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.

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.

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.

Different Shades of Man – I

Thought he ought be made calculable,
Though more he thought made culpable,
Did bear witness his instincts so cruel in cage,
No less he saw himself his past is writ to page,
For he cannot see past himself the man he ought,
As it was always the animal he better sought,
So leapt from birth with tears of agony and despair,
He could not surmise first his straitjacket to repair;
Donned since birth and so carry to his death,
Not in silk, not in wool; nor blood nor breath,
But it shall be his skin, tis only one to show renew,
And so he makes reason for suffering in shadow’s hue,
To bite the tips of skin from finger and thumb to pass,
If not his art shall then seek needle in skin trespass;
If it is not in ink, then it ought be substance to crave,
So walks in, ready for a mane joked be bought deprave,
Now he’s a new man in black and white: no single lie
For bigger times ahead and then his instincts deny,
So too he comes at large once more he swears divine,
So he makes mask for himself and swears all to wine.