Where am I to go? Should I run to you? Will you watch me? Oh, how I’d run.
What is it within me that knows that is not the way?
It’s funny how “bitter sweet” is my favourite feeling at the end of stories. I often wonder if that’s the world or me.
Oh the flute in my soul!
how sweet the sound
how sorrow the cry,
you lead me astray,
you keep me warm,
am I lost, am I safe?
To my Infatuation
You’re a dancer in a play
to sift and whim my words away.
You capture the shapes and the forms in beauty
and though you’ve stood still
your eyes run deep like no other,
your silhouette floats imperiously,
and I float too, lost in useless stutter.
Far and gone in ceaseless black,
my raft persists in constant grind,
easing forth and ebbing back
above the ocean of my mind.
Rowing through the torrent’s might
- the wind enshrouds with whim and whirl-
I cannot turn my thoughts to light,
astray along a timeless swirl.
The deepened black has blotched my soul,
drenched me with its solitude,
convinced me I have no control
in vacant void that is my mood.
Though night has spun me far adrift
- stolen me like man for war-
the water’s crest bestows a gift
that furrows ‘round my flailing oar:
rippled through my own reflection,
a window glares from solemn sky;
half a moon with soft affection,
eager as a glowing eye.
Rampant waves will pass as ghosts,
mellowed to their gentle tone;
a shepherd in the sky; my host,
from luminescent light has grown.
Speckled stars dissuade the darkness
-glistening as a brightened sphere -
tranquil silence stills the abyss,
for a moment, my mind is clear.
Sun will rise and soon I’ll follow,
-blossoming like flowers through spring -
rising from that moonlit hollow,
as free as golden feathered wings.
The coloured vision comes and goes,
circles ‘round my weary eyes,
reminds me of the unkept rose
that flourished through the nettles’ cries.
All along my faint horizon
fleeting flickers light the way;
sleepless in my weathered raft,
my mind meanders through the day.