Tuesday, April 27, 2010

This is not meant for anyone in particular.

the cruel month of april continues to rain heavy blows upon the dented chevy that was. the dead lilacs are still asleep, and have no desire to awaken.

Month of endless vicissitudes. month of endless woe. blow after blow after blow.

and so the poor tin soldier marches on with his tall hat and his musket gun, trudges through the heavy snow and the arpeggios. walk right by the damaged hansom, the faulty trailer and the rabbit poking far out about the group. His heavy golden pocket watch tick tocking with the heavy hail that followed.

Everyday, the poor man walks on, up a far away hill, to a grassy knoll and sits on a chair in the middle of nowhere and waits. everyday again and again, as the clock ticks, waiting for the surface to scratching, whilst scratching that itch. all in green, how much more conspicuously need he be. and always a little bee would come to visit, yellow on black, or black on yellow, buzzing. bzzz bzzz bzzz up and down in half dance flying.

such a little busy bee exploring all the trees, landing on the one not-tree. oh tiny creature, flirting around, teasing as it lands on the follicles of the forearm, touching and tickling the skin. stinger gently shelved for the moment. busy busy bee, always reading... busy busy bee, beneath the sickle moon tonight; who shines like a little eye in the night, smiling, tired beneath the cloudy eyebags, slowly covering in sleep.

go away melisferra, you are not wanted here. go way busy thing. i do not want to be bothered in this cruel warm evening. the tanks are patrolling.

broken relations that held the ship sailing in the north east now come crashing down. Murphy's law at play, murphy at work all day, existentially nonexisting. sitting in his chair... his hand widens at first, and knocks away the chess pieces. checkmate, the king is dead. All hail, the fisher king.

and the murderer is walked away to hang by the noose.

Monday, April 12, 2010

Dead Rose

Dead Rose (2007)

Dead Rose

You are
A rose ungiven.
It seems so wasted, just withering there.
A failed existence: unappreciated, unfulfilled
unreached potential.
you poor rose, never held, never smelt,
never clutched to the bosom of a loved one given.
A life of wonder, your dying world.

And I sit here to ponder.
What could have been if I had bothered
A try, Walked to her, and muttered a few
Helloes and goodbyes,
And watch her shyly smile as i give to her,
To her cheeks, would a red as deep as your's appear,
And smiles we would have shared.
But I didn't.

Only an 'if' remains,
it runs through our minds and never fades;
I see her face staring in the distance,
and I wonder,
Silence echoes in my ear, eroding the music of love
played here,
And I sit, and watch as you wither,
Watch each red petal blacken and fall
amid the dying screams of rock and roll riffs
and mauls,
I feel as you do,
So silently,
Withering away at the 'if'.