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I Miss...I miss the winter snowsThe ice weighing down the tree branchesLetting in the cold daylightI miss the winter windLeaving almost visible trails in the icy airPushing me along brisklyI miss the winter nightsThe stars shining brighter than in summerMultiplied in ice laden boughs
Haiku For A PervertYour lecherous gazeReally freaks me the hell outLeave me alone creep
Pen and paperIt's like a blanket of fog, waiting waiting waiting for some thing to emerge.Mysterious woodlands,A knight on a white horse,Dreams and legends of the romantic heart.A futuristic cityscape,Assasains poised for muder,Dark wishes and an elegant nightmare.Rumpled bedding,Lover forever joined.Desires revealed by hallelujah sighs.All of that just waiting to come out of the fog...if I could draw it forth.
Walking on airI'm walking on airDancing a waltz with the north windA tango with the hot breath of the south windThe world is a million miles downLaid out in simplistic patchwork squaresDivided by silver threadsBarriers are nothingI can just float over them on a bed of cumulous cloudsSuddenly I am realizing that the great deciever's argument of boundariesIt doesn't mean a thing.I'm walking in the air.And the world somehow makes more sense now.
Ode for The Ninth DoctorI miss the lilt of your voice.I miss the feel of your sandpaper cheek.I miss when you laugh and say 'fantstic!' when something goes better than you hope.I miss knowing that you'll make everything ok.I miss your infectious smile.I miss your ever-present leather jacket.I miss you, Doctor....I miss you, Nine...
My Dear NevermindMy Dear Nevermind.You keep on lingering on the edges of consciousness. Please, come in and make yourself at home. The minor key symphonies are not meant to be dark and foreboding but mysterious and entrancing. The sung prayers and pleas are not as dark and terrifying as you think. In fact my soul just swims in them like I paint a layer of matte black over too bright gilt. Half of my tears, dearest Nevermind, are because I love to swim the black velvet halls. The other half are because you won't come in and hold my hand. Come in, come in, I've made suicide hot chocolate, death by satin, by decadence and woodwinds.Is that too morbid a metaphor? Please, don't leave. Let me explain.It is the death of forgetfulness, of freedom. It is the pinnacle of life in the nuptial bed that makes you dead to the world. It's death only in that it's life so vibrant what we have now is dead.I know, you need to leave. I am babbling and don't make sense, do I? Please. Wait.Let me play this song. It says
In the night...Observe how the tears well up and up and up until everything is viewed from behind a hazy crystal filter, before you sweep the offenders down your cheeks with kohl smudges and cynical smiles. Stranger things have happened in your late night fantasies and nightmares. Drift far and away to clamber the ramparts of ruralistic castles, plateaus formed of hay bales and wooden knight swords. Yes, my lovely, you look nice. Sing the mucus out of your voice and start stamping out the fires that are springing up and up and up in your eyes. Read of happily ever afters and true love. Hope and hope and hope onwards...it may take a while. The goal of hopes is so distant: second star to the right, straight on through the looking glass to wonderland.
SanctusInhale the pefumes and spices, faint reminders of the regalities that are lost in your mundane utilitarian life. Do you hear the bells? There are heavy strikes of metal on metal lost in the ringing. It is ancient and violent. And beautiful. There are voices singing in ragged unison, and it is still glorious. On the edges of our suspended reality, the supernatural is waiting waiting, waiting. And then he enters. We could be seen as extraordinarily deluded. But we know. This is the greatest mystery of the universes, which makes all come to fruition and reality. It rationalizes prayers for the people who have broken you into a thousand peices. It understand the hopes that cause weeping for fear they are false. This is the threshhold to revelation. The window to the incarnate. It is holy, this life.
ReflectionsThe sky was painted in the reflection of your glasses. You thought I was gazing into your eyes, but I was really watching the sunset. There were pools of golden light, and cloud formations like distant foggy shores. I wondered: if I had Pegasus, could I fly over those golden waters to those shores and so reach heaven?From the shores of sunset would I see you, watching the skies, waiting for me?Then you did something- made me laugh, brushed my lips with yours, or slyly tickled me, I don't remember- and I looked past the dying sky.Your eyes are brilliantly alive when you say 'I love you'.