Faded

I am alone.
I have many different sides, for those who have the patience.
My lies can beguile and yet my truths can rile.
Those that see me, don't understand me or pretend to.
Those that understand may see me again but less each time, until I am cast aside completely.
I become a memory- a name when mentioned receives an "I remember" or "I loved.."
And now I lie, blotchy, pale and yellowing, paralyzed.
It will be years before the pain exits my spine and even then my sleep will not be blissful, for my heart has always been torn piece by piece over time.
Someday if I am seen again, they will try to make me whole.
And each time I fade a little more for they once gazed at me with intrigue, with love, and now in the depths of their eyes, I see only pity.
What am I?

A book.

-Mango

Her Petal Lips

She.
She is a person.
She is beautiful.
She is smart.
She is kind ..
and she is my friend.

She distracts me by day,
night has brought no relief for I have dreamed of her for seven days.
She talks to me for hours,
even when I'm alone, she calls.
She touches my hand sometimes,
lightly, a soft caress,
and blushes like a blooming rose.
She kisses my cheeks with her petal lips,
strokes my brow and wishes I would speak.
She has hammered at my silence,
forced a crack that has let in emotions, so alien to me.

I am too shy to enter a realm beyond friendship,
too awkward to express my intricate feelings,
and too scared to receive an answer I do not want to hear,
but today I will speak.
I am to see her at midnight and yet I cannot wait,
so I wait upon a bench that gives me full view of her building,
as the bustling street life walks by.

The sun is at its zenith, it seems to hover above me,
but provides me no comfort on this frigid day.
I conjure an image of her, she smiles at me,
looks at me with her loving eyes,
oceans blue, oceans deep.
The scent of mangoes drifts into my nose,
the aroma of her skin of snow.
A river of warmth courses through me,
she has done what the sun cannot.

I hold three roses, for this simple gesture can reveal more than I can ever say.
The hours pass by,
and I do not get tired of waiting,
for the mounting excitement is a pleasurable tension that I thrive in.

The sun starts to set,
there are cars passing by but it is less now.
People walk by and stare at me curiously for many had seen me earlier,
rigid and unsmiling.

The sapphire sky becomes a myriad of colours,
shades of violet clash with fiery orange,
and the blues stand a witness.
Still I sit,
midnight is some hours more.

As the night sets in, the windows of the building are illuminated.
Those with lights standout like fireflies and fascinated, I stare up at hers.
It is now five until midnight,
my rapid pulse, a thousand bull stampede.

Suddenly, her curtains open and there she is,
a silhouette familiar to me.
I feel myself getting warm,
for even her shadow occupies a space within me.
Another silhouette joins her, and my heart almost gives out.
The silhouettes intertwine, until they become one,
and by the light of her window, the meeting of the lips is clear.
I will my tears to ebb, as the crack in my silence slowly stitches itself back together.
My heart full of grief, I watch as the vines wrap around each other for eternity.

I keep the petals on my cheeks ... but leave the stems behind.
As the silhouettes dance in unison,
I walk away in darkness.

TRANSLATION OF இரத்தக் கண்ணீர் (Blood Tears)

*This is the translation of the tamil poem, 'Blood Tears'. As it is with translation, it is not always possible to convey the imagery and word play, so while translation is a fairly accurate representation of the original, it does not convey the exact meaning, imagery and word play. 

When the sun rises in the sky, the people of this world awaken,
the sun is the roof of this windowless world, that has been forsaken.
When the sun enters its slumber, the moon arrives alone,
the cries of the mind echo without noise and yet one can hear the moan.

I stand on the banks of a river-a river I cannot see,
in this room there is no time, for there is no clock for me.
I sit atop a pomegranate tree, an old man yet a child,
but when I open my eyes, the rubies bleed for my trials.

My four sides surrounded, my visions cry for my kind,
this poem that I write is where I reside within my mind.
As if a statue, I am motionless, inside echoes my screams,
In this hell that I live in, I fear nothing but my dreams.

