Poems
by Andrea W R Jones
I Am Neither Here Nor There
I am neither here, nor there
Those in their disquiet
Thrust me hence..
From their own despair
Shan't then it ever be written
Of the girl once with the golden hair
Swept from history,
The finest lace, I once fared.
I am everywhere, yet I am nowhere
A cross stands alone,..
But lost in between
A candle blows out swiftly
My reflection, no man sees
Woes that have befallen.
They lie.
Their tongues, forked as they walk.
Such horrors no man should witness
A card played indifferent
A full hand, always wins over the Heart.
I now see I am alive
But alone in the distance
The hollow from whence I was thrown..
All I can hear in the distance..
Perhaps the clatter from a cistern?
Impossible to know
I lie down
I gaze at my impending existence
I look down with impunity
At my immodest, unstitched cloth
I wonder who wears them now..
If they would have done..
What I knew I must..
There is a candle
It glows from a light above the beams
I gaze upon its lambent
Turned inward
Faces I see
Of those I have lost
But Those with hollow eyes
Haunt my ever present dreams
I am neither here nor there
But in time taken
You will perhaps see
The girl once with the golden hair
Looking for the blaze of the candle
You will surely recognize me
From my immodest, unstitched seams.
If You Wish To Blind Me
If you wish to blind me, cut out forth my eyes
If you wish to deafen me go forward by cutting out my tongue
Yet be not deceived that you can silence me
For then, your world will burn
If you wish to find me
To your own, tread lightly
Those which came before, shall tell you
It will be of no bereft than to silence me
Deeds done unanswered
Should you so wish to hear
Come swiftly as they come in silence
Ask then, what have you become?!
If you wish to blind me
Or cut away my tongue
Soon should you find me
In the house broken
Oaths delude
Where once sat the son
Frightful are such things
To be said on vanquished days
To where you first found me
To the knife which with you tried to blind me
Hither thoughts now
For they are done
Unrighteous deeds uncovered
As your knife proved not sharp enough
Your wit not bright enough
To cut away neither my eyes, nor my tongue
Many Men Doth Not Know
Many men doth not know
How their actions do they show
Whether be them a dandy
Or ones that hide, with a cup.. full of brandy
You may think the night will hide you
What things you have wrought..
Such a slippery slide
When one is so blind
Not to see..
The ever so constricting knot
Parade while you can
Twisted limbs with slanted plans
But your intentions are not so craft
The path you walk
Unlike, the righteous road
That other men walk
As your duplicity grows
The imposture shows
Memories cast,
Poison is often found
Silent forged
Into infectious bones
A life now left without meaning
No words left to craft
Heed these words spoken
Wounds are thrust backwards,..
Often broken
Wraps ghostly fingers
Tightening.
Do you yet feel it's grasp?
Grim words are wrapped in twine
Many men doth not know
Dastardly deeds, revealed in time
For the fornamed
Your name not yet disclosed
But the ghostly knot
Soon be felt a swift
Between your stipped and naked plot
Count backwards if you can
Five fingers on each hand
Forsaken numbers will soon wail
What many men soon will tell
Of the pervasion of the man
This, the tale of what men, knoweth not.
To Be One Man's Wit
To be of one man's wit
What tales would make him fit?
Coins that rattle as he goes
Or the streets, in which he slows
Into places we go unknown
Our Shadows follow
But will not us show
The sound of soft whispers in your ear
Could be the sound of thunder..
Somewhere near
We gather as we grow
Away from the storm
Or so the story goes
To be of one mans wit
Is a tale of many
A tale, perhaps one of flit
But as all stories go
The ending is not as it shows
So heed the whispers you hear in your ear
Should they not be of warning
Of a lurking shadow,..
Somewhere, near.
Am I Quaint or Am I Brittle
Am I quaint?
Or am I brittle?
Such words said
But ones, not so simple
Words that we pray
Trifles that we play
Knelt, as we stand
A table, sits beneath
Small, and simple
What covers also holds
Onto the ever loving fast
Longing for the love
Love which did not last
I am quaint
I am brittle
I am the one that writes these riddles
I write to those who pray
Under a table, too small, too simple.
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