What stagnant noise this dark unrest that beats poor time within my breast and drums such dirges in my thoughts but misery and woe to court, ‘tid then the night sky I survey and silent prayers I do relay…
“oh stars, far stars let me seize your calm reflection for its ease, which does reliant heavens place a silent truth, eternal grace”
and quiet may I gain from there which sets to rest the loud despair.
at ten, I think is when, I think death came. He had, of course announced himself upon the grey tipped rain (..sudden on the window pane) but strangely that was all no black foreboding pall (..or bugle’s dampened call) just quiet pregnant quiet silence, save the grey tipped rain (..sudden on the window pane) which replaced her breath now lost, to never, ever sound again.
was there then a red rainfall my memory is not complete the years have played with my recall so lest my verse be obsolete I can remember water though black as blood streams everywhere river crossing, gutters flow to fountain’s crystals in the square, there is no more that I may tell nor will my story ever end for recollection’s empty shell allows what was with dreams to blend
the oldest song holds ever true yet it’s music evades me still that such can I with words imbue not e’er a note with sharpened quill but even as this silence peals an echo of the ancient strains calls inward for my heart to yield unto the muse’s pleasured pains that brought into the world their songs of innocence and sinful tales sagas of men loved and wronged of happiness and sad travails thus as these shadows stretch in mind they in their turn bring also light that could allow my soul to find the old song’s words I long to write.
of late I find I sit no more to wonder on the whims of man as for fifteen and two score years in, I don’t know who I am so who am I to think upon the foibles felt by other hearts they’ll still be there when I am gone and from man’s company have parted. so therefore I’ll watch the wheels of sun and moon’s eternal drive and simply for the present feel my own existence to derive.
If I write in verse of you would you really mind? Is it more of you or me that these words will find within the lines I dared to form without your say or knowledge born, could it be with all good will that my prose has done you ill rather than praise or celebrate I have in some way denigrated.. ..you?