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.




a line, (a short black one)



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




a line, (a short black one)



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


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.




a line, (a short black one)



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.




a line, (a short black one)



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.


a black line


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