The wish to be merry,
Swill’ng with delight,
Forgett’ng my plight,
But things seem very,
These words alive,
She sits and stares,
The fallen sit without care.
Gleaming times I’ve,
Forsaken from view,
Bound by books.
Bound by books.
Hear the woolen men beat their chest,
From Nazarine quarters, flames a’head.
Young Hypatia, graceful and not dead,
Hearts adou but nothing till rest.
And rest she will, by the grace of light,
Completely surprised by anymosity,
The foul prey of the warring city.
Caught she was, elegance cannot fight.
Tiled from out came her eyes,
Blue with lust’r and prideful mind.
Scraped by the hands of a feckless find
Zeus not aware, Christ hears the cries.
It has been a very long time since I’ve graced your mind with my indecent writing. I assure you that I have been productive in my education and social lubrication, and that the time spent away has not been in vain! I’ve been practicing my Latin and Greek, why? Well, ” Quidquid Latine dictum altum videtur,” would be the most appropriate answer, but I do enjoy the challenge.
Until next time*
Write. Read. Highlight. Paraphrase. Synthesize. Think. And what of that? That feeling of losing touch. Read. Write. Translate. Memorize. What did Achilles feel? We sing of days far better than now, of great Men who did great deeds. Read. Write. Open the gates of the decanter. Pour out the Whisky. Four drops of water. Sip. Read. We destroy ourselves, for the goal of attainment, but yet never actually attain anything. Sip. Read. Flame up a cigarette. Dunhills. Sip. The lights, colors, shapes, they haunt me; I haunt them. Yes, I haunt them for I am just a temporary ghost; no feelings, no permanent shape, forever bent on that lost moment. Read. Write. Sip. Drag. Sip. Sip. Sip. Highlight. The one who knows, that life is merely an attempt at redemption, is the one with the key to immortality. Great actions, no matter of love or anger, are acts of redeeming one’s, well, whatever. Sip. Think. What am I redeeming? The path of great men, who perform feats, or the path of a limited existence. Sip…sip. And where does emotion fall into this? What of love? Paris did not remain immortal, even with the hand of lust and desire. Read. Write. Sip. Drag. Exhale…think. Life, by the dichotomy, must be on the fulcrum of love. Love altered in any direction reacts to the force exerted by goals and desires. Sip. But yet, here I sit and can do no more. This madness is where the bells toll and wars are won. The heroes arise, and like all must fall. Trouble, it is all trouble, that cannot be avoided. Sip. The ferry boat of life takes the waters of toil no matter the course set by the passenger. Write.
There we lay,
The smell of lust and greed,
With Adam’s sin,
Spread upon your skin.
There was a Divine spark,
But with protruding minds,
We examine our hunger,
Over the banality of humbleness.
And there we lay,
Among the boughs,
With Adam’s sin rejected.