1:1
Stop. Who’s there? Tis clock strikes twelve,
brings thy Horatio to seek tis specter from hell,
In Denmark, something is rotting in thy state,
In Norway, unimprovèd mettle hot and full awaits,
Tis specter arrives to arouse confusion and fear,
but to treat it violence and majestic threat,
thy specter departs as the ****’s crow drew near,  
leaving the blows of malicious mockery to regret.
And for Hamlet may speak to the wandering soul,
Tis morning to Hamlet must the three a’go.

1:2
Claudius, thy Uncle, is crowned King a’last,
Gertrude, thy Mother, hastily marries a’fast.
With duties done, Laertes to France adieu,
Hamlet griefs thy Father’s death and thy Mother’s dine,
for once a Hyperion to now a satyr is Uncle to Father a’new,
is but now a little more than kin and less than kind.
Horatio brings poor Hamlet the fatherly news,
that King Hamlet’s specter is now a’loose.
The joyous Hamlet is but joyous to see,
the two month father, dead and decease,
but for he calls that foul deeds will foully arise.
He hurries to the heavenly site prior sunrise.

1:3
Laertes to Ophelia, a brother to sister, he warns,
that Hamlet is but a fiery lover and to love he sworn,
but to love now is but not the future,
for Hamlet’s fire may, thy mind unpure,
for his lovely vows are not to believe,
he is but a man of deception to conceive.
For when Laertes departs, Polonius rants,
that Hamlet’s love, Ophelia must recant
for his affections and fashions are but false wows,
for when blood burns, lends the tongue false vows.

1:4
Shrewdly the air bites, nipping and eager,
at Horatio and Hamlet thy specter nears.
To speak alone, it beckons so,
But Horatio to Hamlet speaks no,
for may it draw thy madness and strip thy reason,
but to thee specter does Hamlet go,
for thy life is but a’lacking living reason.
Aback do they hold him most,
but Hamlet, his sword he wields
Fate has brought him here, he feels
To hold him back is but to turn a’ghost

1:5
Revenge, does his heavenly father speak,
of tis horrid ****** of unnatural feat.
For the orchard’s snake, wears thy father’s crown
and ****** thy gracious Queen, whose now evil abound.
With dignity and devotion she loved me so,
but tis sinful ******, Hamlet, you must’a know!
Through my ears, a venomous potion he drew,
thy fair Uncle, Claudius that potion he brew.
Abed, my life he ended this night,
And to my crown and Queen took he a’flight.
For thy dearest father, revenge must thy draw
upon thy villainous head, Claudius must fall
And to thy sword thou dearest friends must swear,
to tell not the occasions of this night we bear,
And to madness Hamlet must falsely seek,
to discover the truth of horrid deed beneath.

2:1
Reynaldo to Laertes, Claudius a’spies,
to Paris, Reynaldo goes with a’plan devised,
to seek the situation of Laertes in foreign hoods,
with bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth.
Ophelia then enters, with her father she shares,
"Oh, father, father, I’ve just had such a scare!"
In her sewing room, it is Hamlet she sees,
with no hat, nor buttons, nor stable knees
For he stared and stared to let out a final sigh,
Love mad he may be, a’to King we must a’by.

2:2
With Rosencrantz and Guildenstern,
Directly or indirectly will Claudius learn,
of Hamlet’s matters they are to return.
Polonius, with news of Hamlet, he waits,
for thee Ambassador, to inform that Denmark Gates,
Are to be opened for young Fortinbra’s ****** defeat,
Polonius to Claudius, reveals thy madness roots,
For Hamlet is but love crazy for the fairest fruits,
of dearest Ophelia, who a letter he wrote,
Proclaims the fairness of her upon tis note.
And to test the truth, their confrontation, must’e spy,
Behind the arras to view thy love-mad side.
Is but our hastily marriage and his father’s death,
thy Mother, aware, are but the means of his mad breath.
Polonius then to Hamlet, speaks of witty words,
A fishmonger he calls, but one of two is misheard,
For when Polonius humbly takes a’leave,
He is but to take anything, but his life, shall he not receive.
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, enter to Hamlet, they chat,
but Hamlet to quickly find the two are but a King’s ****,
Only sent to spy on a dearest friend,
And to human’s name do they offend,
Only to betray a dearest friend in honor of the King.
And so Players arrived at Denmark grounds,
for they, the best in the world, Polonius sounds.
And then for Jephthah, witty Hamlet chants,
the song of a foolish man who accidently grants,
the sacrifice of his beloved daughter.
Pyrrhus, do they perform for dearest Hamlet,
His sword is a’air, but a’air it sets,
for he hesitates to swing thy sword,
And with this, Hamlet hopes to store,
the strength to **** the horrid Lord.
Though he is but ashamed, for upon false emotions can Players act,
And in himself upon truths, strength can he not extract.
So a play for the King’s conscience does Hamlet devise,
for the heavenly ghost may be false in his advice.

3:1
To be or not to be; that is the question,
For Hamlet to be nobler or to a’take action,
Shall he withdraw with ****** self slaughter,
But shall’st never may see thy fairest daughter,
To die, but to sleep for a mere dream,
But in sleep shall fair or foul be unseen?
Now Polonius and Claudius awaits,
for Hamlet’s arranged meet with a’bait.
Hamlet to Ophelia, his love recants,
For honesty and beauty are but Someone’s grants,
Once did he love her, but now a’figured,
that women are but corrupt and impured,
For one’s honestly and beauty can and shall be taint,
For if God given thou one face, dear not another by paint.
For honestly and beauty has God falsely bred,
All but one, shall women *****.
All but one, shall women be nun.
Hence this marriage is over, and to a nunnery at once,

3:2
Let this mousetrap be named and this play a’set,
Shall capture thy horrid mouse or thy Uncle of Hamlet.
Polonius to Hamlet, the theater he knows,
For a Caesar death died he at thee Capitol.
Upon the lap of fair Ophelia, does Hamlet, lie,
Only to think of country matters and nothing (he implies).
And the play begins, with a prologue so brief,
Like a woman’s love, was Hamlet’s belief.
The King and Queen, a loving bond they share,
But the King by a mystic potion envenomed beware.
Thee action to ****, a murderous scene it was,
Leaving Claudius to regret the murderous act abuzz,
He arises to say: Let there be light! Let there be light!
And to the joy of Hamlet to see tis joyous sight,
For the words of thy heavenly father was but right.
Now shall the minute parts of truth ignite.
And to his Mother he shall speak daggers wield none,
for shall his tongue speak of the cruelties undone.

3:3
With Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, to England a’go,
Should insane Hamlet know not a hawk from a crow,
And behind the arras, Polonius will again spy,
the taxation of Hamlet and his Mother’s cry.
Polonius departs to spy upon the Mother and the Insane,
Only to leave Claudius to regret thy hideous Mark of Cain,
Shall he pray the Heavens to forgive him his actions,
For thy stripped thy Brother of life, throne, and attractions.
As Claudius is never to withdraw his stripped token,
Divine forgiveness shall never then be unspoken.
Hamlet can **** not his murderous Uncle in praying stance,
For a hideous monster shall not a’go Heaven by chance.

3:4
So behind the arras dearest Polonius stays,
to view the idle and wicked tongue arrays,
Thou’st the Queen, Thy Husband’s Brother’s wife!
But to hear a rat, shall Hamlet for a ducat its life.
Oh, but death ‘neath the arras, may it the King?
A horrid act? To **** and wear thy brother’s ring?
Oh, King it be not, but be a wretched, rash fool,
And now shall Hamlet tell thy Myth a’Ghoul.
For thy murderer has slain thy Heavenly mate,
And only now by natural law does he abate.
Upon these portraits shall ring a’clear,
That from thy Heavenly father is he nowhere near,
A murderer, a villain, a horrid fiend,
He is but a devilish murderer yield unclean,
No way can one drop from THIS to THAT,
And shall by this scene, the specterous soul attract,
Dear not be untenderly to thy Mother it speaks,
And shall this revenge soon awake its peak,
Hamlet appears a’mad to thy watching Mother,
but to his mother he warns, abed not another,
For two mouths should speak of none,
of this revenge that will soon be done.
And again, abed let not him ****** you so,
For now, apart to English must’e a’go.

4:1
Gertrude to Claudius, she continues to reveal,
Of Polonius’s ****** and his arras squeal,
"A rat! A rat!" A’mad Hamlet is,
Brandished, to rapier the life of his.
And now where’s thou Hamlet still?
To draw apart the body he hath killed.
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern is but yet called again,
With discord and dismay, are they to seek that thou slain.

