.

Despite the painful throes, despite the frenzied slings,

Despite the sharp arrows and their poisonous stings,

Of outrageous fortune that makes play seriously

Both fanfares, out of tune, simultaneously,

Those two, wildly ticking away as time would do,

And yet such nitpicking about which much ado,

And yet they remain mute to one another’s ears,

Thus matures the lone fruit stuck into the old gears,

Despite the strange wild cards that have somehow been dealt,

Despite the broken shards of all that has been felt,

Despite the obstacles which this life threw at us,

Or the dark spectacles which realities muss

Since the time we both met, despite those that rained down

Upon me or have yet to turn into a frown,

Despite the fact it feels we’ve already parted,

As if the world reveals it has never started,

I cannot say in truth that this life I regret,

I trust upon my youth I need not to forget,

For, see, my universe will never be the same;

What I mean by this verse is that I’m glad you came…

.

.

So there is a snake

Silently slithering

Across sun and stars,

Swallowing centuries

Since the stellar smiles;

Some say someone

Or something sentient

Sent said serpent

So as to seek something.

It started small and sickly,

Somewhere silent and somber,

Feasting on sadness, sorrow,

Sincerely pursuing,

Selfishly consuming

Lost souls and spirits,

Subsequently swelling,

Such as someday

Sooner than expected,

Searching for something else,

Somehow seeing the sea

Should sooth the soul of the beast.

Surely this shall be so and save us.

.

.

Let me describe the heavens of my mind to you:

The sky is vast and always blue, the sun is high,

The wind is warm, soft on the skin and clouds roam by,

Hopes are many, joys are intense and mistakes few,

When something gets bad or worse, you can start anew,

If you don’t succeed, again you can always try,

A world with beginnings, endings, but no adieu,

For it is gone only the time for a goodbye…

.

Clearly not my best work here but indulge me.

To be re written.

Probably.

.

This morning when he looked

In the mirror he saw

Something that was crooked,

Something evilly raw,

It wasn’t in the stare

Nor in the small shy smile,

– He never though his style

To let it somehow scare

Him oh so profoundly –

Rather something other,

Something that brought about

Uncertainty and doubt,

Not that it did bother

For he went candidly.

.

.

It’s on the tip of my tongue,

It’s at the edge of my breath,

It is the truth to my lie,

The feeling I keep in check;

Breathing cool on my neck,

In the corner of my eye,

Oh it is my drug, my meth,

I wonder, “what if I sung?”;

It is true, I am still young,

Barely know alpha from beth,

But I feel it in the sky :

Strange, irresistible beck,

I can barely keep in check

Screaming at me to just try

But I fear this form of death,

The bells have yet to be wrung.

.

.

In these wide fields of gold

Many stories untold

Lie dormant in the shade

As melodies of old

Voices and rusted blade

Echo but never fade…

.

.

Never in a thousand years will I be wise enough

To equal this masterpiece that echoes in my soul

After all I am nothing but a greenhorn, a fool,

And this immense burden, I could not carry it through

With such outstanding beauty and incredible skill

Or with such eloquence or dashing, straightforward style

And under the great pressure I would certainly keel

Despite all the great stories I that know I can tell;

However I may try, there will always be deep in me

This dark, crippling fear that I will never be worthy,

But I will pursue life and always remain hearty

For I can gain from it much more than who am I…?

.

So far and yet so close…

.

You know how it begins

With a single soft shove

Of two with the same kins

Or perhaps lack thereof,

By deliberate hand

Or luck of destiny

And the world becomes bland

To the heart’s mutiny,

From a single moment

Is born a universe,

From a single instant

The aeons can converse,

But upon this endless

Stream of all-possibles

Sits still a featherless

Pale creature that nibbles

Away at its own branch

In a sad, lonely stench,

And only time can stanch

The flow of its thirst quench,

Perhaps. That’s the promise.

If it is not fulfilled

There is much they will miss

And all space will be spilled…

But what if it were so?

What if fate was to let

The hand of its child go?

Will they have always met?

The colours are unknown

But the tune has been played,

The long past has been shown,

The future must be slayed.

Grand romantic is gone

Now brings always’ magic,

The greatest play is done

Let us cry the tragic.

.

Yes. No. In a thousand spaces lie a million times.