CALM

can you stand alone
and speak, speak your mind out loud
are you hiding your heart
in the noise of the thumping radio
watching whatever you can
to keep it down
the noise the noise
the noise in your heart will
drown
you
if you listen to it
it is up to your ears in water
your ears your ears

Nightmare

They’re crawling all over
Wriggling from the carpet over the floor
Sliding off door knobs
Hanging down shelves
Curled up in a mound on the corner of the bed
Sleeping crumpled in the dryer
Rolled by the kitchen sink
You pick and pick and pick them all day
Wake up and eeks they’re there again
Covering your body and dirty again
Clothes! My civilian nightmare

The Raven

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

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This painting was made and gifted to me by my friend about a year ago.

Few days ago and article on The Raven was featured on the main page of Wikipedia. The Poem has the typical poesque eeriness, that continues to haunt you long after. I dreamt about this painting that night. And it all came together.

The Genesis of Butterflies

by: Victor Hugo (1802-1885)

HE dawn is smiling on the dew that covers

That kiss the buds, and all the flutterings

In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings,

That go and come, and fly, and peep and hide,

With muffled music, murmured far and wide.

Ah, the Spring time, when we think of all the lays

That dreamy lovers send to dreamy mays,

Of the fond hearts within a billet bound,

Of all the soft silk paper that pens wound,

The messages of love that mortals write

Filled with intoxication of delight,

Written in April and before the May time

Shredded and flown, playthings for the wind's playtime,

We dream that all white butterflies above,

Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love,

And leave their lady mistress in despair,

To flit to flowers, as kinder and more fair,

Are but torn love-letters, that through the skies

Flutter, and float, and change to butterflies.

This English translation of "The Genesis of Butterflies" was composed by Andrew Lang (1844-1912).

Obituary

Your Angel has fallen, my love
No more in your skies to fly
No more to live, No more to die

Flew before me as i went up the flight
From the eighth window of my tower
Held her wings i saw her leap
I followed but for my coward feet

She lay there quite all night unmoving
As i cried myself to sleep
And if morning were to come
You would see,
her blood,
Was the colour of love

If i love you, i'll leave you
My insecurities can't be your chains
Your freedom i gift to you
if ilove you, i'll leave you

Always end up running in circles
With bruises of bright greens and purples
Sooner or later must put up a fight
unchain and let it take flight
these are my thoughts, superfluous bubbles

You let go so easily
was that all it was meant to be?
On a lonely summer's night, miss me
This is my gift to you
A curse for free.