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