Initialled here, a message lies.
Longing for you, my heart flies.
Orchestrations there at play,
Violin and piano softly sighs –
Elevates the spirit beyond what may.
Yearning for love, that never dies;
Om i say, metta i pray
Until such time as our demise.
All and any thing before my eyes,
In it i see your face as overlay.
Jolts me awake each morn’ i arise
And when i rest at end of day.
Sweet, delicious bramble fruit;
So wild, untameable and free,
Made from darkest red bubbles.
You give my heart troubles.
Alas you are no longer for me.
Your taste like treasure and loot;
Rich, succulent, quenching juice
Made from the nectar you bear,
A flavour so wonderfully rare.
Woe now i must pull you loose.
Staunch, resilient blackberry root;
Diving deep in the soil,
Spikes guarding above and under.
Now I work to tear you asunder,
A labour with which i toil.
After, the earth burnt as soot;
Tears turning all to mud,
A scene horrifyingly full of gore.
I am lost, broke, beaten and sore,
Hands raw with blood.
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I know what I feel. I know it is real.
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Everywhere i look,
All that i can see,
The time it has took,
Reminding always me,
Like a mental hook,
Haunting my memory,
Stuck in every nook,
Tragic number three.
On the field he lays fallow,
premonitions of the gallow.
Amidst veined flowers of mallow,
on back does he wallow.
In mourning releases bellow,
this empty, lost fellow;
seeking a caress soft and mellow,
gazing at sun of yellow.
Head upon grassy pillow,
lifting from shade of willow.
Sees anew his path to follow,
a life broad but hollow.
Today i see spiders gliding on their silk strings.
One more thing that causes me to think of you.
Now i lie down to watch
The sunset – yellow, white and blue.
I am a beautiful person. The comments for your help. I have been.
The list. I will let us help. If I was just the thing to say about it and I will have the same.
I am not a good time. The only way I could have a good time.
The comments on the way to go to our General, but the page, and the Three days ago save money by you, and a few days ago. I will work with a bit of the Crown Estate, but I think I have to do it for the first place, and a few days ago.
now in this age,
we’re not rats in a race,
but chickens in a cage –
the reality to face
day by day by day.
so life is brisk,
and sounded by tick,
but counted by risk –
the path to pick
way by way by way.
A little light
for feeling slight
during day’s end
to make mend.
This pillow with a heartbeat,
even produces his own heat;
though everything he does eat
with a preference for meat,
yet is kind and sweet.
This rug with head and tail,
tethered like in a jail;
his escape is without fail
making the heart to sail,
setting his own trail.
Pierce Beckett 