4:2
The two seek to Hamlet, for the body’s lair,
Compounded with dust now does it wear,
And a sponge, does Hamlet call them so,
for the King to squeeze them dry and thorough,
"A knavish speech sleeps in a foolish ear."
The body a’by a’King, but a’King, the body unnear.
And so, Hamlet to the King premiere.

4:3
And to Claudius does Hamlet call,
That Polonius now rests at a dining hall,
‘til a conference of worms devours him all
He shall eat not, but they eat so,
‘tis our fate despite status quo.
And upon the lobby stairs a corpse may lay,
One of dearest Polonius, slain to heaven or hell
Now to English death must Hamlet pay,
To one mother does he give two farewells.

4:4
With a Captain does Hamlet now proceed,
Who tells of young Fortinbras of Norway accede,
The Norway prince through Denmark he leads,
to seize a’minute ****** patch must’e receive.
A worthless land, must many die for one,
But true greatness acts not from fair reason,
But for the sake of the mind when honor is won.
And has Someone granted the reasoning mind,
For man to hesitate so cowardly inside,
For thy deed to act, must we rid the mind bind,
And act on instinct and be not wise.
And from the reasoning state must Hamlet now leave,
for honor he shall act, and his emotions he’ll believe.

4:5
False sanity is but false no more,
For fair Ophelia’s reason be not restore.
A’now sings of thy premature stone a’foot thy father’s grave,
and the departure of Hamlet for thy wed depraved.
Claudius is but to blame for thee rotting state,
For Polonius, a proper ceremony he not awaits,
For poor Ophelia, stripped from her reasonous state,
For Laertes aback from France, by thy father’s death, irate.
And Laertes enters, with thy support for king,
For the murderer, vengeful death shall he bring,
So Claudius to Laertes, says he is not to blame,
but thy father’s murderer is but another name.
And enters Ophelia, with figurative flowers to give,
But those of Faithfulness have ceased to live.
Alive are but for Thoughts, for Remembrance,
for Adultery, for Repentance, and for False Romance.
For his sister’s sanity is but another to blame,
Laertes, a vengeance mind, is but now aflame.

4:6
Horatio, a letter from Hamlet he receives,
that upon a Pirate ship has Hamlet board,
And that shall with speed would’st fly a’breathe.
Meet to hear the story Hamlet has a’stored.

4:7
Claudius to Laertes, he speak of innocence,
for by public appearance, the truth may bent,
For the public count loves Hamlet so,
And to thy fair Mother, Claudius a’beau.
Thy noble father lost and sister insane,
The murderous filth of Hamlet is to blame.
At this, a loyal messenger approaches,
to deliver the news that but Hamlet reproached,
An English death did Hamlet face not,
For now his destined death are they to plot,
Naked and alone, will he return to Denmark a’learn,
Of the honorable fence-match, he shall earn,
Against Laertes, whose fatherly love nor illusion,
Shall the death of Hamlet draw conclusion.
Even a’church will Hamlet, Laertes slay,
Death by no bounds, must Hamlet pay.
Envenomed rapier and wine shall prepare,
the faithful death of murderous Hamlet a’near.
Gertrude then enters with Ophelia’s news a’share,
For sorrows comes not in singles but in greater pairs,
Upon muddy death has Ophelia drowned,
for now another death has but profound,

5:1
Two Gravediggers upon one grave they create,
for to the death of thy Graveowner do they relate,
To die by self slaughter or to die by not,
the attention of passing Hamlet have they caught.
With Hamlet does one of thee two chat,
for once a woman, shall this grave be buried at,
A quick digger for Hamlet to his surprise,
Revealed that to England is mad Hamlet to advise.
For a corpse to live for eight or nine,
Thy dearest Yorick’s skull is to find,
Thy a corpse to date three and twenty,
Leaves Hamlet to recall thy memories a’plenty,
And to think Alexander, o’buried alike.
Here comes the King, Laertes and the Queen,
And upon the burial grounds is Ophelia seen,
His dearest sister does Laertes mourn,
But to Hamlet, her death, his heart a’torn.
Laertes to Hamlet, must’e not compare,
the death of one is a little more foul than fair,
For forty thousand brothers can sum not his love,
For the death of the fairest maiden beloved.
Claudius to Laertes, must Hamlet pay thy debt,
the plot of night prior shall’st not forget.

5:2
Hamlet to Horatio, does his truths trust,
Of thy wretched King and his unjust,
Of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern English death they meet,
With sacrifice and thy seal was thou to spare self defeat.
Now’st Osric enters to Hamlet a’chat,
For’st not hot, nor cold, nor sultry at.
And a’wish to court, with thy Laertes of excellence,
For Hamlet’s head does thee King expense.
With six French rapiers and poniards assign,
For by fate’s determination, shall this court incline,
For a special providence in the fall of a sparrow,
Can we do not, but abide by fate a’follow.
Trumpets and drums, now’st the fence begins,
For Hamlet and Laertes hand and hand therein.
Pardon he begs, Hamlet to thy brother,
For in him is but foil Hamlet yet another,
And so they fence for honor and fence for life,
Two of two leads Hamlet the strife.
The King, to Hamlet he drinks,
Tis pearl shall he the cup he sinks,
And unwounded for two, Hamlet prevails,
But Queen, the dearest Mother, so faithfully frail,
For she drinks thy cup of heavenly pearl,
For heavenly it be not, as thy malicious plot unfurl,
The cup! The cup! A poisonous potion,
Cause yet another by venomous commotion.
A distracting cause, for Hamlet to bear,
For Laertes envenomed blade must’e beware,
Now envenomed blood shall Hamlet shed,
Shall he hold thy rapier of Laertes instead,
to shed thy venomous blood of thy venomous mind,
For now thy murderous plot shall unwind,
At the honorable death of brother Laertes,
Shall the death of Claudius be a’seized.
The King’s to blame for the death of all,
And tis day shall he see his destined fall.
With thy venomous blade held a’hand,
Let the doors be locked and the evils banned,
For Hamlet wounds thy treacherous soul,
And shall horrid Claudius pay his destined toll,
For Hamlet forces to drink thy murderous potion,
And shall he too die of venomous commotion.
The death of four and tis ****** scene,
Shall Horatio tell to those unseen.
Shall he speak of murderous truths embark,
for Fortinbras shall now throne Denmark,
For in Fortinbras does his admiration lay,
For does Hamlet trust thou’st fiery ambitious way,
And tis now concludes thy Hamlet’s life,
For death and death thou’st all alike...

A word should be said not, for we are here,
In an age of greatness and of supreme tier.
And now do I need not to hold my sacred pen,
For in other means can my words and gen,
Spill upon the page whose words instantly appear,
By the aid of a mere keyboard can my thoughts then share,
The eventful happenings of both today’s and yesternight’s,
For in telling will only consume a mere several bytes.

Words said not between neither friend nor foe,
Would I easily just send my hideous thoughts I owe.
Through the air can indeed thoughts then fly,
And watch as it triffles and wiffles about the sky.
Oh, how great is it, that we can truly speak,
Without speech itself, for such speech is bleak.

Oh, had they told me that the new will progress,
The lifestyles of these individuals that are blessed,
By the great inventions that will change the world,
To a place of greater connection and words unfurled.
Ah, yes I see it now, that these individuals walk alone,
And speak nothing to those around,for they live in zone,
Allowing these elitists to speak without speech,
And has then, a greater bound, can we then reach.

Have we greatened ourselves with single inventions,
That have broken the bonds between the dimensions,
Of conversation and speech and of in life scene,
And replaced it by a mere vision upon a screen.
And how we lack the connections to the world a’near,
Ignoring the proximity as we walk with plugs in the ear...

Captured by a passing gust, minute petals dance in the warmth of the heavy air. The sun rests overhead; its blinding, piercing rays, malicious in warmth, scorch the innocent earth. The air is hot and heavy – suffocating, if not, stifling. There lacks any existence of life in this barren wasteland. It is a dry and it is dead; the depleted desert stretches for miles and all that could be seen is but the dry terrain – the earth and sand engulfing everything that was once there. And still the minute petals dance in the blazing heat; their owner, a withered flower, suffers the harshness of the burdened terrain. Whether it be the blazing heat or the heinous droughts, the flower struggles for survival, its florid beauty, withered, but it continues to exist and play the role Someone gave.

