.

There is one more thing

That I have to say,

There is one more thing

I want you to know

One last little thing,

One last little sting:

There is no other way

Than for you to go…

.

Wait till I tell my wife.

.

Always, forever, without a shadow of a doubt

She knew, she knows, her feelings remain true

Yet why is it that she is just about

To feel the storm upon her cheeks

What is this dark and vain

Feeling her heart begins to reek?

What is this excruciating pain?

What is this cold sorrowful rue?

Riding on board a golden train

Towards a new mysterious land

Can she see it upon this plain

And into the rivers of her hand?

Is it over already

Before it had even begun?

Is it the end of the road?

Her adventure already done?

But the possibilities were so broad,

And to explore them all she was ready!

How can it end like this?

How can it be over?

A single short instant

Without even feeling the kiss

For her to be impotent

And to everything miss…

.

Another little experiment on my part (but aren’t they all?) which I don’t know how to feel about. Enjoy.

.
There is hope in my mind,

As well as in my heart,

That one day you will find

Your play, the perfect part,

Perhaps not as the king,

The princess or the knight,

But rather, trust your might,

As a human being,

Complete and full by far

Yet with endless defect

For practice makes perfect

But life will always scar,

There is a role for you

Out there, a line to say,

Whether it’s old or new,

It is for you to play,

So rush out with passion

For your own favored craft,

And give out compassion

Without being too daft,

But remember : to breathe

And patience are the keys,

Their swords the warriors sheath

Until they cut the breeze,

Those virtues are your gods,

They will lift any curse

If, no matter the odds,

That try to block your ways,

You stay true and rehearse

With honor and always.

.

He who acts does not waste.

.

I have no more words, only tears,

I have no more birds, only fears,

Hope has not left me forever

But has gone away for a time,

There’s no more passion nor fever,

No more metaphor, song or rhyme,

Oh I know that it will not last,

However night’s robe has fallen

And its deep shadow it has cast

Over my soul, old and sullen…

I know summer will bloom again,

And my laughter once more echo

Once I chase away with bright fire,

This unexplainable, dull pain,

Akin to mirrors of Greco

Filled with warped regret and desire,

For I know where it’s growing from;

Yet, right now, the winter has come…

.

Sometimes I am not myself and sometimes, sadly, I am.

.

I can feel it in my head,

Silently creeping, this lightness,

It is taking over the usual brightness,

As it unwinds, thread by thread,

All the paths I have ever tread;

I can feel it in my chest, this tightness,

As I indulge in required politeness

And forget all I have ever read

And all I may have ever said,

Not even feeling the uselessness…

.

Mistakes create experience,

experience creates memories

and memories make mistakes.

.

A pair of eyes in the morning

Open and contemplate the world,

In them you can see deep yearning

And pain, as all the sails are furled:

For this vessel no adventure

Despite the great call of the Wild,

Oh per the contract’s indenture

They shall ever remain so mild.

.

Quite incomplete.

.

C’est ma sorcière de minuit

Qu’a cassé la pendule…

J’ai pas rêvé, y’a un bruit

Au fond d’mon vestibule !

Et me voilà réveillé,

Dans mon petit oreiller,

Ah ! Si j’étais Superman…

Oui, si j’étais Superman…!

J’arrêterais tout ce cirque

Et je lui volerais dans les plumes !

L’archer banderais son arc

Forcé de choisir lequel allume !

Mais je ne suis pas Superman

Et, seul ce que j’ai su permane,

Le reste s’évapore dans la nuit étoilée

Tandis que, la tête sur mon petit oreiller,

Les yeux ouverts, à présent réveillé,

Je contemple le silence de mon vestibule,

Ai-je donc rêvé ? Ou bien y a-t-il eu un bruit ?

Je crois entendre le tic tac de ma pendule…

Pourtant en mon esprit encore endormi

S’envole au loin la sorcière de minuit

Sans laisser aucune trace derrière elle, hormis…

.

Une petite expérience rigolote avec des souvenirs, des sentiments et des mots plus qu’un réel travail de poésie.

.

I find that waiting is the most difficult thing to do in life

Especially when you are expecting something to happen,

It can feel like ember burning under your skin or a sharp knife

That would plunge into your flesh, or hunger : you feel you senses sharpen

Like never before, you see the world fly by, yet time passes slowly,

Slower than a moment, like a second stretched to a century,

And yet in this earthly miracle there is nothing holy

For it is like being alive and knowing who they bury

But not being able to move a muscle or utter a shout

For fear that you would turn yourself into a thousand broken shards

And thus shatter the fragile equilibrium of the world about,

It is like playing a solitary and endless game of cards

With a deck full of aces of dark spade and bloody queens of heart

And you are the dealer so you know all the draws and their grey colour,

See how the world gets you ever closer, and yet you are apart,

See how your soul takes you so far away, and yet there is dolor,

Thus are the mighty tides of time against which your ship is battling

Older than the world itself and yet as ageless as the sea,

Feel it in your core, feel it in your chest, the lively drum rattling,

Count every beat, every raindrop, until there is no more to see.

.

And when the entire mountain is chiseled away,

the first second of eternity will have passed.

Not as I expected/intended at first and slightly late but here for you to enjoy! ;)