I must go.

Of what must be done and what must not,
I do not know;
But spare me this time.
I must now go!

Where and why do I have to go?
For, why, it is so!
I do not have much left to say,
You must let me go!

I do not have time for all this, no,
The road is white with snow!
My feet ache for a long walk, to and fro.
Bah! I must go.

For a talk with you I can not but stay, oh;
Soon, you will get up and go!
I,  what else will I have left to do,
And so, I must go!

Aurora

Beyond the mountains, the crowning guardians,
There was an horizon that spanned the sky
From the seven stars in the cold East
To the sun hidden forever on the brink of the West.
At the foot of a glacier, where the moon turned blue,
I was come finally to the end of my way
Where there was an aurora every day.

In the cold warmth of the infinite loneliness,
Within a loud silence, slept a new world.
In the dark virgin waters, an unborn child swam,
And I knew somehow it was the coming of man.
The sun was never to rise in my eyes again;
I was finally come to the end of my way
Where there was an aurora every day.

A fierce wind lay to rest the reeds around me.
The flock of birds in the distance only reminding me
Of the many, many miles lying open behind my back,
My footprints in the mud showing my children the track-
I knew I was somewhere in a place they called home.
I was finally come to the end of my way
Where there was an aurora every day.

The Persistence Of Vision

There was once a little man, a man of short stature and quick to temper, who lived somewhere in the suburbs of London, weathering cold weather or a hot summer without smile or frown. He had a quick and crisp moustache so fiendishly red that it frightened away the children who wandered into his wide front-yard, and they would run and they would run lest he spot them trampling his leaves. The neighbours did not know much about him nor did they have any complaint, and the little man kept his house and his nose quite clean. While he wished they would only leave him alone and not suffer the pains of company, he would decline tea and biscuits completely politely.

Once it so happened that, returning from the grocer an evening, an old man walking the other way tipped his hat at him, and the little man was overcome by a sudden but freakish curiosity, and so stepped up to enquire: "Good evening, sir!", quoth he, "The sun is too high in the sky although August is nigh gone. When is winter to come?" In reply said the old man: "Good evening, sir, to you! The chap on the radio said winter would be here, quite strong and bleak, before the week after is done!" The little man thanked and set off once more, thinking of the weather to himself when the old man called: "Have a day as wonderful as you are, sir!" The little man, now, he was swift to anger, and turning back, he called in reply: "Why, sir, why! What have I said to earn that curse? What have I spoken to deserve something as terse?" The old man knew not what dragon he had poked and stood so still as to surprise winter before it arrived. In receiving only silence, the little man finished: "As wonderful as I am, you say to me, but the town knows, oh, the world knows, I am no wonderful man but as devilish as they come to be! Lest you fear anything, sir, let us have it clear. Speak not to me again for a madness is here. My madness of your futile attempts at persistence is here."

[caption id="attachment_785" align="aligncenter" width="277" caption="All those who wander are not lost"][/caption]

The Blog Pact: A poem

What’s the use of a blog pact /
When no one will blog /
They always say they will /
But no one has blogged /

The weeks turned into months /
The months turned into years /
The pen has run out of ink /
But the canvas is empty and in tears /

Like a brave warrior with sword /
Turned away from his destiny /
I blog like a lost weapon /
Craving for a just adversity /

If only someone would write /
I might have something to read /
I write and I write and I write /
And it’s become like a selfless deed /

One thousand pages are filled /
One hundred quills have withered /
Twenty thousand eyes have been pleased /
Only two have witnessed any work /

It’s your choice to write or not /
It’s your word to give or take /
There is no oath ever levied /
Although it helps if a promise is made /

The eyes are lonely and the road barren /
Each day’s demands are a sullen pique /
The pages are many and the ink awaits /
I must write now so you can read and sleep /

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A Suicide Note Inspired, Ironically, By A Strange Dream

I'm...

Becoming more and more lost by the day.

Do I need a lover?

Maybe, maybe no.

Actually, I don't need anyone.

I just need a cistern of depression.

I need to have conversations that might lead elsewhere from time to time.

I just need someone to enforce my fantasies upon.

To find appreciation for my effort.

To be the centre of attention.

It's not that I would do anything to get there.

I'm not a psychopath.

At least, not yet.

But it does seem to help from time to time if I receive the amount of attention I think I deserve.

I know I'm not asking for much.

When I know that there's so much to be given.

My peers tell me that I dance so well.

But I don't think any of them mean that honestly.

They've taken the notion of friendship, even of familiarity, quite too far.

They've mired it in their own need for politeness.

For gentleness, for care.

To be paid attention to.

Mired it so much that if another being were to ask for the truth, they wouldn't know what it meant.

They'd think that they were saying it.

They'd think that they'd all be like them.

That what was the truth for them would be the truth for everyone else.

It's not the truth anymore.

It's one very big lie.

There was this woman I... loved... some time ago.

She appreciated me for my dreams without even understanding them.

I know it is to be expected, to say the least.

I have to concede that some of my cantatas are astounding.

They are.

But judging that all of them will be is stupidity.

Or is it? I don't know.

It ought to be stupidity.

That's what I think.

If you don't think I dance well then tell me I don't dance well.

If you don't think I'm doing it right then tell me I'm not doing it right.

Why tell me I am doing it right?

Why egg me on?

That's not going to teach me anything.

It's only going to drag me deeper and deeper.

Lower and lower into a spiral of mistakes.

At one point from which I will not be able to recover.

And who will I have to blame?

Only myself.

I cannot blame those who lied to me.

I can blame only myself because I gave their opinions and judgments any weight.

I want to be paid attention to.

At the same time, I want valid attention.

I want truthful attention.

And for that, I will have to be valuable.

I will have to be credibly valuable.

I will have to be incredibly valuable.

And for value to come to life, life must be devalued first.

Devalued first...