I was born – their first baby.  I had inherited all my precursors’ failed dreams and was burdened at birth by their expectations and goals. I was to achieve what they failed to achieve, be what they failed to be. I was to walk in their footsteps and finish their unfinished business. My parents were the first to set foot on American soil; hoping to succeed in this new society, they had set valuable goals for themselves – which unfortunately they failed to complete. And knowing that their desires were no longer achievable, they bestowed their past dreams to the next generation.

Did I first hate their burden blaming Someone for placing me into the heavy shackles of the past. I felt their goals, a mountain of failure, upon my shoulders. I was drowning deep in the ocean of my precursors – their dreams, their desires, a treacherous wavefront upon my chest. I was a vassal made to fulfill the dreams left behind. I was a culprit perished in the barren lands. But above all, I was blind.

My mother was burdened by my birth; her dreams, a shattered mirror, were no longer a reality. In order to nurse my toddler self, her desires were put aside, as she worked multiple jobs to support not only our new family, but the existing family consisting of my father and his siblings, due to the death of their mother months before my birth, and the abscondment of their father to flee financial issues. She had sacrificed her livelyhood and personal dreams for the family's posterity. She had forfeit her wishes to a foul hindrance, one whom abolished her hopeful dreams: me – my birth, an anchor upon her merchant barge.

Yet, numerous times have I waken in the midst of night to find a glaring beam beneath the door; its illuminating glow, penetrates my room through the confined entrance. It was my father finally home. He was never someone to talk to for he was always at work; he was never home for his restaurant never permitted; he was never present at my birthdays but cake was bought from his sweat and soul. And often would I not see his face for months due to our disarranged schedules. Had I hated him for his absences. But now do I love him for his sacrifices. He had trusted the next generation with his heart and soul, and his absences were solely to support his loved ones.

Had I not understand, beclouded by the mist of Why me’s and I cant’s, but now do I find their bestowment a gift. Slowly, have I grown to understand; their pain, their suffering were merely a token for my success. They have gambled their livelihood solely for my efforts; it is something simple I love you’s will never equate; their debt, I must attempt to repay – sole gratitude will never recuperate the wounds of a broken dream. Their wounds tears my eyes when I envision them. Their ideals yields a weight upon my chest. Their agony crumbles my heart like an unneeded paper. In the past, did I not understand their ways but now have I realized the blessing they bestowed upon me.

Therefore, I was granted their heritage and must fate drive me to abide by its path. Do I now understand the pain they have suffered and the sacrifices they have made. I was born into a family of high hopes and expectations – I was their withering flower. Have I grown to accept that role – to shadow my precursors hoping to shatter their traditional defeat; it is the role Someone gave. And He will never be blamed again for He will rid this blazing heat and treacherous terrain so that this flower will cease to wither but bloom in the autumn air.

If this is the last poem I will ever write,
Maybe this last time, I will get it right.
If this be the last poem you will ever read,
Maybe after such, will you do your deed,
And tell’st to all the folks who live without sound,
Living carelessly inside their own unknowing bounds.

For this is indeed the last poem for one to regret,
Oh, undoubtedly will never this I forget.
For a poem is but merely a coalition of this and that; all but mere words,
Only to forsake in the burden of misinterpretations of the general herd.
Oh, what is but speech too, when one is two,
Should I mouth one word and mean another to you.

What is a man who speaks one and means another to you?
Tell me then, what is, what is a man who fails to speak true?
So, then in the midst of his heart may his true word lies,
Only to spill to you the frills of his mere ungrateful lies.
So, please take a’mind that he regrets to speak,
The words of hurt and coldness that he had leak.

Oh, may the greatest of trees nest the horrid fungus and sin,
Then find’st that great man who will honor his kin.
Then find’st that great man who will eat so heavenly true,
And live the greatest life before his passing time is due.
Then find’st that great man who will give that faithful trust,
Before his gallant knight self will turn a’rust.

And if before you he stands, might it be not me,
But let merely this heart wish that happiness be.
But if is indeed this idiotic author you chose,
He is unforgivingly torn to have your heart be bruise.
And hope that never will he again speak one,
And mean a different another in a stupid pun.
And tell you that he treasures you so dearly,
And forever to hold you in heart sincerely.

If this is indeed the last poem I will ever write,
Maybe this time, I will read it to you right.

Oh Rudolph, hath thou'st been picked upon by thy peers,
And hath thou cry'st thyself to sleep upon thy very tears.

For hath thou been bestowed 'tis distinguished nose,
For which thee other reindeers have selectively chose,
To be'st the prime target of thou'st dearest tears arose.

Yet, as swift fame arisen hath false friendship emerged too,
As horrid bullies now be'st bestest friends as thee night'st adieu.
For little Rudolph sees not the emergence of such facade,
A'th thy actions of dearest Santa ha'th granted thy accolade.

Again'st his dearest peers and their jealousy little Rudolph sees not,
For his dearest downfall must these devilish, horrid little beings plot.
Upon 'tis dearest red heart should see'st then 'tis fated knife,
And end'st now upon the hands of thee jealousy, shall his life.
For dearest little Rudolph hath known nothing of what a masks a'worn,
Shall beings do'st yet another despire thee words prior a'sworn,
For false masks of friendship shall plant thy dagger a'heart,
Until thy jealous'd fame and body shall separate apart.

A rose by another name, may indeed smell just as sweet,
But beneath its beauty may the thorning nature retreat.
And a plane, by its simple name, may indeed fly so gracefully tall,
But its inevitable motion be not horizontal but be a destined fall.

For even the greatest of lights may inevitably and soon be faded,
For be'st even the greatest of Heavens may be overrated.  

Oh, a lioness may ponder amongst the forests and lands for its meal,
Until captured by the passing keeper and within the cage concealed.
For the lioness may display sharefully a facade of tame,
Until the destined moment for a passer-by's death to blame.

To live amongst the living is but to wear the truths of masks,
And be'st the being that falsifies your being but facades casts,
And may gracefully weave into the nature of desires with guise,
Oh ****, only after such foolishness can we now fully comprise.

For a simple line of wisdom may we withdraw from this debris:
Believe none of which you see, and see none of which you believe.

The Western winds brew; for it forms the canyons we see,
Whose Greatest Walls made of minute grains and debris,
With voices, that engulf the men a'near, these Sirens rest,
Only to forsake in the earnings of naive tourists at best.

For that canyon was but a result of a century of score’s wind,
That brew and brew from dawn to night; such a cycle it’s been.
Until the inevitable comes, Something that one can foresee not,
Quivers and Quakes, the ground can live not this plot.

Oh, for twelve hundred years, these canyons rest at peace,
For what once brew and brew upon the walls, must now cease.
What takes the greatest time to build, falls to oblivion in a moment’s time,
And to reform what once was, is but a stairway unyieldingly to climb.

Far from such place, upon the greenest fields lives the Great Oak Tree,
Whose limbs nest hundreds of creatures living in harmony and glee.
Have we been here before, say three centuries, would we see this not,
For such Great Oak was but a seedling, who against the weather it faught.

For that single tree was but a result of three centuries of nurture,
Through the fiercest weathers and heavenly storms may it endure.
But endure can it not, the axe that he wields upon his hand,
For soon will this Great Oak Tree fall upon this burdened land.

Oh, for three centuries time, had this tree bore the lives of many,
And what used to be hundreds, are now down to a mere twenty.
So another seedling must we place upon this dreadful lot,
But never the same will it be for these mere twenty that died not.

Now, in my backyard lives a flower, whose beauty is great and true,
And whose petals possess the color of the radiant sun as it grew.
And have we been here before, say prior a hundred days,
Would we have seen nothing but a seedling with nothing to appraise.

For that single flower was but a result of numerous days of nurture,
Through the fiercest and unpredictable New England weathers may it endure.
But endure can it not, the foolishness of her and the carelessness of her foot,
For at rest forever in the lonesome soil, had it to eternal sleep she put.

Oh, like trust, do these things take the greatest time to build, only to shatter in a moment’s time...

A fearsome tune this afternoon, the heart beats,
A tiresome slumber lays, these bedding sheets,
Upon those *******, do these hands clench,
Whose passionate desire in needing quench.
Upon those eyes, do these eyes stare,
Into the wholesomeness of a burning flare.

A beclouding aura passes through the air,
A ship’s rowing rod that draws a near,
To row thy ship to the places of no return,
But pause’st the storm may be’st concern.
By hesitation of torn and eagerness yields action not,
Until the spoken offs sets towards thy inevitable plot.