இரத்தக் கண்ணீர் (Blood Tears)

For those who can read Tamil, I do not claim to have perfect Tamil, however I have tried. This is a poem about a person trapped in what seems to be a prison but drifts in and out of imagination. There is some word play in this poem that may be difficult to understand. 

வானத்தில் சூரியன், ஆள்  நடமாற்றம் கூடும்,

ஜன்னல் இல்லாத உலகத்தில், கூரை போன்று மூடும்.

சூரியன் தூங்கும் போது, ஒரு குரல் 'நிலா' என்று கூறும்,

மனதின் தனியான அழுகை, சத்தம் இல்லாமல் கேட்கும்.

நதியின் கரையில் நின்றும், ஆறுக் காணவில்லை,

நேரம் இல்லாத அறையில், மணி ஒண்றும்  இல்லை.

மாதுளை மரம் மேல், கிழவன் போல் பிள்ளை,

கண்களை திறக்கும் போது, இரத்தம்,கெம்புவின் உண்மை.

நான்கு பக்கம் சுற்றி,  என் கனவு கண்ணீர்வடியும்,

இந்த இருட்டில் எழுதும் கவிதை, நான் மனதில் வாழும் இடம்.

சிலைப் போல் நின்று, அசையாமல், பைத்தியம்,

 நான் வாழும் நரகத்தில், என் கற்பனைதான் பயம்.

The Lost Land

*The second last stanza (before the one line, last stanza), is the reverse of the first stanza. The lines are written from bottom to top, instead of top to bottom.

Destined to wander these waters forever,

I close my eyes once more.

The lost land, a story that I am a part of, it was my home.

I disappear.

I step into the sea and let it caress me in its beckoning arms of water.

The tide came in and the sea took me way,

quenched my thirst but watered my grave, the last survivor .. now gone.

The village on the edge, a poetic past now barren,

screamed of voices, some feet below.

When the last breath was taken, the shadows remained,

there were no memories, for they had been detained.

The gnarled tree, once a sapling, now a wise grandfather of a thousand years,

watched all unfold.

Rooted to its roots, helpless it watched as the people slowly faded into obscurity.

The smell of the sea masks the stench of the tragedies that lie below the lost land,

where the pitter patter of children once echoed.

Sometimes I visit and let my tears flow,

sit in the shade, walk the sands that were once gardens, leaving no traces behind.

I step into the sea and let it caress me in its beckoning arms of water,

I disappear.

The lost land, a story that I am part of, it was my home.

I close my eyes once more,

destined to wander these waters forever.

I'm not sure when I'll visit again.

What it Means to be a Mother ...

What it means to be a mother ...

There are not enough words to describe this queen,
she is more than a shoulder on which we lean.
In her nest she sits, while we take shelter under her wings,
and when the tiger shakes the tree, she softly sings.
She doesn't sing a warning, she doesn't show her fear,
she shows us everything is alright, because momma is so near.
She protects us fiercely like a swan on the lake,
and she would give up everything, just for our sake.
We are her children, she governs us with instinct,
and no one will trespass into her precinct.
A mother's love transgresses, it is distinct,
and even when she passes, it is all but extinct.


What it means to be a mother ...

She is there for any situational crisis,
preventing enzymes from taking us via lysis.
She's the one we look up to, because she has a cabinet of spices,
she's doesn't use riddles, like my metaphorical devices.
She gives freely, she doesn't believe in prices,
she advises us of the fate of six number dices.
She celebrates our moments, our cakes full of slices,
she dissipates the darkness that instigated our vices.
She knows how to give, and exceeds what suffices,
she exposes the cloaking of all that entices.
She soothingly applies ointment to the scars we may bear,
she makes it alright and lovingly strokes our hair.
She tells us stories so that we may have imaginations,
she feeds our dreams, to make real our aspirations.

What it means to be a mother ...

