I'm glad that they don't see me much,
'cause they'd blame me for all the sins.
I healed a man with single touch;
They called me witch forever since.

They don't remember countless times
when they got help with no payback.
They hate me after — mind you — once
I forced a man out of my shack

and he went missing. Folks assumed
that witch's the perfect one to blame.
I clearly pictured me entombed
as they were screaming like insane

to **** me, break my house down.
As if that drunckard on his pat
could not get lost in swamp and drown
while running scared by a bat.

Whole town is against me now.
Whole but a lonely little maid.
I think for that i shall endow
her, if she's not afraid.

I'll grant her powers I possess,
No secrets I will left consealed,
She will control this evil place
And hopefully, it will be healed.

Those people's hatred gave a birth
to evil essense in this land.
Without my kin it will unearth,
Against its wrath they won't withstand...

But I will leave this cursed lands.
I'll be accused for curse as well,
as noone here understands:
I did not cast, I curbed that spell...

Sweet knight.
Sweet, silent knight.
I see you when you don't look at me.
You have tired eyes in a castle,
and though you call it salvation,
that blue light wont protect them.
And those hands gloved in mail-
they are not only meant
to grip cold connection.
You may have forgotten
amongst the digital clutter
but your sword is pen.
Quit confusing it with distraction.
Drop your devices and mechanisms
that you use for isolation.
Hold this plea as your new prayer,
even if it's only a whisper.
Make something.
I don't expect greatness,
but when you dress your wounds
in hesitation and use your insecurities
as your armor-
all I can ask is that you make something.
Harness your fear as your steed-
and ride it with ink as you need.
Please just make something.
There are hours in the day spent on
words never said because
those tired eyes are at a stand-still
on a sheet of electronic nonsense,
and you tremble with your shield
of self-doubt.
A block's only a battle,
Don't lose the war to online addiction,
cell phone conversations in meaningless text,
there's more left in your creative conviction.
I see it when you don't look.
Sweet knight,
you are the one in my mind
that is there to save me with your speech
I beseech you,
*Make something.

Oh, to cast my eyes
On someone as elegant
As she must be

To touch
Something as angelic
As the fingers she dangles
So nonchalantly from the opening
Of the chariot
She rides

Oh sweet beauty
Would that you were mine to hold.

What I would do
For the chance to see that face
The one so many look over
And pass by
Every day

Simple fools they must be
To pass by
The face that must out-shine
Even the stars

On one of those
Lovely fingers
Resides a ring

It symbolizes eternity.
Who was the giver of this gift?
Oh, gods above,
Do not let someone else have stolen
The heart
Of this angel.

Have mercy on me
A peasant
Pining over
This woman.

You should be
The one with a crown
My darling
The one wearing jewels
And many lovely gowns

And yet
Alas
You were born a servant
Doomed
To be overlooked

Though you are more beautiful
Than the sun.

Be still my heart,
My soul

My darling, I beg of you to have me
For I can clearly see
Though your face be veiled
That you, indeed are glorious
In your beauty.

Cheers to vines climbing up the wall getting cozy with chimney

She who lives in
Darkness and in light
Entertaining her precious soul
While dancing in the flames
Flaring in the depths of her mind
Master of thought
Commander of thought
Dreamer of cloud height dreams
Fantasizer of dreams shrouden in black smoke
Eyes as receptors to the world
The black hallowed earth around her
She walks this black earth
She who is
The Hallowed Maiden

My Mother called my Grandmother a  "***** Gypsy" a long time ago
I never knew what it meant until I gave that part of my heritage a go

The Romani left India about 1,500 years ago, traveling, running ever since
The White people of the Medieval Ages hated them, at their very presence they took offense...

In some areas of Europe it was a common practice to mutilate the woman, **** and stolen kisses
And they branded the men with hot pokers... Who can understand this?

They were forbidden to speak in their native tongue
Yet their songs of joy and laughter are still sung

a facsimile of happiness
a continuous depression filled with interludes
of sunsets shimmering off loving eyes


          neither logic nor morality warm beds
          so we keel over, head long into midnight streets
          groping for lips to kiss
              ears to listen
                 hands to caress
                   ******* to obliterate


for Newton's apple to drop
or Buddha's lotus to blossom
for Gabriel's sword to rip chests open


       some are enslaved to absolute subjectivity
                                  a tattered rag flapping on the wind
                       they are forever drowning drowning drowning
             dooming any who dive in to save


                        they can not step back and observe the play
                        they are the play: the king, the jester, the soldier
                         the longing maiden, bitter spinstress, sword-smith's daughter
                         the prideful hero or stubborn villain
                         the country bumpkin chopping wood
                         the raving madman in the wilderness
                        
                             ­       

          oblivious to the back-drop or matrices
            the paradigms of passion
             the translucent chemical pulleys
            the perpetual violations of history
              ******* them

                even in the womb


the birth of an idea is the most wondrous phenomenon
the booming I AM forever resounding
it is a big-bang of metaphysical splendor
it is the unity of art-science-religion
the holy trinity of being

The faceless young woman
Who lives in my house
Is rare as a spirit to see.
She hides inside mirrors
And chillies the room,
But it hasn't been bothering me.

Although she's not social
And odd to the eye,
She often has some kind of glow.
And one time over tea
She spoke slowly of
The time that she spent down below.

She had lived through the plague
And the crusades and more
But died one black day of a noose.
For the people, she said,
Back then and e'er since
Found women with voices obtuse.