Love, Mercilessly Forlorn

La Belle Dame Sans Merci
Sir Frank Dicksee

You can find him there on the Faerie Moor
alone, clutching at wisps
frozen forever by the motion of her elfin lips
Clad in rusted armor, sword forsworn
rasping of lost love, mercilessly forlorn.

I asked him once what he thought of love
he espied a bee swooping down upon
the sedge, remarking that flowers withered
be, that all young lovers should come and see
the sojourn of such vital tragedy.

The Knight of Arms wastes away by the lonely lake
dispensing wisdom and sorrow for any who
will come partake.
He dared to dream of mythical things
lured into this mystical traps by beautiful ideas
this cold creature that moaning sings.

No More Words

Time passes slowly when you are waiting
for change
then quickly when you wish that everything
would
remain the same.
It's the human condition,
this bitter ironic game
There isn't really anyone at all to blame-
no one it to blame
No more words,
I cannot write any more
no more pages
no more questions
no more
I have given my all
I would stoop to stand tall
I would place my back against your wall
I would tell you this before I fall
down into the silence that comes
creeping like the symmetry tiger
in the dark, stolen kiss in the park
Blake and Shaw, Eliot too
whispering rages missing their marks
I would write until there is no ink
to scrawl across
the page
No more words
I have aged
no more feelings
to re-engage
to the promises that were striven
to the sins that still remain
unforgiven
no more.