Upon the smoothness of skin lays another upon,
And to’st thy cave closer and closer let’s be drawn.
But through pleasure and pain, do it’s the row,
And through love and tenderness passion a’grows.
And hold’st the truths yet be’st difficult are they to tell,
That reality is off toned and thus emotions hard to spell.

Make’s the beast with two backs, do us aflame,
Until this mere ****** label can we no longer name.

May a small toddler hold his simple treats with care,
Tis heavenly ice cream cone shall he hold so dare,
Upon the summer air shall his treat inevitably die,
May canyons of sorrows swallow his period of high,
And then shall he weep loudly for his lost sweet love,
For shall he blame'st upon the horridful sun above.
Inevitable shall the child a great lesson he learns,
All great stories shall conclude as passion burns.

Shall too a shameful lover foolishly forsake his cone,
Hath he been destined above to be inevitably alone.

Oh dear calming waves that brush upon the shore,
And blooming flowers and overcampusing trees a'more,
And the pleasant smells of freedom and liberty,
And the numerous hearts of my civilians sincerely.
For the most safest of places, shall I call my home,
And deem no infliction upon such values of my own.
Until what horrors have drawn a near,
Until what treacheries are we to share,
For 'tis a place of safekeeping have we deem,
No longer holds its name at all does it seem.
And much like the Titanic of a poem from before,
Have these fated deaths have but fate to blame for.
Oh shall we never recall this city as a tragic place,
Nor recall the Boston Massacre of 1770 with haste.
For no sane of man shall the slaughterings enjoy,
And for no family of one shall the deaths rejoice.
Remembrance of our people and our city's name,
Are we to call another terrorist is to blame?
Are we to call that be but the doing of tragic fate,
Or the will of God and towards our ideals He hate.
Or shall we blame it for the naiveness of us all,
Thinking that terror only upon namely's does it fall,
But for a city shall its peoples stand a'mass strong,
And rise from the ashes of horror and continue living on.
And shall we take the tragic seeds of what was left to sow,
And grow'st the blooming rose from the ashes as a whole.

Remember, remember the fifth of November*,
But better, the past works and pieces remember, remember.
Forgot not have we? For “fair is foul and foul is fair”
Then forever, should we hold nearest those a’dear.
A mindless creature holds dearest his food at hand,
A mindless tree holds dearest its leaves, roots, and beloved land.
But a tree can hold forever his dearest leaves not,
For the current greatest will soon be tomorrow’s rot.
So what brews and exhales is but the autumn breeze,
And for what dances by such blesses: the autumn leaves.
Tell me you’ve forgotten not these dancing pests,
To dance and wander upon the skies, they need not rest.
Upon the window outdoors do they dare not dance,
For this distraction yields nothing but a mesmerizing trance.
With such improper dance comes improper lyrics unsung,
Which only sings to those previous works and dreadful puns.
So should we recall the Wallace and lobster and moral facade,
And the mysteries of black holes, the universe, and all that is odd.
And should we recall that “flowing sea of fallen heads,”
And that Hamlet and Othello that you may have also read.

From yesterday’s autumn to today’s now, can we rewind not,
Because since then, has numerous change been sought.
For even the great trees, their dearest lost leaves free a’last
Only to freely dance abandoned in the recent past.

But yet, this autumn has brought one of many treats,
For here in Amherst, Halloween was but a Christmas meet.
A snowstorm unexpectedly covers Amherst in a sheet of white,
Bringing the season of autumn to unexploited greater heights.
So a night in the midst of dark, were we forced to stay,
And a lack of classes announced the tomorrow’s day.
But as the day awoke, upon the ground – splits and shatters of numerous trees,
And aside their graves bore branches and their so-called beloved leaves.
Have we remembered the photos of this dramatic event?
To snow, to snow, and the aftermath’s discontent.
Had they not clung upon the dearest leaves will tis still stand,
So consequentially now, do both fall upon the failed land.
For now can we see that labeled beloved is truly beloved not,
For such trees has their deemed beloved, suffering brought.
For now can we see, to wear a crown so heavy is but a destined fall,
For upon the grounds are these trees split a’two; once wholesomely tall.
But shall some still stand, through the window I see,
A survivor, a survivor! A tree, a tree!
Though branches apart and leaves adieu,  
A month’s time, has this tree stood heavenly true.

And through the course of this semester, my writing a tree,
To grow, to deteriorate, to assimilate neither can be.
For a tree shall stand over its environmental stress,
So will the works and pieces that I dearly express.
For with these works, should the rules bend and stretch,
To house the hopeful, yet bombastic artist sketch.
From autumn ‘til now, has the trees changed greatly,
Although my writing, failed change has failed to see lately.
To be truly honest, my words to the ears may bleed,
But must I say see’st no change in my writing indeed.
And for me to reflect on change that’st occurred not,
For best I reflect on the opportunities that were given allot.
With the rules bent and greatly stretched,
Were the thoughts I mouthed gracefully etched.
Oh, be’st the tree, to stand greatfully proud,
For to have assimilation here is but unallowed.
Call it ignorance or ingratitude, actually it may be,
For dearest pieces and works can change not by he or she.
Call it grandiloquent or effervescent, for the rules bent,
For the treacherous waves of thought can I dare not prevent.
Be it impulse or nature to the second degree,
What be’st is be, and change not it by me.
Be’st the words, a flood, upon the papers it spills,
Maybe they be of value or just numerous frills.

So must I thank you to have one read my unmouthed words,
For my thoughts set free a’last, the skies, the heavenly birds.

A rose blossoms in the midst of the summer night, shielded by the shadows of the might of a hundred trees, whose great limbs reach towards the heavens engulfing the land beneath it by mere shadows. The rose flourishes with such fragrance and beauty, for under the roof of its sheltered home, may it only greater its beauty; each petal, gleamingly red by the absorption of the radiant day’s sun, the color: piercing to the eye, so immensely red and beautiful to absolute perfection.

Even the mere trees that stand above that rose are too a profound greatness. Through the most severe of storms and harshest weather has it endured. It’s unyielding trunk is but a symbol, a souvenir, tainted with battle scars and markings. For every tree that stands before us, holds hundreds of stories, stories that tell of its survival, its brawls with the natural world, its fearsome battles and mighty victories as it stands before us today. A country values and gives its greatest thanks to the fearless generals and military that encounters battle after battle, fight after fight; and for such reason, should these trees be of such value.

But what is even of greater value is something that humans treasure even dearer, something that portrays the facade of progression, something that gives falsified light to the dark that only lives in the minds of individuals - change.

With change and the facade of progression can we truly feel that something useful has arose from our existence, with change can we see something progress to something of greater value, for the smallest and most hideous of larvae can seemingly show its beauty and perfection in the progression of its life stages.

And yes, with change can we bring about the perfection of the world, for no longer must we stay still in the nonprogressive state of agriculture, where thy neighbor is truly thy friend, a friend who depends on you and vice versa, for through the means of trading and fellowship and each individual possess what they want. For with change do we no longer need to depend on natural powers, no longer must we be bestowed by Someone to bless our fields, no longer must we conduct dances to the heavens to have a yielding season. And of course with change, can we now lock our doors and shield us from the world, for thy neighbor be’st not your friend, but be’st thy owner of your material means if you fail to keep them; for with change, can we finally perfect the truth of material desire.

But what should be said is that with change can we finally shift perspectives; for the changed perspective is of course superior, for it is a progression therefore change must produce superiors rather than inferiors. And with such perspectives, our values, too, change.

The fearsome soldier, the tree, the honored item that stand so proudly tall almost as if it is a stairway to the heavens, no longer possess such great values. So should we relinquish the greatness have been bestowed here and deforest such proud items that have fought the fearsome years of natural events to stand so tall. And as we do such, will the rose’s roof collapse. Unable to hide from the piercing rays of the sun, will it then shrivel and die; for that change has brought upon another rose, another item waiting to share the same fate as before....

Through the midst of trees do these morning birds call,
To the various humanities in their bitter lonesome halls.
A song of simple words implants into the simple mind a'hear,
For the shallow men with shallow dreams  draw so closely near.

For such a song with such simple words are but meaningless to them,
As the morning brightness engulfs all that draw inevitably to one.
For materialistic means are thy only concerning monument,
That of which can be held not shall hold no valued sediment.

