Muse (III)

At last, her spirit leaves me,

The humming, whirring copper cogs,

That life of mine- cast

where it lights that world beyond,

where her eyes are finer

than any pearl in measured light

my single heart could give.

She leaves me my magic,

A stern delusion, keeping me,

To see just beyond

where the pale water, branching,

can still carry us both.

Muse (II)

There she lies, unconcerned,

More lofty than the moon

for all she can never see-

in the deep depths of stars,

in this singular mask of night.

So far away, there

My sanctuary here,

The face that paints

the crystalline bite, the wind

in every word I write!

Still, faster the wings fly,

Faster the steadfast soul

of a time long misplaced-

Cooler blows the cloak,

So heavy around my heart

where sculptures live forever!

For a moment, I see

my whole world lifted,

A shard of glass,

Into that stream, that

other world of light-

A sky of watery pearls

closer than the elven-faced stars.

Muse (I)

Crisp wings of time, pulled

thin on rice paper skeletons

left in collecting jars,

Still fly past.

They await me, each nerve

a stroke of misplaced flourish,

Each artery beneath hard temples

pounding, pouring lines

like streams of water,

forcing through me,

and I am transparent.

Rushing through my filthy hands,

Ripping past the ragged spots, damned,

They wield pearls of light, lanterns

in liquid trickle- to another world.

Unlocking that Within

She laughs- a low, living noise
With wings, pulled from the aerie,
Long, ash thin legs
Hum-drumming, plucking
Strands of untouched sand;
Swish, to the lonely little wind,
Farewell once again.

Her eyes are stolen whirlpools-
The tide rises and falls
From a secret place
Where her cocoa shadow roses
Rise from little seeds,
The land but a ribbon, torn rashly,
Fading from the endless Blue.

This all wells in the soul, you see,
The truth of all that could befall
This great faraway shore,
A paradise, rising again and again,
Missing, dropping and picking
New refrains each time.

It

Beautiful, beautiful- we twirl
The intricately laced insides, shyly,
Until they cascade, flash
The ghosts of awkward and dumb.

This is the moment,
The pinnacle, the pain
Surging where we are not
As exactly as we be.

This is royalty- we make
A light way in this world,
Colors mixing mad, as we please,
Endless as borrowed time.

Mourning

What secrets lay forbidden and smiling,
Says the far back, the heart of hearts,
Spread, arms wide and clumsy,
So lushly open, yet mysterious?

A shy, shy matter- just eager
Running with the fount of life even
As it overflowed and gave
This all her bold, bold pleasure.

Now, to apologize,
To be shy, quiet
Once more.
The phantom of that happy
Place, she isn't ready to run away.

Tempter

Climbing, borrowing of the dark
its finest gems and stolen furs,
They lost and pass unseen.

Her wild, wild eyes, slip,
Fragilely tousled hair-
An overbloom of a dream
Who looks the other way.

For such common rarities,
The strings were long set, knotted
In dangerous parallel; the sky falls
And never quite picks up.

Shame? What Shame?

The refinement of a thousand years,
Her sweet ocean eyes glow
Empty as the pearly sky;
The fairest countenance, a blush
Near wasteful as the steady lace,
Seaming each and every virtue-
A hidden corset tied.

Perfect in every way,
My dignity finds solace
And no solace at all.

Enchantress

She strokes the finest stores of mind,
Sweet reservoir eyes, shining
hair a running river;
All but the scent, an exotic rose.

Her complexion swirls, brighter
Than any Indian summer night,
Two still lanterns wrapping coals
To a new, low strumming.

The spirits of the deepest fires
Forged her unapproachable charm-
Smiths lost in eternal sands
Wrought a beauty, so written,
For otherwise defeated nights.

Exposed

Right at my hands,
My mind has two halves
Pulled open- to rust, to mingle,
To suffocate each other (briefly).

The mysteries only tantalize,
Tempt at some endless possibility
Reveling in a dance of the dark.

In the light, all is quiet,
The chandelier still swings
A melancholy creak-
Another closed door lost.

Lost, Yet Found

Sweet mortal of her finest age,
Formed of finest shape-
A harmony, a goddess boasts
Beneath the veil and cape.

Fairest yet of face and flesh
Does grace on simple tongue,
Entangles unread passions,
(the wisest men are young).

Hands and hands, be handy,
They scarcely gift of price.
Like sand to pearl, come beauty sheen,
No finish would suffice.

Modern Belles

Venus truly rises, at her best
Amid no stars, no light-
She never found herself vain.

Beauty after beauty,
Night after night
Finds itself vanquished, thus-
One after another fights,
Tangles for the spotlight
(Where there is none).

The ground is littered, dusty
With those who glitter, yet
We all must look up.

Ring

Treading
tingles with rose blush
Revealed: no tipping corset wielding,
Or semblance of blue romance,
This hard vein of vanity proudly small.

My semblance of passion, of mistake
Left by Lady Lore, not ever a miss;
Pursed lips, withdrawn further
Will empty just the same.

It was made to be there, thin promise,
Pursuing the notion (just slip it in)
To catch old Folly next door!
Such youth, we are reminded.

Beauty

As I predicted, my creative juices ran wild and sour, and took a while to come back to me. I guess it's nice, finding the occasional relief from sanity. Still, it cannot last too long. I cannot always be alone, lest I fall to other fears and other things that I so despise when my mind is in a reasonable state. Why, did I not write the best of poems and such when I surrounded myself with sane company?

Yet, I know that I'm rather crazy. I took four depression symptoms tests yesterday online. Two of them found me severely depressed, while the other two said I was either mildly depressed or nothing to worry about. I didn't take that test because I was worried, though. I took the test because I read a blog about how people often are diagnosed and prescribed wrongly, making their eccentricity and beauty all go away just because it wasn't exactly what the majority of society expected.

Perhaps that's why I like dead flowers. Not dead, as in completely dead, but dying. Especially if such flowers are fake. They show themselves to be dying, and yet they're always alive, in their deaths. They're perpetually dying, and therefore perpetually changing and morphing. It's a strange phenomenon, to be still and yet changing. It's almost an idea, a spiritual idea that doesn't die until the beauty, the need to see the motion dies. Could that be called a graceful death?

Of course, the silk flower that sits in my room actually points toward the sun and is perpetually glowing in its golden-pink fading, as if it were made of light instead of mere silk. It grows lighter and lighter as it ages, until the pink that connects it to the living will be but a shadow: only in the dark. Not that it's a very noticeable change.

You see, now, how my mind and my physical presence are so contradicting. It's difficult, but I'm happy that it's so. Especially after a weekend of being one person both inside and out.

It's ironic that the quizzes told me I was extremely unlikely to have a dual personality, even if the symptoms sound so extreme.

Time to find some real "objective" beauty in the world, if my classes haven't stomped it all out of me yet. :[