From her womb we came, mewling little babies,
created by emotions, crying "please save me".
A woman she is and that's not a question,
she is my mother, and that's a confession.
As her children, we are her obssession,
being a mother, is her fulltime profession.
9 months she bore us, she took on the pain,
and when we were in her arms, she didn't look at us in vain.
She smiled down at us, while we cried in this new air,
she kissed our cheeks and said "there, there."
When we outgrew her arms, she was still our asylum,
bearing our tears with the strength of a xylem.
When she takes care of us, she feels truly content,
and the corners of her lips begin an upward ascent.
The years trickle by, her age in descent,
but her love for her children, is hundred percent.
Her sacrifices invisible, don't know the extent,
"Mother", is a language that I can't hope to attempt.






What it means to be a mother ...

The Blanket of Irony

As the moon emits an effervescent glow and the clock strikes twelve,
an uneasy chill persists, seeps in through every crack- the tangible cold that dwells.
The bones of ice, held together by sinewy cartilage- cannot be thawed,
for the dragon's breath, is the sunshine that is flawed.
See the lustrous heat, shimmers in waves and drifts in flakes,
as the frosted soul of life shivers and quakes.
A cocoon of comfort, the warmth of a blanket is why a baby sleeps,
as the infant makes an indistinct noise, dreams but does not weep.
There are many ironies, that is what I know,
but who can keep warm under a blanket of snow?

The Echo of the Anemone

To build a wall, one does not need to be a bricklayer,
to play a game, one does not need to be a trick player.
There are ways to achieve without taking the worn path,
even equations won't explain this complicated math.
The betrayal of soliders on the blood of the motherland,
bounded by the same oceans but staining different sands.
Inside, pumping blood to the beat of the drummer,
the vessels break, these pipes ain't fixed by the plumber.
Each drop that falls, another victory against the casualty,
casually a casualty, but what happened actually?
Unable to forget, this ain't USB memory,
the memory an entity, an endless anemone.
The anemone poisons, its a life long enemy,
and each victim looks up and says "why you ain't telling me?"

The past, present and future echo in our echo,
when our pleas go unheard, we hear the echo, "let go".
Mind over matter is why these atrocities are committed,
while the truth is omitted, the soldiers are acquitted.
The voices from the past linger but not permitted,
transmitted intel,  but nothings admitted.
Reports are submitted, yet the lies are knitted,
the defected piece of the puzzle- it ain't ready to be fitted.

The tears have made wet, the dry riverbeds,
the valleys are full of our liver and heads.
When the plundering starts, our livelihood is gone,
even the invaluable heirlooms that once stood and shone.
When the raping starts, its the song of screams,
and now the dress is ripping right at the seams.
When the murdering starts, there is no pity or care,
bodies, tears and a lot of blood to share.
Genocidal values or the indifference of the being,
that's what being a human being is truly meaning.

Under the Rocks by the Lake

I knew it was going to rain, when I saw the expression,
spiralling out of control she was in a depression.
This is the underworld, but it wasn't Hade's place,
it was ruled by the shadows of the gangster face.
To strive alive, she strove hard to survive,
as they sought to deprive her of all and connive.
She was shown no mercy, it was all so live,
she was exploited by the bees for the honey in her hive.
She was an object of desire by no choice of her own,
on fire, perspire, her work made her moan.
In this darkness she waited, afraid and alone,
but she held out hope for a time to go home.
She was missed by no one, it was as if she never were,
in silence she took it in, but she screamed for sure.
It was by chance that I stumbled upon her story,
and immediately I was drawn to her with a worry.
I was in the area, but I was not here for the honey,
she came over to give, in exchange for my money.
Yet she soon realized, I wasn't there for her meat,
so she got in my car, and she sat in my seat.
We started to meet often, I think I was in love,
she told me stories, that gave my reality a shove.
In the dead of the night, we would sit on the rocks,
she preferred the lake, for our moonlight talks.
She told me of a story of a woman taken away,
hidden in the world where the light doesn't stray.
She said it was her friend that disappeared one day,
5 years ago, she was taken to play.
It was of this story she often talked the most,
it was only later I realized that she was a ghost.
5 years ago, she vanished as if into air,
but she was an escort, so who really cared?
Under the rocks by the lake, her killers hurried,
where we sat and talk, is where she was buried.
She searched far and wide for someone to care,
about where she had gone and how she had fared.
Under the rocks by the lake, I came to listen,
but today I was here on a different mission.
I found the remains that were ravaged by time,
but the clock was the rapist only after the crime.
I was her rock and she's buried with me,
she gave me her sorrow, she told me her plea.
Under the rocks by the lake, while the moon is still bright,
she has faded away, she is no longer in sight.