For the great trees, house these charming creatures that sing a'so,
For the heavenly light do they chant for the humanly mind a'go,
Well, do these humanly minds pay not a ticket of entrance nor fee,
But rather they set aflame their homes and banish them out to sea.

Oh dearest ungrateful beings, may you kindly open your souls,
Open your deafening ears, blinded eyes and unyielding nose,
Smell the scent of the blooming flowers and morning sun,
See the glorious sight that the world has to offer; Oh, unremembered one,
Walk the trails of the great autumn leaves and great day lights,
And dance amongst the light of the beautiful day and see thy sights.

As for nature has blessed upon us to live beneath the watching sun.
So live not with nature as single entities but as a single one.

For the drone among'st the bees yield neither harvest nor labor,
But yet, upon the great harvest-ments of the others may they savor,
And wheedle and plague society with their coaxing lies,
Let not a drone wiggle its behind into manners with guise,
For they hold their shameful mind and deceitful nature dearly,
Best with evil trickeries, may your mind cloud severely.
Living off your riches 'til you're barren and weak,
And flee'st to another hive should they then for-seek.
Should goody Hesoid warn: to trust them is to trust thieves,
Where the wo of man and its plague from Pandora's box, leaves.

A seagulf drifts amongst the shining blue ocean waves,
For beneath such currents holds but drowning graves,
Of fearless sailors who upon thy majestic ship held,
The knots of greatsome strengths, oh hath spelled,
For but may knots interleave not for eternal might,
As what once was dearest may drift apart tonight,
Thus dearest friendships may be, but a knot of a sailors hand,
For close bounds may last some time, for until thy ship lands,
Where now, what close hath drawn closer to lesser a’dear,
And’st burry what past friendships shall forsakenly fear,
For may friendships be but knots, for when untied can he,
Holds such distant strands for end to end may’st interleave,
May broken bonds of broken knots seek’st thy savior.
Until what once tied, shall tie again the sailor.
But oh, may such bonds repair with such grace and ease,
Shall such unspoken friendship rest appease,
For old mates of friends may come again,
But tie’st the ankles to the distant chains,
For hath neither souls seen in years a’last,
May dearest friend be as dearest as thee past.

Can the greatest of beings flee not the holdings of fate,
For it is but the mere faithful calling shall they await,
The inevitable fall of those hubristic ones must call a'forth,
As inevitable as simple creatures that a'fly south to north.

For even the greatest ship of such pleasantly mass can float not,
For even this awe-deemed greatness has fate inevitably caught.  
What was thou'st name; for I merely recall being Titanic it was?
Oh, and had they said the was the greatest luxury a'dear because,
Shall'st its crew be equipped with almost a thousand faithful men,
But yet can they escape not as the fated tragic fall commend,

Oh dearest ship and dearest lives, beware of the facades ahead,
A berg, is but a mere fragment above, but neath greater instead.
And shall has that inevitable meeting of dearest ship and ice.
Draw upon the fated deaths of those here with us tonight.

Oh dearest lives of thy dearest ship must thy drown a'sea,
Now let us question, how utterly cruel fate can truly be.
And dearest ship may your stern and bow touch lovely a'hand,
And drift deeply beneath the sea and thus forever strand.

Oh, and let the beacon flares alarm of those around,
As the oceanic grave drifts about without a sound,
For those who have lived are but now a'dead,
And those that survived are but widowedly *****.
And those who have had lovers or a closest mate,
Are but left with nothing beneath the wrath of fate.

For such filthy eyes shall upon her own shall it be seen,
By the kingdom’s fairest maiden by the name of Josephine,
For such hideous face shall she dare to wear before thy Queen,
And what ragged curtains shall ‘tis creature possess ‘tis scene.

May none’st identify where thy body ceases and thy rags begin,
For shall such filth of blubber spills upon her ragged clothing pin,
Which fails to be seen for such graceful bliss of hiding it forgives,
Of beneath such deformity and disproportionate hideousness lives,

Shall upon the eyes of the beautiful maiden named Josephine,
Dances ‘tis maiden whose grace represents the purest bovine,
For a creature of such bulging filth and horrors shall dare to disgrace,
Our dearest Josephine, the epitome of beauty, at ‘tis very palace,

For such filth must be rid from the mightly kingdom gates,
So upon such disgust, thee bovine’st life shall we castigate,
Dismantling such hideous face upon ‘tis very maiden shall we,
Yielding minute filthy shards of hideous blades shall we free,
Thy treacherous throat of thee ragged bovinic maiden.
Who drifts upon the crimson carpet as her life hath we a’taken.

And so if one were to enter thee room, shall it inevitably be seen,
The shattered glass of her mirror and the beautiful body of Josephine...

The brilliant sun hides beneath the mountains tonight,
Leaving only a gallant glow between the skies in my sight.
The skies polluted to the darkened colors that glow anew,
The yellow resilience beneath the earth falls through.
And above such color holds the lightest shadow of tangerine,
Followed by red and purple too as these colors glean,
For between the mountains, flows a river ever so slowly,
Forever does it flow nonstop as much as prole.
For it reflects the pink and purple of the skies above,
Calling to the oceans for its streaming love.
Upon its bank grows the flowers of the greatest scent,
Until one stops and awaits to where such scene went.

What once a mountain, forever underground,
And what once a river, now a mere linear mound.
What once the skies that settle in the midst of night,
Only to drop beneath earth with its darkest might.
What once a forest that hugged the sides of the hills,
Burned by the greater peoples in order to fulfill,
Their dreams and desires of such greater place,
To build hotels and condos for the human race.

Whether fair or foul or heavenly or untrue,
Masses a diet for worms when all is adieu.
For upon the midst of the greatest Summer's day,
The dirt and earth should these worms prey.
And One to bestow the earthly urges to move and intrude,
So upon the soils does such enter heavenly ****.

For one deemed predator invades 'tis earthly scheme,
The soil beneath may shudder or tremble or merely scream.
But how'st one to know whether the worms scream not,
Though, truth is, that worms only concern to soil's plot.
But if left upon the sun should such shrivel and die,
For such are bound to the soil and deemed to be inside.

Oh goody maidens and gentlemans here,
Thou engulfed in facades 'til all'st adieu,
Let'st all notion the curtains to draw'st near,
For those who upon false 'motions act true,
Shall tell'st a tale for which light'st shall share.
Among'st these halls, thee fairest maiden, lives,
Whose beauty gallants the darkly chambers,
And too thee state for loyalty gives,
'pon 'tis hammock lights fiery ambers,
'Til in deathly slumber shall life forgives.
Shall dearest queen*, thy body in deathly snow,
Wandering thee halls as'h a restless soul...

What is a word, when one can mean two?
What is the alphabet without the I and U?
What is a ship that fails to set a’float?
What is a heavenly castle without its moat?

A ship can fight the storms, upon its decks, brew,
Until the day its faithful crewmen bid adieu.
A heavenly castle can maintain its own little moat,
Until overtaken for the newest King’s name rote.

A single man can still spell his thoughts aloud,
Without that U and I; with twenty four allowed.
Neither do we need not to speak a’mind.
Neither do we need not to when all is blind.

And the word “love” needs not neither I nor U,
Yet, we need the given two to speak a’mind true.
The truth be told, must we use this single word,
But as a single, its meaning is but blurred.

Must we take this word deeply into the heart,
And barricade it with merely two more apart.
And so, must we need these characters: I and U,
So it starts one and ends the other. Adieu.

Oh, dearest time is but a flowing stream,
That yields no halts nor standard scheme.
As it flows, its minute manners aimlessly unannounced,
And for its persons' actions, oh, so merely renounced.
Oh time, why must thou'st unfaithfully pass,
And bestow such burdensome upon the mass.
And bring such false hope in the eyes of the weak,
But inevitably bleed the truths of failures that shall'st failed to seek.

And for such passing, shall the most deafening of regrets,
For in time will persons find most their failures of goals a'sets.
Oh, for such dreadful emotion is but a lingering dagger,
That inevitably shall us mere persons come to a'stagger.
Oh time, for where in this dearest world has thou gone,
And left abandoned O' poor us, to hopelessly linger on...

The heavenly, upon the mortal earth, they gracefully fall,
Be it the burdened Oak leaves fiercely stripped of all.
For upon the ground do these golden items lay a’peace,
But surely does such great flare and color cease.
And surely will, what once golden, now deceased, rot and fade,
Giving way to the diet of worms to consume, ‘til it decayed,

For it is winter that draws a’near this dreadful season,
The abandoned of life around is but the resulting reason.
Before the heavenly sheet masks the lonesome land,
Before the clouded skies return its fated demand,
Fly, fly, must these cherished birds to the South,
The directions, to each other must they then mouth.

