DL (2/3/87 / Middlesbrough)

The Stag And The Purple Rose

She’s trying to speak; failing as she is trailing her words
Throughout the mists of obscurity’s blanket.
Metallic monstrosities fly on by the window pane
Of my new and unholy asylum from the world outside.
I can hear a confusion of conversations held by some
Deranged Gentleman of staggering stature, he dwells
Amongst the swelling guts of bar fly liquid mongers.
They mock interest in the whale, they mock interest with
Curses beyond the reach of jest. Oh what savages are these?
Oh what a notion of civilization it is that we hold for it seems as though
The further away you are from our world the safer you become,
Numbed are the sensibilities of man, numb is his love for his brother.
An aroma of stale cigarettes emits from every corner of the place
My glass is cool to touch, the condensation wetting the palms of my hand.

A familiar face stands beyond the boundaries of unknowing.
Looking around I feel nostalgia plunge my heart beneath a reflection blue.
Flat capped gentlemen drift on by the screen of my realities vision.
Her breasts are buxom monsters inciting me to cry.
These lustful eyes are the demise of youth for no clarity is there to be found
In temptation yet how am I to know truly the desire of the addict from the
Desire of those passionate, instinctive, animated souls that emit from their eyes
Pure Joy and Beatific Wonder.

Within the circle the ink is spilled,
Black against the purest white.
Within the ink the circle is spilled,
White against the purest black.

Ah the scent of knowledge unwinding,
The sweet scent of journeying
The wild forests of my mindscape
As I stride against the blind God of Fate
Who would so merrily dictate my moods.
No giving in to floods of tears I tell myself
As I am reminded never to place
Compassion upon the shelf.
The pain is easing. The pain is pleasing.
Within the Moulting cage I turn circles in decay,
Shedding my skins whilst changing the colours
Of my wings and growing vibrant feathers anew.

The patterns adorned upon a nearby wall
Lead the Mind into a frenzy of ever changing perceptions,
Within a frame the strangest of scenes is reproduced
Upon a nearby canvas as nervous echoes of past life’s
Unfulfilled waver upon the songs my shadows sing.

What a fool I must seem, parading my form in floral decoration in the Midst of a funeral march. I run, I hide from view, watching the Proceedings with respect and wonderment. The bells chime, bird call Lifts upon the Wind breaking the silence of the graveyard, this most Hallowed of grounds.

There lay a child, tragedy burning an ocean blue within his eyes,
There he lay smoking upon the mound of his innocence tainted,
How he has grown from the day he first revealed his form unto this World,
How he has changed and at times seemed even to himself deranged.
What strange a creature is this the Good Folk wonder, as they flutter Silently
Upon the whim of the most delicate butterfly wings, flying upon emotion True.

Wading amongst the flowers he finds himself overjoyed with the scent of their
Nature, all is perfect for some time as above skies of azure are in parts obscured
By the strangest composition of speckled shades. Fading is the Red Sun wavering.

We live we die, we give we try to understand this land.
This Earthen realm of our souls dressing.
Two Oaks stem from the same entangled roots
Both hold their aspirations towards the sky and dream of azure eyes.
Grey Feathered angels dance in rings of seven circles interchanging hands.
Ancient relics wade, ancient relics fade, a karma sky is waiting, shaking in the shade.

Bless the day.

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Pablo Neruda

If You Forget Me

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