The Werewoman

There is so much focus on person's appearance that there other face which resides within them is often ignored. The beguiling beauty of many people has caused problems for those that are not wary. It may take them seconds or even years, before they realize the true nature of these beauties. The face within may not be human at all and that is the moment reckoning. This is not to say those that are beautiful are not of good heart but a pretty face does not always equate a pretty heart. Of course I also love werewolves. So what is the poem about then? You decide.

The terrible, incessant wailing of a woman,

reminiscent of a Banshee, the call of the demon. 

Shatters the porcelain glass of silence,

the barriers around this unnatural violence.

It's hastily erected, this perfunctory illusion,

infected, defected, this lady's delusion.

The reflected conflict is now an intrusion,

the mirror deflected, this uneasy conclusion.

Arousal red cheeks, lips of roses,

the long hair of darkness, the warning that closes.

Luscious, delicious, the appealing prey,

every man and animal will want her today.

Unknown reasons, is what makes this lady cry,

small in age but understands- "to die".

Shrouded in mist, her evaporating tears,

the shadows cackle at her increasing fears.

The moon is out, the stars are shining,

in the stillness of this forest, she still is whining.

The hyenas step forward, it is time to eat,

or the wolves will come for this precious meat.

The hyena's bay, the call to the prey,

"I'm going to kill you", is the what the voice would say.

They descend at speed, to where the lady will lie,

the need and the greed allow the hyena's to fly.

Still the lady screams, as the hyena's laugh,

the moon is at full, tis the hyena's gaffe.

The hyena's mocking increases in sound,

the lady can sense that these creatures are around.

The pack comes in, panting for the kill,

now the time has come for the blood to spill.

The pack forms a circle, as the lady stands,

quiet and silent, she is ruler of these lands.

For her face is changing, the fur growing strong,

the hyena's can sense, that all has gone wrong.

Her breasts disappear, her eyes turn yellow,

the beauty of this woman, is no longer so mellow.

Fangs appear, sharp and ready,

on her claws, she appears to be steady.

The moon of her eyes start to wane,

turning the colour of blood that will stain.

The hyena's sprint, as her transformation is near finished,

the predator in the hyena, seemingly diminished.

A howl at the moon, she sets off into the night,

and there she will prowl until the start of light.

She is complete, the transformation is done,

... beautiful women know how to stun.

The Senses - Part 2

This is part 2 of 'The Senses'. Part 1 was a similar poem to the one I have written below but the one below portrays 'Senses' in a different light. We can have sight, we can speak, hear, smell & touch,  or we may not have sight, be able to speak, hear, smell and touch. We're still human beings but what sets us apart is our vision, our voice, our ability to listen, our ability to pick up the right scent & to feel what is wrong & what it is right. We all have hearts but many are heartless- that's the truth.

The eyes can have sight but they may not have vision,

differences in blindness, determine this mission.

The mouth can speak, but may not have a voice,

the metaphorical tongue, is stealing this choice.

The ears can hear, but they may not listen,

having their own agenda, they create this prison.

The nose can smell, it may not pick up the scent,

used to the corrupt stink, the resources all spent.

The body can touch, but it may not feel,

as the emotions are stolen, the lives they'll steal.

The heartless person, still has a heart,

but they used their selfishness, for their start.

