Poezja

Fate. Funny thing, cruel cruel strings
Brings one to private sacntuaries,
Havens for lost souls, bathed in glories
Forgotten by war, whispered in the den of the night.
Then it tosses the one from one side to the other
LIke ragged dolls unused by masters.
 
Oh lovelies... You forgot how cruel she is
And you forgot how generous she can be
- If she should wish to reveal herself.
Her kindness is not your's, nor mine, to keep
But longs to be treasured like no other.
 
You forget her benevolence
- Her light in the glow of day;
- Her shadows in the wink of night.
You also forgot to understand her, nor did you love her.
 
 . . .
 
Dear wanderer, your soul is no longer lost,
Heart no longer burned with hatred.
You are free of the restrains put on you when CHAINS
Were known to be the only currency
Bigotted.
By men.
Hands free to roam, and set out on a journey.
Th iron shackles
Broken to pieces. 

But nay, you still not know
When the snow shalt drift down into sandy floors;
It does not mean end nor revelation.
She runs not on the edges of the mind
But only as an entity of continuity.

Tis not about riches, nor power, nor favored intentions.
Fate has proven all those wrong.
She is the mistress of deceit and a wheel of fortune: 
Born to gift and die of gifting
- A never ending cycle of come-what-may.

It shalt not be fate that is feared.
The darker tresses...
Of. Your. Soul.
Hold more frightening wards for you.

Dear travellor, you are neither fighter nor defender.
Yet, you play the part and act the part - when she insists...
A part that is not you nor I should take on.
Bear arms, friend, she will not scar us. 
Not. Upon. That...

Heaven will not allow her, nor the demons you so seek.
Oh follower... She is the Divine. 
Let your steam be out of its kettle and let
Your fingers touch, foreheads sweetly kissed,
LIves slowly burning. Away.

Dear Lover... The world is truly mad.
They reject what keeps them sane
And invite that green-being that brings insanity
And doubt. And infidelity.
I spit these words in vain
For I fear... No treachery from what is fated for doom.

I careen to you, sweet tubes you cursed me with.
But never shall it burn me in her stead.
Misty fogs shall shield the world
Whilst her descent to aid and ail her love.

Gone be with you, evil-doers.
Should which be fated to?
Caress souls with nothing but knives.
Born to kill, born to slow-deaths.
The mind has worn beyond repair, as I attempt
To mend. The. Broken. Pieces.

Wanderer... You have gone far.
But never far enough.
Perhaps, it is time to retire.