Muse of Dodona

I am the Muse who sings not of no other,
I am the difference between light and night:
The art of spelt wind to carve my bark,
An empire of leaves thus adorn my shape,
A whisper through the grass sings me wake,
Steps of travellers dance to my trembling,
Nor it be not music mine ears to breath of yours,
Nor is it shaking lest my lonely state is bore.
I am the smoke; the one that is lifted from naught,
‘Tis the burning of the seen that now is more fraught,
Make no mistake that my smould’ring choke you here,
Make no mistake that it is the end of my heroic end,
Ere the birds shall sing their last and leave me here,
Now the ashes fall from me to ground in utmost pour,
And tears of amber shall lift my roots in motion soar,
At last it becomes me not the endless to bitter end,
When once I ask of ye: why so this I ought to rend?
Then twice more you respond with fine eyes cast away,
To the next; ere the next, here perplexed; all is hexed,
Nor is fixed, the air is thick, my tree a wick,
And knick my space, and kick my face, so all is waste!
Uproot myself, in muse I call, so here I fall,
When more I try, so luck I find, is rare behind,
And soon I cry, ere ground I bind, so fair and kind.
Though he and love these guests I cannot plea,
Nor my slow’st motion, stoic notion I cannot flee,
Here I sing of what love I once had from pot to soil,
Who saw me grow and visited me here to never foil,
To he, I was but just a tree with no love to give,
For I perish with no leaves to offer so he can live
In knowing my presence. Oh, but now no more to seep,
And as he leaves, it is for all but mine to weep.

His Lover Beckons

Ere be man ere wrought is comber may,
Alas, indeed, is but fraught with greed desire,
Though twats in meagre thing can in bliss dire
Need sunder the flesh and blood and eyes fooled;
Is but a need for this couple to become cooled,
Oh, these lovers so cast aside by deception
Can soon become the greatest need for seduction,
She says “No, I cannot let you do this”, alas, alas;
But in all wildness, all reason escaped, morals last;
Now, and now, and now, she is but a weeping angel,
An angel she sought and thus her lost wings fell,
Weeping, deceit; but mirror held them both,
But alas, a mirror, a mirror cast love’s broth.
No suitor ere suited can this man ere be made,
Lest love in clothed silk and ooze be laid.
In the midst of danger came pleasure only,
If it were pain, it can be but fraud cunningly.
There these swingers are treating to vice,
It is but the nude lady in reflection mirror’s stood,
How gay are all who stood in wake of sight so lewd,
Now the vain pleasures are but pains to fuck,
And ere but snares be cast for dice in luck,
And but sought eyes in constipated looks decree:
Now no perfume nor cologne nor minted tooth
Shall free her soul from despair and pleasure,
It is indeed a lustrous life of weekends sure.
No quartet can sing in thrusts so deep as this
Without forbidding themselves to secrecy how bliss.

Train to Mars

Nor is it a random station,
Nor is it just any train,
This is now the train from hence,
This shall take you from hence,
The train, with no stop here to there,
Is but near to greater sort so fair
In price and of creed to depart,
From this place you are now in Mars,
Imagine all the orange and all the rocks,
Now look all around and see our train,
This departs and off to Earth it departs,
Now no human, now no alien, now no life,
You look all around and see no one,
Just no one, nothing, just nothing;
There’s no station, no government, no food,
No wine, no sight, no new light to calm you here.
Imagine, nothing. Just nothing. Just rocks and sand.
How beautiful that is? That no one is around?
I wish I lived there. No more drama. No more rife.
I don’t need hope nor fate to guide me now,
All I need is the rocks and sand.
Spare me the oxygen, my breathing is but poison to life;
Spare me the heat, for I am but heated mind beheld.
So, the answer is clear: a train to Mars.
And never come back.


Monsieur, alors les chattes de lune;
Jusqu’a avons engrang√© ne plumes de malheur,
There shall be no peace in mine so soon,
Nor shall be happiness shall this deter,
The art of such flight I bid you adieu,
Now I give sight my lacking purpose here,
I am but a slave to fate and nights tonight,
So that I sleep away the thoughts I sear,
Then never can I come to you so right,
Then leave me here so bitter I ought stay,
Now never see my name through cold glass,
So when I stand beneath the core to lay
Can I not spell your name in fire to pass?
So walk me home and I shall set you far,
The indigneous tribe in mind untoward
Has arrested my mind from you to bar
That I can never see you much forward.


In pursuing a career he wanted to be that whom inspired him, she wrote. “So he decided to be, and then thus he became.” But in the words of his father, of late has taken illness, he could not understand why his own kind would not be that of his own kindred blood which by forsaken creed had suddenly consumed him. This sickly blood, she added, suddenly became an illness; the fatigue was too great. All was lost.

