Everything Washes Away

The concrete so cold and so dry,
A nightingale sings a few feet nigh,
A Chamomile reaches for air anew,
This prologue of nature is scarce new;
For it cast away all memory of ill respite,
Now only the product whereof is gain despite
Such meagre memory that shakes mine eye
Whose veined image can never me dye,
Nor can tears alone from colour remove,
Nor contacts can mask mine eyes what move,
This notion I now know is but new motion;
Take mine existence for granted to own,
And everything between birth and death
Shall all but few woes come relevance not,
Lest mine own is part, lest I am forgot,
Nor am I. The scene of rain now dries me,
All the birds have stopped. They’re now we.
So we, are but we, and little are so thought,
Now it all comes to past, tis past, all brought.
Imagine a soul parting from thee and flows,
It flows down and downward. It doesn’t throw.
Now we’re gone. It’s all gone. No more meds.
‘Twas all gone. Morals. Thought. To you who gets
The art of water on my dried corpse is sung,
Now I flow away. Everything washes away to song.

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.

False Righteous

She swore to life for virtuous gain,
Even to mean all her joy ought be slain,
As task she held standards unmatched,
So uses them now for new treks unscathed;
As a child she was once as any other,
Though hardships then had come to bother
A once childish spirit for play disrupt,
Nor sooner she resigned to Virtue abrupt,
Then once she saw another as child once known,
She at once talks of hard play at life be thrown,
Not that she got none in life, but merely sought
In love for one she herself a fish so caught,
Hither and thither she untangles ink from page,
Reading of philosophy and science from a cage,
Dreams of freedom and abundance in Eden place,
Yet could not resolve herself in this time of place,
She eats wholesome; she drinks by the whole,
And so she brands those who can’t be up her hole,
And so she condescends those who can’t live hers,
Thus, she is alone; and so all to her is at errs,
This is the life of righteousness she wants to lead,
But in all her glory, she has never learned to seed.


Let all in sight succumb at bay,
Whom no air can wrest this day,
Hearts be wrung in strings of gold
Nor tighter than belts y’soul to hold,
Nor looser than fabric start to bend,
Ere lingering dread is but foe to fend,
And the weeks soon fall on day, night,
And years whistle with truth too right,
Who knew all along what action take,
But could not think which step to fake,
So sat are the ones who dream too big,
So forget Adam and Eve their taste of fig,
On whose glory came God’s demise,
On whose exile came more to rise,
Yet what they feared is what they sought,
If it could not have been, then it was nought,
They did it well and so others shall sway,
If one can fight back, more shall lead the way.

False Insanity

But I am not insane, if not so,
The art I am, if it be not so low,
The angels speak as much I am,
The gift they offer in as much a gram,
All my cares and worries slowly gone,
In a single instant my demon whom I don
Shall bequeath me honour this respite
Which despite my urge to put up fight
For greater honour than my parallel;
It is indeed a folly that I am not at level
To force my mind in the common masses,
Lest I too become as common as asses.
Most of the time I pretend to be sober;
It is thrilling; beautiful; if not a coma,
I am sought, and I am caught to see,
Lest if I talk I am but nought to be,
Then grief me here, my solemn grave,
It is I who can only be so proud deprave;
Mine eyes cast a seductive look beheld,
And I will inject insanity through assailed
Creases of fine skin and blood interwoven,
Then I myself am saint for Satan, his coven
In wrought despair might I’ve thunk more
The hours I pass soon cherish seconds sore
Whom nourish sunken tears in bloodied wipe,
When all humanity swept becomes my ripe.