The sixth sense isn't psychic, it's being able to face;

a person's struggle is etched in their face.

The law says to live by the rules to placate,

those that would have us move and vacate.

The demise of the world, is in the hands of the people,

lacking their senses, they pray at the steeple.

See, Visonless choices, heartless and unhearing,

can't feel anything, is far from endearing.

The Last Beothuks - Part I

When alone in a world, where integration exists,

Shedding culture for culture will always persist.

Assimilating ideas & plagiarizing identities,

Reversal of both and there’s still no serenities. 

Shanawdithit, she was the Beothuk native,

'the last one standing', said the British legislative.

She was in Canada and Nancy April was her new name,

slaughtering her people, the British had no shame.

Renaming her was a tactic so she could become accepted,

the Terra Nova princess, she was sickly and infected.

Tuberculosis is what took her, suffering admist the strife,

but they said her infection, was the Beothuk way of life.

She did not reach thirty, she was the remains of a genocide,

her courageous people all fallen, to disease and homicide.

An extinct race now, only their stories live on.

for all those with memories, have long moved on.

Oblivion

Slave to the world, to the land and to the nation,
born into disease, without provocation.
The sadness infests, it ain't dysentery,
there's no end for the war, in this century.
Surrender to the violence, they call it motion,
this land got water- tears of the ocean.
Poverty, sovereignty, the devotional legacy,
stirring up the past of emotional ecstasy.
The tale of the man, he's standing next to me,
the world looks at him and says, "hey you're dead to me".
The anger and frustration, it's a burden to bear,
that's the toll for life, but see life isn't fair.
The chemical imbalances, can be blamed for war,
but it is our values that truly determine our core.
They say carbon is the basis for all life forms,
what is the basis of societal norms?
Third world countries still face a hunger fight,
we examine third world planets, like that's our plight.
The innocent in cells, it's always the night,
we're upset when we lose an hour of light.
They climb trees for coconuts, that's their height,
we're higher up, because we can afford the flight.
They don't have doctors, so they lose their sight,
we buy contacts, so we look alright.
The rich of the poor, they play with a kite,
we need music and movies, for us to feel right.
Backed in a corner, their situation is tight,
do we care? "if it's here, we might"
People starve and go on hunger strikes,
do we care? "how many facebook likes?"
To explain this scientifically, let me go by the book,
then maybe these people, will take a good look.
See biologically speaking, we are all related,
the land was populated, when our ancestors mated.
See when humans were created, DNA had genes,
so chemically it says we all came from the queens.
Our walk is the same, we move physically,
our motion is the science of physics typically.
We are the same species, we appear the same,
society shouldn't look at colour and name.
The world is a chess board, but this isn't a game,
checkmating the pawns, doesn't make for fair game.
We are oblivious, that is neglect,
we're all wrong and that's what's truly correct.

The Woman Called Lolo, Part 1 - 10 Years into Mist

Even when sleeping the mind is awake;

unbeknownst to him, his thoughts have a meeting. 

The doors close-they deliberate, proliferate and then create dreams that resemble little of where they started from.

The origins are there; the maker of this tapestry has left his signature but has given no map to find it.

The sleeping mind wanders the turbulent sea, yet it flies in the sky on a dragon, for the debate is raging on as imagination takes the reins of the horse that gallops forward.

There in the shadows, a fair maiden awaits,

exchanging pleasantries with her,

as the chemistries take place.

The euphoric emotions, leave him with notions that cause an illustrious yet unbidden smile to slowly disturb the sleeping 'facade' that graces his face, every night.

In this moment he is awake in another world; a secret his mind conceals from him.

As he blinks, the fair maiden is pierced by an arrow and silently she drops to the ground- sorrow etched on her face, like a scar that cannot be healed.

 She dissipates into mist, drifting off to realms unknown.

Fear courses through his veins and he realizes that on Earth, he is truly sleeping.

The mind can no longer hide this secret, for he is now weeping.

