Fortune Shares Her WheelMore Like This
The mirror shall not be my best friend,
After it renders me this one last look,
Of ice, and mist, and delusional fog,
Wherein lies my desired alter ego,
Mocking my patheticness with its cold
contracting eyes awash with tears.
Even my name begins to weep for me,
'Pon this frosty window pane.
Icy jewels tread the path that my fingers
chose to take,
While Mistress Fate and Fortune fight,
Crying; 'Yea, yea, he must rise!" Spin, my wheel, spin!'
and Mistress Fate will hitch a ride, departing
only where Fortune decides her luck shall reside.
For which Mistress does have the right,
To place us where she may, and
Of our mishaps laugh, our downfall delight,
And leave us no choice but to say;
'Nea, nea, here I shall stay. Be gone ye harpies,
breathe not down my neck,
Let warmth creep back to my window pane,
She Writes Her Own Tragedy13/08/05More Like This
She was prettier without the pain.
She had long, chestnut curls that only shone when she was happy.
She had eyes like two stars, that would light the darkest of rooms, (if the sun
was shining soft on that other place),
and a petite button nose that she used to rub when she got into trouble,
as she would cast her eyes to the ground and shuffle her feet.
And it was then I'd catch that glint in her eye, and she'd pull a cheeky smile...
But do you see her now?
She was much prettier without the pain.
At 7 she was already a ballet queen,
And a match for any boy at boxing.
She had a strut that she'd show only to me,
And a trail of innocent, blissful nescience that followed
her everywhere she would go.
But do you see her now?
Where is my little mignon? My mimi?
No, she was much prettier without the pain.
She had her first kiss at 10, for her birthday. A young boy called
Kevin was the recipient, he had just given her a present
Free-Fall ThoughtsBad times are always shoved aside,More Like This
To a place so far away,
Of vaults immense, our thoughts in suspense,
Keeping memories of when we cried.
Collecting dust they lie, undisturbed,
As we slowly build on this collection,
This character investment, this development direction,
Something to tell us who we are,
Like lost, little lambs, we follow,
The tail in front of our nose,
Until it leads us to the fiery gates of Sin,
And our curiosity burns us like the cat that strayed, so we begin
To see clearly through,
That mist tinted silver that is oh! so thick,
The machinations that set our sights askew,
As a bullet strikes the barrel, it jars-
And a sparrow falls dead; without ever feeling sorry for itself.