In the candle of the eye
Doth love find its light.
A flickering flame
Inscribes upon warmth, meaning.
May a woman be my wick
The wax of passion to run evermore.
The formlessness of burning
Imprisoned by a glowing in the eye.
A red mist of wanting
Descends on each new dawn of the mind.
The shallow nature of love
Projects shape onto the spirit of life.
From the poet of the night
We learn to love,
By the candle of the eye
Under the crescent moon and starry nights.
But in irony of ironies
He himself be blind.
The sun doth burn
Bright, scorching by daylight
Feet charred on dusty roads
Travelled by harlots through time,
To be ravaged and yet love
Meaning lost to the folly of a fire’s light.
When the trees rustle
By the breeze of a lover’s sigh
Does the candle flicker
But never die
For love is far too shallow
To be extinguished by anything of life.
To the perfect human faculties
Does it present the grandest of lies,
To love what we know not
By the candle in the eye,
Loving but ourselves
Until we are blind.
by Haemophiliac...
...finished 29/08/06
Tuesday 29 August 2006
Saturday 8 July 2006
When You are Old and Grey
The world exists, in shades of grey
You dance in colour, black roses decay.
For in their red, jealousy bleeds
Till their beauty be run, by your feet.
The oak tree so brown, now a weeping willow
In the autumn of envy, leaves no more green.
The sun is beside me, sickly and pale
The moon red with anger, to covet each day.
Suitors aplenty, robed and silver clad
The poets all silent, inspiration is dead.
Beauty is too easy, so they throw love your way
I wait in teary rains, till you are old and grey.
Though the world may break me,
I shall break me not.
I may lie ruined, clasping at your thoughts
But love keeps me noble, when nobility I am not.
They will dance with you, whilst you are supple
And kiss tender lips, soft to the touch.
When your taste is sweet, and your womb fertile
They will love you, as they ought.
I want not picture, nor your prose
But only a promise, a simple heart’s words.
To these I shall cling, until you are old
When they want you no more, I shall unfold.
When the wind is no more, than a summer’s breeze
A welcome respite, puts lovers at ease.
In the passion of youth, shall you be theirs
When beauty is all you posses, in innocent years.
I shall sit whilst gales howl, and drown out my heart’s screams
In a solitude of hope, wait and dream.
Heroes too man, valour too few
True love is to suffer, only martyrs knew.
To give without exception, when they lie with you
By candle-light windows, painful silhouettes of images blue.
Dark clouds descend, on the brightest of rays
I sit in puddles, through your summer days.
Losing to all, that are not me
Most painful of all, is but losing thee.
But now you are young, in heaven’s gardens you bloom
So they all come, to pick the petals from you.
I wait an eternity, for the day
When I shall have but your stem, when you are old and grey.
I have read great poems, picked out for you
But you care not for poetry, in your youth.
You lust for adventure, upon grand ships you sail
I have but the ocean’s waves, at which to stare.
By sea shores I pick shells, when for pearls you long
I cannot fight truth, I do not belong.
But with time, I have struck an accord
And for a fate, have sold a soul.
It matters not, for pride went before
When looking for love, be not clothed.
So I wait in agony, all alone
Breaking each day, but refusing to grow old.
Therefore see me not, let them all have their turns
Find yourself, if for yourself you yearn.
When the clock unwinds, its hands shall I clasp
Your beauty is gone, my hour at last.
With bare feet broken, shall I traverse your heart to claim
The little girl I once knew, when you are old and grey.
By Haemophiliac…
Wednesday 28 June 2006
We Never Had Our First Fight
Red roses still fresh
Scissor cut stems immersed in clean, cold water.
A warm body naked,
Under almost fresh, white sheets.
Forming a solid silhouette,
Over my muse of infatuation.
The late morning sun,
Smashing on the curtains,
Pounding on locked doors,
For a glimpse of my world.
The birds disturb this calm,
And I’m sure somewhere wild flowers bloom.
A decaying night,
But a vivid blur.
Wounds on my body
The only proof,
Against a heart denying
A perspective truth.
There are places and moments in this world,
That one could confuse for heaven…
Perhaps even forsake it for,
A single red rose reminds me.
Tapestries untouched,
Woven in silk and the finest garments.
I find myself viewed,
By none but me.
Colours vivid,
Without the clear light of day.
A spectator,
In my own play.
The ceilings were high,
Enough for demons to view.
The carpet smooth,
Underfoot.
Sitting beside the late morning bed,
I watched her dream.
Hoping that perhaps even one flicker of an eyelid,
May be for me.
There is a modest kitchen,
A toilet and living room.
A grand television,
Books on art, poetry, and Russian.
But I know nothing,
Beyond these walls.
Counting crows lie awake in perfect blue buildings,
While I stare in an almost empty apartment room.
In inspiration,
The world does not exist.
She sleeps in a peaceful slumber,
Ignorant to the appreciation wasted her way.
She will wake uncaring,
Of poetry written in her name.
How I wish she were a virgin,
So I could have known her in only the purest manner.
My hands still smell of her,
I keep them close to me.
I can still taste her,
So I refuse to eat.
A dying romantic,
Kept alive by mere moments alone.
Paintings destroy their artists,
And music their composers.
They leave me with words,
When I long to live through you.
The curtains pulled back,
All doors unlocked.
The light is too bright
For my eyes.
I can see everything,
When I longed to see none.
Sitting motionless,
Whilst in tears she dressed.
Covering for the last time,
All that was mine.
No breakfast together,
It is not fitting.
Under the spring white flowers,
Of small supple trees,
We kissed goodbye,
And I looked at her for the last time.
Walking away in silence, smiling
For we never had our first fight.
By Haemophiliac…
Who Should Care if a Kestral Sings
Who should care if a kestrel sings,
For it is not a dove.
Who should cry when a mare ensnared,
A unicorn she is not.
A virgin shorn of beauty,
Innocence no longer untouched.
The sky is pale, evenings blood red,
Stars trampled underfoot.
A romantic dies, as poets recite,
Martyrs without a cause.
And who should care if a kestrel sings,
For she is not a dove.
by Haemophiliac...
... finished 28/06/06
Friday 23 June 2006
Let Her Go
A tempest flares
In an age of storms.
At a maiden I stare,
When only women roam.
Coarse poetry replaced,
With vulgar prose.
It is not the time for me,
Let her go.
The world conjures riddles,
Whilst I quote rhymes.
They love for status,
When I long to be blind.
And who can give more,
Than a beggar?
In love we receive,
When we have nothing.
A cloak remains soaked,
Without footprints.
Sonnets by quills,
Lie unread, and so unwritten.
Love knows not love,
It only sees prisons.
It is not the time for me.
Let her go, let her go.
In an age when blood sickens,
Too much of it we see.
So when love cries profusely,
They all look away.
From a duel I lay slain,
In the age of murder.
They arrest the man,
Who would fight for your honour.
When a dozen roses arranged,
Are more beautiful than but one picked flower,
In this time did I find you,
Let her go, let her go.
When street lights protrude,
I stare at moonlight.
And when lamps bath rooms with silhouettes,
I flicker by starlight.
I hear a wolf baying,
Amongst the murmur of street life.
How else could you find my taste so bitter,
Let her go, let her go.
In structures now modern,
I sit and stare.
At works timeless,
For I was with you there.
The clock recedes,
And before art we are one.
By Velasquez alone now,
Let her go, let her go.
by Haemophiliac…
23 June 2006.
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