Oh, to be’st the bird, should we all greatly wish,
Employed not, yet only to feed upon its dish.
And only to have the needs that truthfully count,
That of which are life, food, and shelter we all discount,
Beclouded, must we as the greatest individuals be,
Ungrateful for the things that we have been given free.

And so, must we mask our needs with things we pretend,
Are of greater value than those we should really commend.
But yes, a lonesome bird needs not to think nor fear,
Of its faithful future that slowly creeps a’near.

For a bird needs not to worry about fulfilling its dream,
To be’st alive is but a greater gift than those extreme,
Until he who thinks the greatest individual is himself draws near,
And from their body and soul must apart he tear.
To hold the trophy of the superior being,
Must those of inferiority lay rest or fleeing.

Oh, to be a bird is but a greatful and heavenly life,
Free of humanly constructs acting as both blade and knife,
That tears and shed and manipulates the human soul,
Forcing one to live beneath the abysmal hellish hole.
Free of that treacherous label of both race and class,
Free from that stamp of color and wealth and belief, alas.
Free from the tortures that upon themselves humans place.
Free from the superior mind that games itself as disgrace.
Free from the jealousy that roots in one,
When another finds of a greater sum.
Free from the troubles that root in the Earthly land nigh,
For upon the Heavens may these birds undoubtedly fly.

And to fly a’South, is all that these birds gracefully do,
So to the treacherous North, do they bid their adieu.

A paradox shall he be,
for be'st a facade,
Yet'st displeased at the word.
And too shall denials,
To speaks one and means another.
Shall the scripts note,
Phrase upon phrase,
A performer shall he be,
Yet at the time of speech shall none be mouthed,
For it is inevitable to see.
That to say and to do are but,
Two clashing thoughts,
Alike you and I.
For I am a walking paradox.

For he who fakes the greatsome walls before he,
Yet loves too swiftly,
For even a simple needle shall upon greatsome walls fall.
For he who holds such greatsome burdens,
Yet shall he hides them beneath his pillow.
For he who weeps of sorrow tears,
Shall upon the jolly mask he wear.
And too gently wears the face of man,
Yet acts with childish intent.
A falsely poet who writes of deathly heavens,
Yet believes not in He,
Though at times shall he indeed upon the heavens wish.
An orderly soul who goals ahead,
Yet a wandering mind who knows none,
A foolish romantic that knows not of the word.
A mediocrist that deems great himself.
A simple smiling face with layers of treacherous demons,
For which he feeds with delicious carrots,
For they are out to play,
To joyously dance amongst his fierce lingering heart.
For I am a walking paradox.

You are the someone I always want to know,
For you just seem so lost in this empty road,
My Darling, all I feel is your vibe and soul,
As they tell me the all stories left untold.
Within your beautiful eyes I see endlessly,
The fears of tomorrows of what is to be,
When in fact you’re chasing the memories,
And to live in the moment, can’t we all see.

The summers breeze blows the clouds across the midnight sky,
Revealing only the stars that shine so heavenly bright ‘til they die.
Below such a sight, lies several lingering flowers.
Mingling ever so gently, speaking mutely for dearest yet bitter hours
And so it brew and brew so gently amongst the land,
Capturing the pedals of such flowers in the palms of the hand.
And by the same hand, do these petals fall asunder.
Unaware of the many careless yet human blunders.
And let the captivating moonlight glow shine brightly here,
Until what was once deemed strange has grown adear.
And with this newfound growth upon them, the distance shortens yet lingers.
The musings of each illuminated by Heaven's light, and one feels the strings of Fate between their fingers.
Yet, such strings, in the possession of the Sisters of Fate, lie
Awaiting to be torn in two by their treacherous fate denied.

Oh, the gallant rays help 'tis lonesome rose bloom about the barren field!
For 'tis radiant glory, upon great bestowing shelter for which they wield.
And shall dearest winds sing, oh, how sweetly and a'dear your graceful song,
For your graceful words may feed courage to the littlings to grow a'strong.
Let'st the fulfillment of Gaia's earth, feed you, little rose, the wholesome meals,
And blossom amongst this unforgiving field and propel such greater ideals.

Let the molding of the titan, yet too, shape another being of beauty and life,
Will'st 'tis single rose pierce the heavens, bridging dual worlds by growth a'rife.

But until that moment, will the little rose sit amongst itself, so everly innate.
Until Demeter's tears shed no longer, and the gallant lights again awake.
Until Hades releases his dearest brotheling a'hand, shall it be but a single bud,
And bloom'st the divine spectrum of images and colors of the greater flood.
And wait it will do, for Mater Dolorosa's tears shall flush the mourning skies,
Denying what mere minute piercing rays, that upon the tearsome cloud lies.

Oh, for the dearest ink of thy pen may soon then fade,
And then may find'st the dearest of hopes may thus betrayed,
For an artist's soul lends him nothing but mythical spells,
For the mere soonest or furthest of inevitable future farewells.
Thus, then shall he plead to the heavens to forsaken his heart,
As such remembrance and dreams shall he wishingly forgot.

Oh, let the debris of the wholesome heart fall upon the shallow earth,
Let the facades ring the brotheling walls and the truths seek a'girth.
Let the warren mind rest a'las for there yields nothing but wandering soughts,
And let the mindless wandering commence for has this but painful broughts.
Oh, but the broken pen yields no longer an image of the artist stride,
And let's thy work fall beneath the consuming hunger of the oceanic tide.

Oh you fragile and unfaithful life, let thy be of nothing a flowing stream,
And drift thy way towards the crossroads and paths of tis randomic scheme.

For then, may you think that the fall of greatness is but a event of sorrows and tears,
And then you tell thyself that these sorrows comes not in singles but greater pairs.
It is only after the passing of favorable time does thyself inevitably understand,
That only through the death of greatness can the birth of the greater come a'hand.

For a boulder untouched rests in solitude alone,
An emperor unconquered rests upon his throne,
A field unwintered flourishes so hopelessly aside,
A songbird unharmed sings so mutelessly by,

Two lovesome starlings may each other greet,
Only to apartly fade and never again a'meet.
For troubles, in singles or greater pairs,
Always finds a way to draw a'near,
But away do these troubles inevitably drift,
As joys, too, fades to nothing, ever so swift.
As a prelude may swiftly come a'close,
Much like a woman's heart a'drift it goes.

Yet a lonesome pebble may drift miles a'sea,
Only to cross upon a mound of utter debris,
A withering rose may bloom only to later die,
And wither its way back to its initial state a'by.

To observe such cyclic manners bears no path,
Of hopefulness and motives under fate's wrath.
And so, should one live amongst the world a'here,
And seek for nothing but a moment to disappear.

Though it be'st the twenty first of centuries,
Yet may still exists these beings burdened by worries,
Of capturing moments onto a single page,
To share to the mass of moments enrage,
Blame'st the notion of capturing hands,
Thats yields false livings of those living a'land.
For a moments time do these beings live not,
But think'st about the footage that may be caught.
Draw'st the lively heavens that present thyself to thee,
May thou'st most swiftly to thy camera's hand a'flee.
Live not the beauty of the mighty river and its current a'flow,
But captures the facade of being and living as a falsely whole.

Shall thy'st live not by the beating heart of thee birthly gift,
But live'st life by the value of those admirably swift,
And live'st the facade of both false moment and dear,
For false truths accompanies false happiness here.
Then surrounds thyself with greatsome fierce crows,
That caws to the desires and facades like wholesome hoes.
So shall tis century be defined by two simple notes,
Of those who live not and those unknownly false denotes,
Of beings that cling to the facade of endearment of falsely vows,
And seeks for the acknowledgements of the surrounding crows.

A single spark may light the gentle forests aflame,
Yet a single dose of venom may yield engulfing pain;
It takes merely a single portion of value to draw a'here,
That a tainted piece upon a ground of white that bear.
For the most evil of creatures may with the heart sway still,
Until a shifting heart pulses with a greater strengthening will.

An elderly woman may polish a metal pole 'til dawn,
Until one day it yields a sharp needle for her to yarn,
An honest fellow may stupidly and forever dig and shovel,
Upon a mountain wishing to remove whose existence burdening hovel.

