I used to know a sweet man,
I secretly called him Silence.
He was honest and loving,
He was kind and comforting.
I miss him so much,
Silence, my fiend.
Silence, my friend.
Where have you gone?
I used to relish in the time we shared and we wasted,
Quiet and Unspoken, it was ceaseless.
Immortal, and indestructible,
It was bloody and savage,
It was amour, true and timeless.
Silence has long since departed,
and I have yet to find another to take his place.
I worshiped the ground he walked on,
His ossuary skin deep,
A prisoner of his own,
His keep ornate with impassioned scars.
Engraved the name of love,
and sour with the scent of ill spent energy.
A paladin in his own time, unknowingly,
A seamstress to play the strings of my heart.
and Oh, how he played them,
A Seamstress to loosely thread them back together.
So if I became snatched upon a branch,
I might return to him, Silence that seamstress,
Silence that damned genius.
Years have passed, or so it seems
and I still remain sewn to Silence,
Silence my fiend.
I have a new friend.
His name is Frailty.
Frailty is harsh and unloving.
He is bitter and old.
His past has left him cold and brittle.
Frailty lingers on the cadaver of his last love, too.
He is blind, the poor dear,
Sees but hues of Grey and darkness.
He sees not the blues of the sky,
The emeralds within my Pontarleir,
Not the coppers and rusts of autumns leaves.
The luminosity of the maledict stars,
Nor the dying twinkle of hope in mine eyes,
He neglects to see what he has been graced with,
Instead he clings to his past, that accursed carcass.
Poor Frailty, he knows not how the world turns.
Nor how its spins on its axis, at steady speeds.
He can’t fathom that the world revolves on a force,
Rather he believes: on remorse, regret.
I have spent too much time,
Around this Frailty character,
His malaise brings me down.
But Oh, the blood we shared.
The elegant and haphazard spatters on the oak,
Are: but a tale to be told.
Much like the drapery steeped in crimson,
The reddened fingerprints that traced my breast,
Your waiting mouth, my hungry lips.
Are now: but moratorium in time.
Silence my friend,
Who is this Frailty fiend?
And why has he been plucking harshly,
At my eloquently strung strings?
Silence, I’ve waited long enough
Frailty, I’ve wasted too much.
Frailty and Silence walk hand in hand.
But see not a different face.
Myself, I am sipping at my Pontarlier of Verte,
Waiting for this still in time to cease,
Admiring that loosely stitched thread,
Loathing my new friend Frailty,
And calculating the speed at which the world revolves.