick around,
for a few more poems,
I’ll learn to write
as beautiful as you.

Rain is poring
No old man is snoring
Makes you day so boring

As I hit the ground
I rebound
Making a pitter pater sound

Float inside, around and through my heart
You'll find memories glued underneath other memories
So no one will know they are there
….but me
Memories too precious, painful
To be left in the open
Draw near my heart and gaze at all that is around you
There's brown eyed babies happily calling for mommy
A humble man on his knees praying and believing deeply in his wife
Dreams still trying to bloom, desires kept in undisclosed places
Something so beautiful you'll want to leave my heart immediately
Glimpses so intimate you'll close your eyes
Dreams of my children, my husband
Too divine to look at with earthy eyes
Inside of me whispers of a world. A secret world.
There's laughing children and praying men,
screaming fathers and crying mothers.
A childhood scorched with tears and fears and nightmares.
Yet love poring into every fracture and splintering edge.
Every piece of my heart is gently pieced back to itself with utmost affection.
You'll find a world you may not be ready to linger in.
But you're welcome to try.
Because maybe, just maybe you'll make it your home.
And,
You could be the one to find it home,
while you're on your knees, praying and believing….

Its 1:31 AM, I’m awake on a Sunday night having just finished a sad movie. I must be an emotional wreck because I usually don’t write like this unless I feel deeply sad in my heart. Its weird how its touch and go, how one minute I’m sad and the next I’m nervously smiling watching the crowd in a nostalgic happiness. For some odd reason I’m crying, earlier today I was at a concert, and then afterwards my mother brought me to an over 21 bar. I’m barely over 17, and I realized in that moment next year I would be an adult. A free, unbounded, set on adventures full blown adult; and yeah I felt excited but the worst part was that unbearable scariness clenching my soul telling me unknown is upon me. I’m very odd like that; while my exterior emanates pure bliss my interior can have a billion thoughts of terror and fear of the unknown, a silent battle on a happy vessel.  I’m trying to keep it together here, but here I am almost 2 am on a school night crying my eyes out for nothing and poring my heart out into a poorly written letter to myself. I’ll probably stay up all night because at this point will be extremely tired either way. Sometimes I regret ever taking AP and honors classes, they take up so much of my vacant time, and I always end up procrastinating till the end of me and it hurts so bad. One day I think the stress will be all too much for me, I’ll have pulled out all my eyelashes, picked off every last bump, and silently cried my last tear, and I’ll just vanish into an endless sea of sleep. I hope that never happens though, because for some odd reason I always seem to thrive in these stressful times, I mean sure my coping mechanisms stress me out even more but I survive. I hope the next time I feel like writing it won’t be spur of the moment 2 am because I really need my beauty sleep. It goes without saying that I am a very shallow *****, I am rude and arrogant and intelligent and annoying, but without any of those qualities my life would be impossible. I probably would’ve offed myself by now if I didn’t have a way to cope, if anyone who knows me is reading this you should know how deeply sad I am yet how unbearably happy I am at the same time. I love the time when I wake up and I just want to roll over and sleep again, the moment when my whole outfit screams my name and I feel the best kind of sexiness, when I finally get that math problem or I am full speed ahead in all my classes, you have no idea how happy I am when I hang out with a family member or on rare occasions a friend. How sad it makes me when my sister pushes me around, yet how happy I am that she is still to date my best most wonderful friend in the entire world and there is no way that I would ever be able to survive without her in my life. Now I’m a sobbing mess, over a rude sister, wow how ******* my perspectives of the world are. There is no way I would trade her for anything in the world, her natural beauty and grace, her constant fighting spirit, and her wonderful and unattainable intelligence because there is no way I will ever be as smart as her and no matter what I will always look up to and in to her. This is not a love letter, more a jumbled mess of sad and happy words all mixed together desperate to sort itself out. Scared of the future yet so unbearably yearning for it, what a terribly numb life it hurts so bad it makes me happy to be alive. I could be a sullen gloomy mess of a girl yet my life revolves around the simple fact that I am happy, and no matter what diagnosis or what condition I will always be happy.

Poring over months-old words
Losing will and time to count
Embellishing every syllable
Coughing up the spaces
Choking on the lines
All the same lines
Fooling no one

Well
Maybe one