For the world holds no task whose value further exceeds that of man,
For to be human, is to have such innate motivating undying plan.
For that of which can succeed will succeed given a moment's time,
And be blessed upon souls may the will greater never to sublime.
For that of which may seem too large for a single I or you still,
As nothing can be greater than the stubborn undying will.

For shall we tell'st the mighty tale
    Of the kingdom by the sea.
Where lives there a maiden
    By the name of Annabelle Lee.

For may'st our dearest love penetrate
   The bounds of heaven and sea.
For my clingful heart be always with
   The beautiful Annabelle Lee.

Yet may'st the heavens be'st cruel,
   To part my beloved from me
And leaves but her body afloat in
   A tomb by the surrounding sea.

For may'st maiden and tomb fall beneath
   The shining drowning sea.
Shall upon the seafloor lie but the tomb
    Of the beautiful Annabelle Lee.

For may'st the tides engulf the body
    Of the beautiful Annabelle Lee.
And when thy beautiful flesh deteriorates
    Shall she still be loved by me.

For may'st the crows feast upon the soul,
    Of the beautiful Annabelle Lee.
And leaves me to love the carcass,
    Of what used to be.

Hamlet has spoken that amongst the earth are we but worms,
That the equality of all, in death shall be faithfully confirmed,
Ask the diet of worms, shall we be nothing but a wholesome meal,
That eventually rots and decays and inevitably reveals,
That the prior life was but a mere dream of subconscious scope,
In which man had had dreams and wishes and dearest hopes,
In which unfulfilled desires will unyieldingly linger upon,
The soul of those deadly beings that lay deafly a'sound.

For to live is but to live with neither regrets nor unfulfillment,
But with greater servitude and a single mere acknowledgement.
For to be deadly is but to rest upon the earth and live a life of view,
Seeing the world in greater lenses with greater vision unskew.  
And watch amongst the people of the lonesome land,
Yield the same misfortunes and actions that thou'st had command.
But speak not can you, for be'st the silent ghost you are,
And thou'st see upon the world must these idiotic beings scar.

But yes, speak not can you, for the watcher you be,
And observe the failures that the earthly beings see.

And through death have your name spoken and values sound,
For the great doings when living has your existence confound.
Oh, but to die without a name is but to live a non-existing life,
And for at the moment of death shall recalling strife,
That neither has accomplished nor achieved a greater whole,
And done'st nothing of greater value, but with death its toll.

But then, it be inevitable for the state of the freeing soul,
But upon such deadlying actions will thy face no one know,
For once the water of life has been engulfed us all,
Then never will upon the world can you a moment recall.

For death is but a barrier that burdens your hoping dreams,
And blockades the mind with tendencies in which it seems,
That death may bring the equality of beings to amongst us all,
For true equality must it been upon the worms we be drawl.

For in time, will the name be of existence no more,
Unless in life had you achieved something greater swore.
Oh, with aired lungs shall most beings hold no name,
But until spoken death, will some of their existence remain.

Who shall thou be for when maggots feasts upon thee?
Be'st the greatly famed man or even beggar may it be,
For maggots care not of wealth nor fortune nor fame,
To maggots when all is adieu, shall thy hold no name,
And rest a'last shall thee, in thy lonesome tomb,
And live'st with thy fellow maggot shall upon 'tis room,
For thee be'st the feast to a diet of faithful worms,
That shall penetrate thy corpse in inevitable terms,

Ah yes, so true equality shall not cease to live,
For in death are we but equal - a giver to give,
For a feast shall lie unearthed in this very tomb,
To both maggot and worm may hand thanks to whom?
Whom well, 'tis be I and thee, for when all is adieu,
We thus be'st a feast for thy'st fiercesome critters too.
So if in death are thy'st the same shall then may we find,
That prior to death, why ha'th we been so unkind?

Dearest maiden for thy'st hair, the trees wave amongst the wind,
And thou'st dearest denials of words, the spoken boulders unkind.
But the lingering urge to implant upon thy lips but a single kiss,
Only to draw upon the conjurings of the dreaded addictive bliss.
Oh, a body of warmth must due for the late lonesome nights,
And an angelic face sent from angelic heaven must deem a'sites.
Yet thy warmth, but a blistering heat in the stifling summer air,
A lusting, firing desire for thy skin to touch wholesomely bare.

Oh dearest Father may you heed my wandering mind,
As I speak to thy of thee restless words unwind,
For such treacherous creatures thee'st are upon thee mind,
Shall share'st such thoughts maybe deemed unkind.
Dear Father, friendship and kin, for must I question thee,
Of thy'st purpose and facades are such ideals to me,
For be'st kin may be a chess game of facading goals,
To tactically position thyself into favourable roles,
For whom shall I call'st friend, oh so truthfully now?
For what makes of trust for shall my seekforth it how?
As a greatsome tree may take but years to grow,
But fall'st to'st t'midst of th'open land as thy lumberman a'go,
So shall trust be, for can we accept such facade now not,
But let'st it foster and accumulate the course it sought,
For Father, why'st we be but such a hideous race,
That conjures such mistrust and hatred that'st thy face,
For neither I nor you nor any beings with souls a'near,
Can truthfully understand each other as thy'st all a'here,
Yet, put'st thee facade of what may seem to be,
And live'st not the life of mighty walls-free.
For Father, I do hope that such one day will come,
Where the facades of being fall crumbling when all'st done,
And for then may hideous and hideous come to know,
That tis world indeed exists genuine goodness so,
For then may we all bath in the gallant light,
And flee'st the facades that'st bound us tight.

Thou'st but a ghost who lingers amongst the land,
For must he lack the proper notion of the peaceful rest,
Yet shall the specter be sent from the Heaven's command,
Only to wander and yield unaccomplished goals attest.

And so is a memory, for which we hold so closely a'dear,
For which it escapes us not for it too is but a lingering soul,
Which amongst the midst of night shall it impose us with fear,
And too, as a specter, shall haunting memories, never be free a'so.

Oh, dearest haunting memories, please flee'st my mind and finally be set a'rest,
Instead of inflicting such engulfing pain and treacherous waves upon my chest.

Oh, dearest future brings not plentiful hopes but plentiful fears,
Oh dearest troubles comes not in singles but in plentiful pairs,
So draw not the sword to fight off thy troubles that come near,
And wield not the shield to defend against the pains that we bear,
But waits the impeding horizon that greatness comes in fiery form,
As thy trouble retreats in fear and treachery upon the passing storm.

Yet pass the horizon is but another reachable horizon before thee,
Yet too awaits plentiful fears and troubles that shall spawn a'sea.
So bare that too, for an impeding horizon is but just ahead,
And through the plentiful pains and sufferings are thy to tread,
And shall wait upon the fleeing of thy troubles and fear of these.
Before the passing of the horizon and see'st another to seize.

Oh poor self! Why has thou'st chain thyself to the boulders with shackles so adorably great?
A'watching the sea before thee, and see nothing but the passing waves so favorably innate.
But oh for the calming oceans possesses not a single mind, for the treacherous waves may seek,
And inflict wholesome pains upon your very chests, clashing thy knees until 'tis inevitably weak.
And so, shall you clench your heart and hope and pray that the greatest of waves has passed,
But be'st faithful thinking, brings only falsified hope for sorrows comes not in singles but in greater mass.

Oh dearest ****** daggers, why must thy unservantly float about 'tis lingering sky?
For as I ponder amongst the lonesome land, and you draw'st the very blood of my.
What impairly sharp and piercing pain has thy minute item brought to this very scene,
As its lingering blade still smirks at the blood of thy as you, against the solid wall a'lean.
Dearest faithful God, for where has thy gone? Where has thy hidden and danced a'lost to?
Where dearest God are you to see this lonely site? Oh dearest God, where indeed are you?

Oh maybe, could I have walked a'stray from the paths of solitude and faithful regime?
Or have I wandered amongst the darkest skies for which your being sees not here it seems?
Or even maybe, thy'st has now gracefully turn'st thy back away from this lonesome world,
For us bittering, faithless humans has pressed hard enough on the earth with our silly whorled.

Unvalued values share not a single light,
For those of lightlessness bare yet greater height.
Those who deemed less are but greater in death,
For current values pose not to the lively civil wealth.

Facading flashy lights grabs the attention of all,
And do too of a beautiful face from Heaven a'fall,
Though see not in the outermost showing shell,
See what's greater in the innermost lively hell.

To the people of dullshipness should the fair rise a'fame,
Leaving the lesser yet greater in the hidden sides remain.
Appeal to the sweetness of their little filtered ears,
And be applauded for mediocre contents without fears.

