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Tuesday, July 23, 2019

Well, do you?



Well, do you?

Do you ever think of me, as the day begins to sigh,
The hours we used to waste with glee, as the time did seem to fly?
Do you ever think of me, as the sun begins to set,
The texts I used to send to thee, our gif and meme duets?
Do you ever think of me, as the moon begins to rise,
The convoluted chat grands prix, the bedrock of our highs?
Do you ever think of me, as you raise your eyes to God,
The prayers I offer turn to pleas, to cleanse thine eyes of fraud.
Do you ever think of me, as your mind begins to drift,
The time your spirit doth run free, does deceit with it still flit?
Do you ever think of me, as you lie amongst your dreams,
The truth ticks by for all to see, amidst love thine sleep doth teem?
Do you ever think of me, and wonder why I care?
This endless crap and agony, are something that we share.

Warrior Princess

Monday, July 15, 2019

Ancient Aches of Yore



Ancient Aches of Yore

What I wish upon without the worldly wants of wanton 
whatnots, that which shall appease and please my parted past, 
prepondered present, the proposeth place of peace, to the far-
flung findings of a future that finds me floundering in the 
feckless face of faithless fortune.
For there I base my future on those from whom my fervor 
flowed fleetfully forth, on those who wove the seamless strands
 of sentient sense and self which formed me ‘fore the Father fit 
my fate in flesh, to honour those who had no power to honour 
but the Hallowed He.
I will stand upon the sturdy shoulders of the souls I sent to sue, 
the mithered morrows in the mire that wrench my wandering 
witless wish of weak and wilted woe, and free them from the 
fatalist fable of feeble feminist foes and find for them a favoured 
fiat to finally fill and flow.
All these tinkerings through tailored days filled with thoughtless 
truths, that lead me ever longingly to lost lynched love left 
listlessly beside the lucent lake, where yawning youths of 
yokelish yore yank yielding years no more.
My forever since the beginning of eternity doth ebb and earn 
and echo, it lays beneath the soft sweet soil of seven sorrowful 
spheres, where passing pricks doth pierce its pride and perturb 
its pierced presage, and make the mangled meagre me moan 
miasmal melodies.
I write these witless wishful words of wistful wailful weakness, 
knowing now and nary, nevermore, this needless naïve 
nonsense, shall e’er again be given flight to fall upon the floor 
forsaken by the favoured fella whose fervor flamed then fled.
The tortured toss and turn of night as still I thirst for thee, to take 
thee in these tender arms, to care and caress unceasingly, to 
comfort thine careful cause, to give these gifts of grateful graft 
to grow gracefully grey with glee.
All the while, the aching axiom, thine abject anger at me, thine 
harboured hateful hubric heart that heaps its horrors hereto, 
while thinking itself a thoughtful type though tangled in 
thankless turbulence, trapped in tawdry tenacity, the desperate 
depths of deceit.
And so the morrows shall move once more, the yesters shall 
disappear, the deep despairing desperate days shall hide amongst 
the years, among the ancients to ash appointed alone and aching 
to die, never to greet thine grace again nor grant this grief some 
peace.

Warrior Princess