Fortissimo Viro Equus

I ride my steed to horizons
in search of peace, in search of war;
I have found none insofar
save for you, my clarion star

Enim Vos

for you, skies turn
grey and leaves
turn brown and
I duck down
so your rays
can touch their faces~

Elementae

Her starlit eyes,

they shone like lanterns,

they lit the way

for weary trav'lers; 

her dark brown hair

like Venetian silk

that spun throughout

a queen's night gown;

her gentle voice

like the fiddler's tune;

it calms the soul

like petting a foal;

her everything;

a work of art,

a splendid theatre show;

what big a shame

that I let it all go~

Lacrimae

To urge them back
is hardest when
you're gone again...

Parte Difficilissima

The hardest part

of loving you

is what to say,

what just to do

and when you leave,

it's what I fear;

why should I live

if you're not here?

Sensuum

Tell me everything you can tell me,

tell me anything you think I'd bear,

but I only hear what I want to hear;

show me every inch of you magic,

what's underneath your tunic,

but I only see what I want to see;

bring every kind of meat and mead,

of fruit and wine and leaf and bread,

but I only savor what I will;

stroke wherever you promised you would,

stroke me places no one else should,

but I only feel what I want to feel~

Mane Une

One August morn, the sun shone not

and thousands wondered in their naught:

"Where is the light?" one, he had sought;

"Where, indeed," a wee lass, she thought.

Tamquam Phantasma

A phantom like a mem`ry ris`n

from depths of the blackest of hues;

it mutters words I shan't depict

for its words were all but chilling,

and not a man had been willing.

A phantom like a tempest tide

laying foot upon the lakeshore,

coal black fluids dripping, flowing;

it wrought a force none might abide

that man shan't live, but come nigh, die.

A phantom like a silver moon;

direwolves on a prowl nearby,

their blazing eyes upon its wraithe;

they eye it as a pleasant boon,

a precious stone, a shim`ring rune.

A phantom like the winter storms;

rampaging, striding to and fro

with hail and snow like wisps of fire,

like scythes that ravage wheat and corn;

o, how a phantom's wrath is borne!

A phantom like a mem`ry lost;

lost in the waves of space and time,

lost like a boy outgrown of cries...

but all along this phantom's cause

has doomed us all for foolish hosts.

Folia

birthed squalling 

against a gale,

small as a tyke,

no two alike;

a spring green child

swaying against

a wayward wind

yet lives so mild;

lady mother

ever coloured

beautifully,

very deftly;

coloured by her

spring green children;

her darling brood

that covers wood;

however by

the unfateful,

orange autumn,

came a sly bane;

her innocent,

spring green children

reposed aground,

grouped in a mound;

she fed in grief

on their gay souls;

their innocent,

wee, spring green souls;

in the winter,

lady mother

mournfully yards

against blizzards;

solemnly, she

remembers all

her innocent, 

spring green children;

she seeks to rest,

to fall asleep,

hoping to see

them in her dreams;

she wakes up tired

to morning light,

yet welcomes it

with great delight;

to misfortune, 

she did seem to

forget her late, 

spring green children;

she gently raised

her wooden arms

toward the sun,

like vict`ry won;

and soon, and soon,

she birthed one,

a small, green chap:

a spring green chap;

and along with

the weary thought

of all her late,

spring green children;

she's lost thoughtless,

the wretched fear

of losing them

all but again--

Oratio Gratias III

Thou deliverest me from harm

That I might not fall to sin,

That I might not be damned,

That the devil mightst not win.

Thou hast shown me that I,

A frail, fragile fellow,

Can be perfect as Thou art,

Magnanimous, as Thou art.

I am grateful for Thy care,

for Thy guiding, Thy protecting;

I am gratefully aware

Of Thy love never-ending.

I submit mine own self

To Thy will, O Lord,

and will answer to Thine help,

and feast upon Thy words.

Finge Hic:

waking up one, dull day,

glancing at the walls, ornaments

coloured black, white, and gray.

you’ve never felt such vehemence,

rising to see, as well,

your body in pale mien;

you suppose, “Am I in hell?

what a colorless hell this is, then,”

you strip for a shower;

turning it on, you find,

the water flows asunder

In quite an austere manner;

you walk out of your bath

and in your greyscale towel

you lather yourself, step on a mat

of the same, grey debacle;

you open your closet

only to see that your clothes,

they haven’t any difference

but their voluminous modes.

you dare not wear to please,

for it mattered not anyway;

you take your drab car keys,

and head out to greet the yellow-less day;

leaves without the green;

bark without any wrinkle;

no trees even a little lean;

no daylight dew even twinkled.

you ought to go to the beach, for

you believe that’s art’s deposal:

“chanteurs chanter de la mer,

et peintres peignent la mer.”

as you drive, you hear the gulls,

and they squawk, however

it isn’t as melodious

as you thought you had heard before;

you reach the sea, and step out;

you trample on sand only to bring no ease,

but discomfort, and a frown to the mouth.

what kind of disease is this?

you glower in unexpected disgust;

you start your drab car with her drab keys,

and drive back home in wanderlust,

and you can’t help your abrupt tears:

you weep as you leave the tedium

and pace reflectively,

and go back in your home, so dim;

you wonder in melancholy:

“how could man subsist

in a world devoid of its beauty?

more so, how could a world exist

in a world devoid of its art?”