Weak and terrible the miserable birth was he,
Cruel. Wicked. Now a sinister time is wrought,
The breath of the crease shines little so near,
A heart pounding, a breath almost taut with naught,
Now the feet shall think twice before stepping near,
He’s running towards the maze, he’s chased away,
The sounds of cello, violin and flute disperse,
The instruments play, but still they essay,
And here, he’s running through hedge accursed,
Though there’s a simple twist in the lion’s roar:

One moment I am a roaring lion charging,
The next I’m a foul beast with heinous thoughts,
The next I’m a squealing rabbit gasping for air,
The next I’m a fish with but the air to curse me!

Aren’t you feeling better how much I turned you?
The wind is changing. I feel my joy overjoyed!
Wait, what shall I turn you from hence now?

My feet grow. My face elongates.
The roses trample, and no thorn would prick me now.

Horse you are. Horse you remain!
Submit, my pet! I am your rider!

Nay! I will not succumb to You,
If bewitched, then bewitch again.
Come near, nascent swine of mute!

So stop where you are. let me have a look.

I urge you reader to turn back. Read no further!
These characters are but silly folk with little eyes!
First I was a man, then a lion, then a beetle.

Then rabbit, and now my very own horse! Haha, come again!

She bites me! Her voracious tastes tickle even my balls!

What use is it? I am the sighted sperm in mingled flame.

Too little to turn,
Too sad to tale,
Now mute are hands,
Now blind my heart,
Near is wrought ghost,
Near is beating steps,
Sweat is first a drink,
Sweat is last my balm.

So, say she retreated. That muse so foul,
Took my baton, turned my orchestra to frogs!
The instruments chased, I was lost.
The audience turned to demons. All the way.
I couldn’t stand. I had to escape.
I never was mad, but now I’m not.
Nuke those thoughts! Reader, breathe.
Five second breath. Like a last.
Now I turn, there’s no one.
But wait! There’s still yet so.

I feel sleepy. It’s been eight years.
My days of conducting a piece are gone.
These days are few, now numbered here,
That is all, when conducting myself done,
The winds will change. Sun shall fall,
The rabbits spawn. Mating crazy and fro!
Well, the art is my deepest darkest wall,
Hidden beneath the maze is realised so.

Ere much is said,
He never wrote,
Nor never led,
Nor never he gloat!

Category:
Counterpoint, Poetry, Works
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