Desperately he struggles to awaken before he must face death's dance,

as the twang of a bowstring echoes in the near distance.

In that moment before death, he awakens on Earth, his mind still alert, yet asleep in his dreams.

His eyes are moist, his mouth parched.

"Lolo?" he says trembling.
10 years it has been.

The fair maiden- someone he had once seen.
He has found the signature of the weaver of this tapestry,
it is signed in his writing but not in his name.
...A first, middle & last name ...
Lolo is dead.

Sleeper's Eyes

I find that poetry is an art form that can effectively create the illusion that my feelings are by any means- interesting. While my poetry ranges from freeverse to rhyme, my more recent work portrays a message of some sort. The themes vary from poem to poem but I have chose this poem in particular to briefly discuss. "The Sleeper's Eyes", discusses how people see what they want to see in order to make life bearable. They see grandiose illusions that appeal to the weaker part of their mind that wills these illusions to become true. Even a deer must see past the yellow grass illusions of the deserts to realize that a tiger lurks behind the stalks, waiting to pounce.

Even when a awake, many are still asleep,
reality is their slumber, they're still dreaming deep.
They cannot see, but they stare with their eyes,
at the masks we wear, at the tongue that tells lies.
Yet it passes by them, the ghost that cannot be seen,
high on our pedestal, haunted by our dreams.
The nuances of our life, tangled in a knot,
sleeping in oblivion, in this illusion of a cot.
'We stand above all', is the thought in our head,
but you're lying down, because you're still in bed.
Are we all equal? That remains to be seen,
see we're all average and that's what I mean.

Yet even the average person, has love in their heart,
still sleeping, when they say 'till death do us apart'.
The average person, does not love any more,
and it is this dream, that makes people so poor.
For when truly awake, the lover hears,
the sobs, the cries and the drowning tears.
'When the rain from your eyes, ceases to exist,
my being deceased will cease to persist.'

See the words of a person, who is truly awake,
will always reflect what is truly at stake.
But the eyes are open, they've closed their mind,
covering the windows- yes they're blind.
Vision is chosen, it is free will,
witnessing murder, but 'no blood was spilled'.
Call it a dream or a pleasant nightmare,
the clock ticks the time, warning to be aware.

If we ever do awaken, we will write a fable,
of how we all dined at the very same table.
If we ever do awaken, we shall see a fight,
a sight that can only be seen with sight.

The Senses - Part I

The human mouth, it is made to speak, But the words spoken, are truly too weak. For equality is preached from gender to race, But judgment is passed on the colour of face. The revulsion in the eyes, of those that see colour, Take away our luster and we become much duller. But see it’s the human ear, that hears and listens, And that’s why our tears will always glisten.
And it’s the human heart that was made to feel, And that’s why we will always be made to kneel.

Visionless Words

I speak words that I write,

that people listen to and touch with their hands,

as if the eerie silence is tangible.

The sun sets; the crimson of my veins grace the sky,

the violet flowers bloom as the sapphire recedes,

and the darkness slowly descends.

 My shadow comes out,

following me, listening to my every word,

as I stare at this nameless outline of me.

In the morning, the sun rises,

I speak words that I write,

that people listen to and touch with their hands,

but my words can't help me see ...

my shadow.

Destitute Destiny

*This work borders more on rap than it does poetry. The 6 poems I've written have all been of varied styles.

I'm sick of sickness, it's like a disease,

provoking for change but still trying to please.

I'm not a doctor, I'm not a nurse,

but I see how this world, has gotten worse.

What's my comparison, I haven't lived long,

forever is not needed, for the world to be wrong.

Looking in a mirror, I see my reflection,

to others their reflection, is a visual infection.

Their inspection is flawed, it's what's wrong with this world,

Lacking direction, like straight hair to curled.

Making corrections, it's their insanity,

when things don't work out, it's all profanity.

Then there are those that compare grass to roses,

infatuated within, a facade of poses.

Pity to pity, or misplaced vanity,

Judgmental and cruel, it's called humanity.

