Of the Lonely Book

I started as nothing, then became something,
There was no past I am, nor history I was,
When I am open, that is when one shall read,
I fulfil no purpose, no joy, no reward,
I provide only instruments: my word,
Except as much as the pen permits,
Except as much as interest and eyes permit,
'Tis naught to begin and then naught to end.
When I finally close, the lights are off,
And when morn awakes, I become part of the whole,
For years I'm left, not knowing yond my words,
I remember only my date of publish,
I remember only the pages made me whole,
It was neither the word, nor the ink aside.
So when I am opened again, it was her grandchild.

*

I am neither smart, nor wise;
The maths on paper slip through
Like lives creased by seeping vice,
And then my art is less than few,
Yet, my children run so freely,
I look beyond but I see no thought,
Like rabbits they roam free in haste,
Surviving, oui, but these graced lot
Fathom not my words so faint and still,
They chew their gums readily a lot,
Yet know not what come to teeth so ill!
But having lived, and knowing fausses dents,
These are the times I sacrifice one last try,
And I sit down with my children in tents
A doughnut with the finest pie.
These are the smiles I live ere I die!
The chalice I hold, the cup of joy implant!
Nor the seeking joys of old long deny,
For I have breathed death and exhaled want.

A cup of Styx

What sorely did cry from below,
Shall all a cup be sunk by a stream,
Shall all a tear itself in cup refill
Whist a hand descend nor fill entail,
Shall it then, Athena, my muses sunk,
Now walk through a bay in sound reveal,
Marred by respite an essence owned,
But dared walk through his stream alone,
So cast a memory upon me, my brother away,
Nor memory aside and fates are born a thread,
I breathe a fume of acid to conjure deep,
A dark and nasty thought I listen here,
A scream I seep through malattempt in jest,
Now once in bigger hope I’m fraught for die,
So then he lies at a stream I’ll find away,
So once I carry my life through all fates
Entwined; each tear is a gap in land nor sea.
His difference part from me, his life ill-spent,
And mine through Styx is hellish glory steamed,
Now die twice ere once more reborn, but whisper
Clear are the waters, and subtle are shades,
Then I reach land from his, so am I dead then?
If I am, so then all living are dead to ghosts!
Now he beckons me back, I could not for I am dead,
But choosing life, I leave behind a past in here:
These tears, and blood-let stain my gold depart,
Styx an overfilled wine, with sweet and bitter taste,
This is ought I give, then keep my brother there,
So that I rise and he shall be nominal to degree,
Whilst I look back and this much I am here to see.

*

I’m a girl. It’s not easy.
Every wave shook me and then I cast away.
I wish I knew reason; what a concept:
These emotions I have. Every case is new.
A memory is as wild as a jungle in spree.
Name a boy, I am the one who sought.
Help me from the other side of stars,
I caught myself in a net of love amongst
The grieving and tearing soul to hold.
My ancestors gave free the choice I have,
Now I sing of misery and curse my heart calls;
It beckons me to go back and never live.
I have to die twice in order to live once;
It’s so true that I am the dodo in ill flight,
Whose only defence is the last it can fight,
Beautiful. So rain hell on me to a thousand.
Let all the fire burn the homes, the fields,
My family; my friends; my life; my soul adorned.
So give me a reason to live again to shine.
To tell the mirror upon whose note was shone,
A heart of eager miss can surely sound me here,
If I am to live and move on, it was all but fought.
A thousand ties and a thousand knots my soul is crossed.
No Bible, no Qur’an, no Torah can become my Exodus;
And there is a skin that breaks with blades anew.
All the sights of life now sing in dreams become.
The difference between wife and mother is me.

Open Air

Her mothers and foremothers for protection sought,
Ere sought,
She is but sought protect and indeed is cared for,
Alas, is cared,
The greatest asset of hers the abject of welfare,
In God’s will-
May shant never her Mary give leave for Virtue,
Alas, my dear,
Alas, my dear I am but bird in cage for strife,
Though I’m faint,
Since I’m hinder took, so give me Reason here,
To breathe hot air,
Perhaps I am but prepared for coals of fire,
Fear practice hire;
For practised air is but freedom’s domain,
Yet is not mine so wane?
Perchance I am but prisoned in virtue divine,
For open air over wine,
Echoes through night are cries I here whisper,
Forsake me now, my fair-
Nay, for open air I need to know how I breathe,
Pity me, and leave;
Now I’ve left, and now I shall never return,
This much I turn,
Rather I be the poorest beggar in freer land,
In land so grand
Becomes the sand I crave that touches the sea,
In whom hence I can never falter to see.

Brother Mandrake

As still as light he slept so sound, within his skin lay creases rough. His hair finely cropped soon shoot leaves forth. His demon was human. His beginning was nigh. In a cage he slept, in noiseless feud in utter silence kept, may never once again breathe his last; it was never begun as all his dreams turn to ash. Whilst I walked through room and room, in mazes gone and darkness brought, mine eyes beheld my brother in utter sleep diminishing from what I once knew into a figure within the cage wherein he slept. So soon I recall he began to shrink and with time erased so soon, so fervent can last his eyes to never open again lest cries adorn shall forsake our dearest mandrake beheld.

Hansel

Of the peak at the mountain stops,
My heart so wild it grows cold awry,
These words I knew but never so few,
The gambling sop mine ehre this knew,
Who, of who, could never this low is due
For hunger of tears my thirst is through,
These hearts I once so, so knelt abide,
Can never watch my dearest climb so deep,
Into the chasm from which the heathen falls,
Mine art so few can never come to fall.
Let night come, my dearest Gretel, let come
Tears of holy night my death is surely missed.
This man; this man I ought I am, is sorely here,
Sister of mine, for long I sought in slumber keep,
Kneels before the lonely moon, this bitter man I am,
Who, of who, could never my art disdain,

Silent night

But in honours the star they reach,
Sure made their children to teach,
Once it sparkles so did their eyes,
Then to a father they rise,
His minutes the hours the minutes his,
There stands outside and walking this
Man who knew not where to sight,
Beheld cranberries soaked in light,
For his half and children poured,
Stops short his breath; tears soared,
Passes the mulled wine their holy ester,
Is not what he’d dream have in Leicester,

Herself to bear

But woman, tis not so easy and free,
The choice to make is not thine to make,
Nor of mine but recourse to Nature;
And we ought to start with us:

That in life as is bound left and right,
Nor is tranquil towards day nor night
As the gales uproot the trees in force,
Though still these trees just grew,
Though still the Earth motions anew;
Alas, where is the reason in all this?
None, for it was simply as such made,
Gone, was it not I who this did bade,