an ideal scene

I sit in the silence not of a library when the sun had long past found repose beneath the blanket of ocean, but of a room surrounded by works of literature written more than a millennia ago, and this room, like said literature, shall for a long time remain the same, as will its sole inhabitant, content in solitude, oblivious to the ravages of time.


Is there a reason why fairy tales don’t continue after the wedding even though “And they lived happily ever after” is proclaimed? Everybody loves a happy ending, but now, it seems as though it could also be seen as concealing every misfortune that came after. I have to tell you, no matter how cliché it might be, that our wedding was the happiest day of my life. The days that led toward it and the few that came after, I lived to the fullest knowing that such happiness was short-lived. I am not so naïve enough to think that those idyllic circumstances would last, even basking in the light I was armed and girded with a vigilance that was ready for war, but to think that I have lived long enough to encounter misfortune after misfortune after a time of great bliss, it gives me a nostalgic, quite pyrrhic, feeling. Would I have liked to die the day after our wedding? I could have, but I didn’t. Since then, living through pain day after day, at least you make it worthwhile. Let not the day that I could not bear pain despite your presence come.


desperate voices
overbearing noises
a fear of too much
a fear of too little
this world has forced me
to go left and look right
to find no solitude
no peace in every corner
when all i’ve had to do
was turn to my center
but there they come
desperate voices
overbearing noises
a fear of too much
a fear of too little

Indigo Sky

Before the storm embraced the night,
My gaze embarked upon dark sky,
Indigo sky, oh, what a sight!
Indigo sky to my delight.

Octopus ink tainting deep sea,
Wolfsbane kissed by solemn blue rose,
A teardrop on blue royalty,
‘Tis the sight before sweet repose.


life at a standstill,
the winds at an impasse,
a wavering will,
a storm that comes to pass.

the wick of life is brief,
all too brief for hopes and dreams,
but the future, at least,
brings to me a thought that gleams.

days will pass as slow as years
yet years will fly as quick as hours,
then, for now, reserve your tears
for tomorrow lies not a farce.

there is more and more that waits for you
so bide your strength for a better morrow,
remind yourself that this too
shall pass, and not end in sorrow.