I don't speak for anyone, I just illustrate,

what an artist can't paint, is what I imitate. 

Initiate a war, that's our history,

it's all the bloodshed, that's really the mystery.

Taking control has been the primary reason,

"off with your heads," said the man of treason.

See the gold and the silver doesn't fulfill the greed,

it's diamonds that's apparently everyone's need.

Talk to the farmer who can plant a seed,

his crop is the only honest deed.

But it's the honest folk, that always dies,

behind the lies, you can hear their cries.

There will always be someone, greedier than the last,

it's another chapter in our past.

This earth was built on water, sun and air,

it never asked for a human to care.

Yet we tainted it's water, stole all of it's nature,

made it bow to us, eliminated its stature.

Despite all of this it continues to be earth,

Our mother, our land, our place of birth.

She's seen too much, she's stained with sorrow,

we're always taking away someone's tomorrow.

We are her children, yet we resent each other,

skin colour does not make you my family or brother.

This is our past, present and our future for years,

shedding tears like snake skin, only for our fears.

See we kill salmon, herring and all kinds of fish,

but we fail as humans, when we don't kill selfish.

This is our reality, this is our life,

that pain in your back? it is a knife.

See when I started this rhyme, you were fine,

but things changed when you read the last line,

it's been a few minutes but you've been stabbed in the back 

and that's why humanity will never be on track.

The Woe Queen

Wind swept hair, obsidian eyes,
beguiling pools, a thousand lies.
Honeyed words, from caressing lips,
bloody allure, mesmeric hips.

Adorned in snow, blooming in rain,
each step taken, another's pain.
Ancient in age, a delicate primrose,
a seductress, a temptress, a Queen of all woes.

A silken dress, the cocoon of a moth,
hue of her eyes, the onyx cloth.
It moves with the rain, the breeze and snow,
an ebony stream, that continuously flows.

A drifting feather, in silence she comes,
a voice of the past, is what she's become.
The harbinger of death, the charming black widow,
an exquisite spectre, a disguised minnow.

Hypnotic gaze, a pandora's box,
to be enamored, to be mocked.
Barefoot she ventures, she walks this earth,
to avenge, revenge, an antique birth.

Not a drop reaches her, as the skies well up,
her face never seen, unless all time is up.
When the skies calm, she is not here,
but the Lady in Black will always be near.

Winter's Child

Winter's Child

To live a dream, was to have a normal life,
a childhood devoid of any strife.
To live a nightmare, was to be all alone,
starving for love, all skin and bone.

There was a child, who couldn't sleep,
who couldn't dream, who couldn't weep.
She couldn't drink, she couldn't eat,
all she had were her own two feet.

A pretty child, a flower of five,
a miracle that was she was still alive.
She wore rags of poverty, but she had a voice,
her dulcet tones, her livelihood choice.

Her lilting song, unmatched by any other,
but for the love, that comes from a mother.
Her lullabies charmed all those around,
the humming bird's notes, now a tuneless sound.

In her small, dainty hands, she clenched a cup,
she was a child, but she'd already grown up.
Closing her eyes, she would sing with her smile,
and not a person could judge, this sweet little child.

In her cup, the coins started to fall,
as she continued, her melodious call.
At the days end, she counted her earnings,
she needed to satiate her hunger yearnings.

10 dollars within, it was enough to eat,
all she needed was a bit of meat.
She started to walk, she heard a cry,
unlike her song, this voice would die.

As if a duet, another cry pierced the air,
limitless misery, for everyone to share.
She followed the sounds, it was a sight to see,
a boy and his mother, cold and hungry.

She sings for them, quelling their fears,
she kisses them gently, wiping their tears.
She gives them her cup and she goes on her way,
she did not know, who she met today.

Staring at her back, is this mother of one,
as her daughter recedes in the setting sun.
A winter frost, settles that night,
a starving flower, a wilted plight.

In the morning, she is found,
no more song, no more sound.