.

Falling is truly quite akin to love,

A velvet hand inside an iron glove,

It is like rain coming down from above

Onto pages the poets lacks thereof.

.

Falling in less than 40 words.

.

So much to say, so little time.

.

Oh friend there is so much that still needs to be said,

A thousand metaphors which I still long to craft

A hundred unfinished creatures remain in draft

Or a thousand more rhymes that have yet to be wed,

Nonetheless I can feel the end of an epoch,

That which has come to be the golden age of mind,

The purpose of a year, the goal of this long walk,

And a silver-lined tongue which I shall leave behind;

So many failures met, so many lessons taught,

How I feared once before that all might be for naught,

But my dreads have been quelled as over those long hours

I have grown and become a true man, a poet,

– Or at least ’tis my hope – one that never cowers

From sadness and who might somehow grace bestow it.

.

           Hour 11.

The End.

.

In a dim, faithless church

Among faceless statues

Of wet salt and brimstone

Where no halt is welcome

And straight columns of air

By the great organ built,

Such lonely, kind giants,

Are the only guarants

That its order lives on

Is preached another verse

Of silence and iron,

The balance of its words

Is reached when the bell tolls

And the border of truth

Swallows bits of old sins

Full of fits of dark rage,

And the gospel repeats

In an endless canon

As an old spell slithers

– Sorceress in her keep -,

Not even the light words

However, be it said,

Above the arched entrance

To heaven on the earth

In fever long written

Shall march demons away:

Blasphemy in the font

For forces are at work,

Alchemy is at play,

When corpses march again.

.

          Hour 10.

Completely out of nowhere but still cooler than I expected.

Might need to be reworked.

.

I would say so much more

For I still have in store

Three quarters of the lore

Burning bright at my core,

And despite being hoar

My spirit still does soar

Away to distant shore,

Though faced with this white door

It knows no anymore,

Should it cross and explore,

Walk upon this cold floor?

Or should it keep in store

What was mentioned afor?

I tell through every pore

But I wish not to sore

Neither to be a bore

So I’ll just end before…

.

         Hour 9.

Clearly not my best work, but a produce of my work nonetheless. The theme was ‘cut short’.

.

Strings upon strings, the violin weeps

The dim story of the young woman,

In the distance the car engine seeps

Into stone, into wind, into Man,

The lullaby of night takes over

As a chorus of stars joins the moon

Singing a song even the clover

Is powerless to keep out of tune,

Under this ages olden chapel

Where the great organ of life has played

Ever since life bit in the apple

Is where hopes and dreams are neatly laid,

Oh but the notes on the music sheet

Dance a passionate swinging quick step

That a mortal may never quite meet

Without at least one or ten misstep,

All the tinker-tatter of the room

Echoes away in shades of silver,

And there, in the middle, sits the groom,

Voice strong hours before, now a sliver…

.

        Hour 8.

Take away what you will, I will read into it here.

.

Roses are red

Violets are blue

I somehow dread

No more I love you…

.

       Hour 7.

The last verse gave me a headache because it is so much easier to express in French in a shorter and more concise and grammatically correct way… But in the end I kept it that way because it held a double-entendre that I quite enjoy.

.

Looking towards the East, land of the rising sun,

I try to remember where I could have begun…

I imagine myself twisting word into pun

And, with a newborn’s heart, strolling this land of fun;

I reflect on those days of careful innocence

And contemplate the ways, the long ways I have come,

It feels quite like I near a haven in a sense,

Like I’m turning into whom I wished to become?

Now it is not to say that I feel I am done,

There exists challenges which have yet to be won,

Poetry shall remain the barrel of my gun

But I am not walking anymore. No, I run!

.

      Hour 6.

.

“I’m sorry I can’t resist,”

Says the young amorous man,

“So sorry, I can’t desist

Those feelings are now helmsman

Of my soul and my body

And as they steer my spirit,

As they tear, tear by tear, it

Feels as if the great Gaudi

Himself has, out of pure haze,

Designed this wonderous maze

Into which looking feels right

Where he trapped your profound gaze

And a thousand and one star

Into an ever deep night,

For the more I move afar

The sharper is the altar

Upon which in another

Life we swore, we, together,

To the last word from the first

That for better or for worst

We would keep the flame alight,

That we wouldn’t let it die,

But alas we came to fight,

Produced one too many sigh

Leading to a cold goodbye,

Oh! See you how we’ve lost sight,

How we gave in to the lie?!

Have we made it to this height

Only to forget to fly?

These are but children of fright!

Please give us another try…”

.

     Hour 5.

.

Her teeth are pearly white

And her lips seem so full

Always when up they pull

Into a smile as bright

As her deep eyes are dull,

A truly awesome sight

Of raw, beautiful fright,

She will slow sweetly lull

And embrace ever tight

The mast, the keel, the hull,

This lady of the night

And her soft, polished skull.

.

    Hour 4.

When Ms. D. comes knocking at your door…

.

If you had a machine that could travel the skies,

Imagine that machine could take you high and far,

If this machine could bring you all the way to me

But also bring you back to when nothing was young,

If you could earn lyrics for your unending song

And if it did all that as easy as hello,

If you could repair hearts with one too many tries,

If you could see it all from the bright of your star

And never once again fear to simply flee,

If you could teach others how to be good and bold

But never so foolish to forget kind and wrong,

Swear to me, swear truly, that you would want to go…

.

   Hour 3.