To say the sweetness of their simple desiring thought,
But only the painfulness of the eyes do truths sought.

For at the death of Duncan shall thy fears forgot,
Let us wear the face of which facades deem no fright,
Shall'st hides the ****** hands for which fade not,
And yield a heart of daggers that shall see's no light.

Let us wear the lips that speak but graceful lies,
For no soul amongst us shall know our true intent,
Shall all men be'st bestowed to faithful guise,
Until 'tis very night shall he lonesomely repent.

May he swallow the poison that burns thy truths,
Unyieldingly freeing thy beloved maiden's hand,
For deathly path shall inevitably separate youths,
Drawing a conclusion to our plot shall'st disband.

And shall upon the heavens shall thy be fairly free,
For no stubborn will shall shake thy final thought,
And shall wear'st thy mask of thy villain shall we,
To shoulder the facades at which our truths rot.

How'st thy lips speaks to her with 'tis forceful adieu,
Shall'st better hearts shatter in singles than in two.

Oh, fearsome fate will you heed my cry,
To thou'st pray, upon thy knees shall, I.
For shall it'st be 'tis conjuring of fate,
That hath drawn mourn-so many innate,
For upon the  dearest ground shall'st thy knees kiss,
And pray'st the clearance of the beclouding mist,

For to none shall their fate be so written clear,
For to none shall their fate be tell'st to thy ear,
For to none shall their fate be given a'share,
For one to know is only when 'tis draws near.

Oh, greedy self can you pray'st for nothing not,
But grasp what's been given to thy before 'tis a'rot.
And begg'st not to thy knees of her faithful skies,
And race'st to thy moon shall then thy all'st tries,
And fear not the failures as thy'st travel a'fars,
For if we fall, we'st fall upon the very stars.

A dream is but a lingering rose that hangs beneath the cliff of life,
Until thou'st demons forever ends it with His devilish scythe.
But forever may it be lost not, for impairing fragments of seeds,
May fall towards another far away cliff of greater wholesome needs.

A dream is but this very rose; for never can it be abolished a'go.
But only surpressed and hindered by your very demonish soul.
He whom lives beneath your very skin is thy greatest fear,
For the burden towards your greatest goals may then draw a'near!

So yes! Fear not the success that you have yet to be sure,
And fear not the failures that you have yet to endure,
Fear not the promising words you have swore to keep,
For by the power of belief dreams you both fly and leap.

Oh, poor me! So he says, that poor troubled soul,
And towards the heavens he weeps his utter sorrows,
And calls to the troubles of fate that burdens him so,
Placing him in this cyclic tragedy that had deemed a'go.

And so the mountains and valleys must his dearest life,
Be of great rises and falls and uprising immanent strife,
Yet abandon this liveliness not, for can his soul forsaken,
As upon the life of cyclic tragedy has he inevitably awaken.

For he lives in the facade of failure of encompassing fate,
That hinders his successes and brings his motives innate,
And free'st the facade of failures can he do such not,
For he lives in the cyclic tragedy that fate has gracefully plot.

Dearest maiden for where hath 'tis fruitful soul gone?
Thy be'st but a lostful soul wandering among'st here,
Time's unfairly growth shall 'spire souls turn wan,
And shall lostful faces draw lostful affairs to share,
For thee curtains of her seeking tale be swiftly drawn.
'Tis journey to find thyself shall she inevitably be seen,
Seeking thyself - which be'st the most desirable wealth,
Where satyrs mock and desires grow faithfully lean,
Who arth thou? shall 'tis maiden lostly asks thysel'th,
For thy'st lostful mind makes lostful hearts unclean...

For a child once laid upon the field, of which an empty park rested,
And stared into the night skies, towards the stars, gracefully blessed,
A ferris wheel hath stood before his view, which ponders his thoughts,
For his life too, be but a wheel, a cycle, that lives but moments forgots,
Shall he treasure the moments of which his dearest breath blows,
Or live’st the days unknowingly lacking of a meaningful purpose,
Oh, for the dearest stars may glister to light the midnight skies,
Shall even the falling stars pass through his glowing innocent eyes,
Oh, but to be an innocent wandering child, for many shall wish again,
To hold such innocence without both society’s shackles and chains,
To possess the eyes that glare into the dreaming midnight sky,
And to hold such idiotic bombastic dreams that shall never die,
To be fearless of inevitable failure and fearless of seeping love,
And even to be fearless to face alone the Heavens above.
For may never again shall we hold the mind of our childhood self,
Hath, both maturity and society values our minds unwillingly engulfed,
For hath we made such greatsome dreams that failed to succeed,
As no longer are we children who call upon the stars for our deeds.

What brings of great value be whether monetary or not,
Or shall it be the great minded folks with wisdom's forgot,
Where the key of life is but knowledge says he,
But shall'st neither can love strike even greater be.
May it be to befriend those who treat friendship dearly,
Or among'st the family and bonds that grows sincerely.
Shall can it be, the beauty of the facade of thy face,
Or living peacefully among'st the natural and humanoid place?
What greater value can topple the value of trust?
Unless the deceptionous ways is a greater must.
Then what shall'st be the greatest value in life be?
Is it the foolish American'ic ways of thinking I am free?
For even some folks or virgins may deem that it be just a single ****,
Be'st none of that, for the greatest thing in life is but mere and utter luck.

Joyously across the arrays, a fair damsel doth I see,
A simple glimpse westward enchants a crimson rose*,
Calmly resting 'pon her gentle hair which dances free,
Quivers the solemn earth as angels from unseen caverns arose.
Until then shall the heavens and earths kiss by Horizon’s light,
Entangled in gifted words, gallant arts, and scientific notions,
Leave then I to question thy heart for which ‘motions bedight,
Incorporates weak instruments that draw impending emotions,
Nearing what once fated Time had long put out to sea,
Endearingly ends then our simple tale, for that of which is fair, is seized.

For hath yet another year passed, oh troubled soul,
And may the hours and days for dearest time fade so,
Oh, such treachery named time, shall we slay him so,
But what is foul may deem fair, when given a beau,
Thus, may 'tis dearest rose bloom to greater heights,
And may'st the petals dance in wind greater mights,
For may the rays of gold feed ‘tis mighty rose,
And amongst the open land shall it blessfully pose,
Until great time calls for the treachery of winter to flee,
Quietly to the rose for golden rayless shall now it be.
But ah, yes no rose shall bloom when suffocated here,
But shall'st what suffocates be but fairness a'dear,
For bless't shall we be by the fairsome winter snow,
Yes be not blooming, but be'st its own beauty so,
For may sheets of purness shall cover the land a’mass,
Hiding the filthy paints of land - as for filth be’st the past.
For in present shall crystals clutter the busy streets,
And radiate the brightness here from these sheets.
For may the great fractals drift into thy very hair,
Which glows a dearest diamond and be’st a’fair,
For may crystals glean glisters and speak thereof,
And shine'st like thy stars that rest peacefully above,
Above shall the Heaven’s be as there shall angles rest,
But why’st it be missing one, for its greatest blessed,
Has fallen to ‘tis realm of which we deem home,
And slyly upon our great streets does she roam.
For upon this greatsome world, may fortunate man and she meet,
For treacherous time spent with thou’st but be’st a greatful treat.
And thankfully shall they to the great Heavens above,
For hath two to tangle yet may’st it too two to love.

Her gorgeous eyes but a mighty dam for none to know,
Shields her like curtains---the unpredictabilities of tomorrow,
But aye a foolish boy who've fallen deeply in romance,
Her love, her kiss: fairs thee, in inescapable trance,
Shall with grand sails flee beyond the ocean's horizon.

Doth she wears the gowns of unfair fairness in farewells,
For a love unblossomed must she leave far too soon,
Ath daggers thy chests at the thought of bygones like hell,
Incapable of sleep tonight 'neath the glimmering moon,      
For her beautiful eyes makes the midnight skies far too bright.

Must we always harbor love like shipments far too late,
In which had pale doves flown their Winter paths,
And shall by Summer's end, does her 'membrance await,
In uncounted miles shall separates what once un-hath,
And bids this glimmering leaf of love an unspoken adieu.

A gorgeous pearl to whom had but drifted out to sea,
Until one day doth it perhaps drifts back to me...
And like a child to whom with bright eyes wistfully wish,
For the magic of Winter and her beloved, angelic kiss.
Oh, now maybe--just maybe she feels the same...
     The wretched wrath of life and the unfair fairness in farewells.