There he walked, in a mountain fought, and slowly climbed. Then he shrugged. Then he sobbed. It all seemed too much, all at once. He is no mountaineer, but he simply wants to climb a mountain. He was no man, but he hopes one day to become a man. This much, his mother wrote to her sister, who since recently was under a great melancholy for ill choices she made that could never be reversed. “Oh! I am sorry for all I’ve done! The men, the wine, and all the tricks I’ve endured. It was not to be.” Though, her brother might add that he would not want to be deserted by a woman just like his sister; but perhaps to be imbued with new wisdom as to how to live with one.

Near the mountain peek, gossip for months soon called at bay. For months, our dear fellow climbed a metre closer to the tip; as much as each day his mind felled closer to the dip. It was like he wanted to break himself so that each piece can be collected overtime then brought together with each piece part of a new image that formed the basis of his own. Though the pieces have not changed, though the image has changed, the very essence upon which these images carry is now part of something greater. That greater essence became his meaning. It became his life. In essence, his life is the sum of why. Life no longer ceased meaning; it augmented the story.

His mother closes the letter with a solemn wish that once her son reaches the tip of a mountain he may at least come down and never return to the tip. “For what it is the base without its peaking stone?” He would ask. So casually it was, but she could not even answer, for she has never travelled the heights he would. Sooner or later, he would know the answer and once he does, he would have part of the meaning he needed to live.

At the station

A bench lay hollow in the utmost sphere,

Who knew but could not be at its dear,

Nor mail would drive it to the yesteryear,

So turn a callous cage whom thwart to greater fear,

But not said much luck in hope the guy does sit,

And leaving whence to board new lamps lit,

Though he ought and this he must ought

To dampen all spirits will tears cold be brought;

No tears are warm when the fire burns bright,

And here we hold man in mind to heart distraught

So soon he breaks to dark and sorrow down,

In all smiles and memory he could only frown,

Last his train had come board his life aways,

But could not hear nor see the other at bay,

This man whose drunken stupor is all but ways,

Found himself poking words sans base decry,

So some attention be brought to he his mum deny,

But could not! Couldn’t hear nor see. All lost.

Lost was the drunkard in fate’s lasting capture,

His words now critique the man in rupture,

With every second the death of he and he arrived,

But it was not his ego when last rest survived,

So finally that train went and the last another,

Age was brought much the crickets to bother,

So doors be opened, more people at large,

A first glance he took and all now is barge,

Then he boards the train and sits a while,

Nor legal weep and plead naive shall be vile,

For the train is gone and how fast it travels,

The lamps dimmer and soon his life unravels.

Our Dearest Sirens

In forms of sweet music ye now lament,
A cry so loud no ear ere he meant,
Nor eyes to stare lest heart be bled;
I’ll blind myself a thousand nor dread
Sight itself than mine which soars ahead.
But, fate by chance has these shores she led,
But ghastly I hear these beings cast me way,
Nor sorrow in dark phantasm am I bought to sway,
In littered puss that gauge mine eyes to sweat,
These burning tears come hemlock taste so let;
No matter how far your cries can tear me scorn,
No decibels of sound can replace my soul in mourn
With hands I bind, with feet I bind upon this pole,
Nor shall I permit thee Heathen to bound my pole
With lewd advances that mine alone shall this be sought,
Whether free nor enslaved by magic cool so thought
Bore me is here the bitter tale of pain so known,
Now fright my men away and in horny gaze ye thrown
Is in little past my woman who in man art to give,
Now bitterly spoke of this cure I decline to live
And make do with what time I have for time allowed,
So that when the time comes so am I too so loud,
That when whispers befall me all misery and sexed
Then I look back: my journey ahead is not so vexed.

When you’re alone

Is steadfast but haste to make,
In mute but bird is sung heart,
Nor better is walking this day ought,
For brew in beer and sung in wine is day,
Little by little, hopes and dreams unfold,
Some day, there was a wild boar to chase
That never ended with hearts unfold; so
Take this time to grieve the loss of dread,
So fear the loss of utmost dread, and never
Call the heathens that bake your soul today.
I call myself alone because I am a heathen,
I am a murderer of my own soul who begs mercy,
Thinking back at all the life I could have had,
At some point in childhood I remember saying no,
And some point I remember knowing what I didn’t,
But looking at the stars I can see a light:
The Universe is enveloped in the womb of darkness,
When all is woe, when all is without hope, know that
All that comes out of the darkness becomes existence;
For you are existence, and your lonely is a reality.
When your story ends on the final note with no remorse,
That alone has more value than a copy of the original.
When it is time to say goodbye, remember the story.