II. A Thirst Begun, A Thirst Quenched

'If Death be the ultimate parting, I wish you immortality. And if death be the start of a new life, I shall run you with a dagger this instant.' 

Tell your Gods it is not them I defy - it is me they instigate!
They birthed within me an unquenchable thirst and took away my well.

The glorious gardens of my life became a forest of thorns,
And my Eden became unbearable; the thorns, my inescapable hell.

What misfortune to have one's love remain unrequited,
Further misfortune when Lady Fortuna made it so, that cunning belle.

For my lover knows naught of the passion that runs in abundance,
Within me, she won't hear me, the none of my bad luck I can tell.

You see, she lies cold in the earth, her heart no longer does beat.
To profess my rapture, I must join her - the Gods do so compel.

A Fire Ignited, A Fire Drowned

Curse the moon by which you swore your love,
For had she not changed, your affection would have remained.
Curse the sun by which you proved the fire of passion,
For displeased, he burned you and therein, your ardor waned.

And damn the seas by which you claimed the depths of devotion.
For fidelity succumbed 'neath salty waves.
Damned are the winds by which you whispered caresses,
For the tempest too, turned, and dug our graves.

Had you not trusted Cupid and Aphrodite,
The White Peony took you and bloomed as I wilted.
Had you not placed love in the womb of the Gods of Fate,
Then perhaps I might have been spared and not jilted.

You swore your love for me in haste,
Forgetting I was already betrothed to tragedy
My love became my woe as I too, disrememebered,
Falling into your fickle embrace - my love became a travesty.

A Morning Routine

Inspired by a few songs and a painting I chanced upon recently. 
This is an excerpt of a much larger piece. 


She sat at the dressing table, holding a small jewelry box. She opened it - the soft pop was the only sound in the large, airy flat. Nestled in the deep, violet velvet were two creamy pearls. Grazing one with her hand, she set the box down and walked over to the window, pushing it open. The sweet smell of a summer morning wafted in, rustling the curtains and fluttering her robe. The wind exposed her creamy flesh and bare breasts. Not bothering to cover herself up, she silently padded to the kitchen, setting her coffee to brew. She flung open the windows of the living room, taking in the stunning view of their balcony looking over the park. Pouring her coffee, she took a sip, and sighed to herself inwardly.

It was supposed to have been a busy six months. It had started off with longer hours, that slowly became an excuse to live a separate life. That had somehow translated itself into a busy six years. Six years of eating alone, sleeping alone, and waking up alone. Six years of communication through email, fleeting phone calls and hurried weekend morning conversations. If by chance, he was home, his study door always remained shut. Periodically however, she received gorgeous expensive gifts. Gifts that were ordered by his secretary, paid through his credit card and delivered by the butler.

She buttered her toast, recalling the last evening they'd spent together - a Christmas party at a friend's. They'd spent two hours in the same room - a miracle. They'd spoken briefly on the car ride home, and after disappearing into the study for a while, he'd come into the room just as she'd stepped out of the shower. They'd made love that night. Robotic love.

Nancy glanced at the oven clock and got up from the breakfast table. She cleaned her few dishes, shuddering as water droplets jumped on her bare stomach and thighs. Walking back to the bedroom, she paused only to slip off her robe and set it over the chair of her dressing table. She walked into the bathroom, pulling her hair up. Just in front of the bathrobe, on the dressing table, was a note, unmistakably not in his writing. It read:
Gone to Italy for a week.
Love you,
Tom.

The shower turned on, and the oven clock beeped: 7:01 am.

Arpeggio

[Disclaimer: Pink Floyd - Wish You Were Here]

So.

So you think you can tell.

Blue skies from pain.

Ever laid down on grass and watched the clouds float by?
I have.
Do you point out shapes too?
Oh, good, I'm not the only one.

Two lost souls.

The same old ground.

Do you make up stories about strangers when they pass by?
I do.
Are they romantic and tragic, Shakespearean in nature?
Yeah, mine too.

Have you ever walked down a crowded street and felt real lonely?
I have.
Do you get an achy feeling, that still feels good somehow?
Me too.

What have we found.

Same old fears.

Do you run away from your problems?
I do.
Do you hide under a blanket till they're all gone?
Yep, I do that too.

How I wish.

How I wish you were here.

So you think can tell.

A smile from a veil.

Humo y Cenizas

I rise and fall in a cloud of minty smoke.
Reverberating around me, my thoughts deafen me.
The city closes in-suffocating me,
And silently, I choke.

The cold cuts sharp; I am painfully aware.
My mind traces the pattern of my various thoughts,
Articulate, reasoned or just ugly blots-
I gasp out shaky air.

Ode to McGill

Melting pot.

No, tornado.

Incoherent thought,

Fake, genuine, bravado.


The small comforts of home,

Herded like a cattle into chaos,

Well, when in Rome....

Wait, you're telling me I'M my own boss?


Overwhelmingly exciting,

My little city on a hill,

With nerves I desperately cling,

My new home, my very own McGill.

The Tale of the Deathly Hallows

There was once a wizard well traveled,
Who commanded attention when he spoke.
With recounts of victorious duels that marveled,
His only shame was defeat against another magical bloke.

His brother, too, had his own deep grief,
The girl he had once hoped to marry-untimely dead.
Void of happiness, the man considered Death a thief,
Sorrow drove him mad; if only, if only, was all he said.

Their younger brother still, was a wise chap for his years,
He prized moral over magic and chose friend over foe.
With noble conviction in his heart, he walked with no fear,
He had little quarrels; his sweet temper bore no bruised ego.

These three brothers once chanced upon
A treacherous river, stalked by Death.
With a wave of their magical wands, Death was dealt a con,
A bridge upon which they walked, past Death, within the thinnest of breadth.

Death greeted the three wizards, with fraudulent compliments,
Offering a reward for their skilled sorcery,
'Name it, and you shall have it, O Kings of Valiance,'
He now meant to gain their lives through treachery.

The first, the master of duels immediately desired,
A wand so unmatchable, its owner would be omnipotent.
So Death fashioned the weapon from a tree; the brother by the power he acquired,
Boisterously parted; never thinking it wise to be prudent.

The second wished to humiliate Death further,
Asked to be able to return his dead to life.
'This will return to you who was taken by the Grim Reaper.'
Death assured the brother, with love he'd reunite, he'd have his loving wife.

The third brother had quietly watched all this transpire. 

He knew too well what tricks Death was up to. 

'Invisibility is the asset I wish to acquire,'

Death grudgingly parted with his own Cloak and bid him adieu. 

Seeking out and destroying his foe, the first brother, 

In a drunken stupor, made the secret of his weapon known.

As he slept, a thief stole his wand and slit his throat for good measure, 

And so, Death took the first brother for his own. 

The second brother turned his pebble three times over, 

And there appeared his lady love, not mortal nor was she ghostly,

Time passed and the girl's shadow grew dimmer and dimmer, 

She did not belong; and the brother took his life so as to join her truly. 

Having taken the second for his own, Death endlessly sought,
The third brother who lived quite peacefully; to Death he remained invisible,
Passing the Cloak to his son, the brother joined Death as he ought,
Greeted Death in old age, parting with him in this life, as an equal.

With the wand, the first brother's life ended in strife,
With the stone, the second brother drowned in his own sorrows,
With the cloak, the third brother lived a long and fruitful life,
With these three, becomes the tale of what we call the Deathly Hallows.