Starbound

"It was many and many a year ago,
   In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
   By the name of Annabel Lee;"
And as the clouds tossed to and fro,
   So did the aimless, fearless we.

Two perfect rings as the seagull sings,
   Forever together as long as can be,
And the tide brought things––such perfect things
   To this kingdom by the sea,
Tributes to us, for we were kings,
   Annabel Lee and me.

Four eyes on the dusk as our shadows drew
   Long against the longing we,
As the wind blew the night into
   Our kingdom by the sea,
And the crescent in our sky came to,
   We ventured we were free...

But starbound cries are naught but lies,
   And our love was not to be,
The gull's replies sink into sighs,
   Heaving as the sorrowful sea,
And as the torrent dies, the current dies,
   From my feet the spirits flee.

It's time to say my last goodbyes,
To my beautiful Annabel Lee.





Of course, based on "Annabel Lee" by Edgar Allen Poe. Isn't divergence poetry fun? From dark thoughts come darker thoughts, and thus from poetry poetry. From rhyme rhyme, and from convolution convolution.

But truly: is there any real way to dispel remorse? We all cannot help but find our own answers, through our own Annabel Lees, in our own kingdoms by the sea, just as we cannot help but fear the seagull's song.

Taking Inventory

              A single black hair, two

          unreturned pencils, fifty captured

         moments, three keys, a million locks,

      a family picture frame, a box of firewood,

   a handful of courage, a pen for when, a lie for

why, the line between goal and purpose, the moral

of an old fable, an untaken shot, the pennies from

the cashier, two fallen petals, a dozen unhatched

eggs, a sibling's advice, a dewdrop of resolve,

three impossible words, a paper towel's worth of

spilled coffee, twelve footsteps, three seconds

of complete failure, two backwards glances,

an unopened bottle of ink, an infinity of

doubts, thirty fumbling syllables, an

unshed tear, two meters of thread

unwound, a shattered mirror,

a white colored pencil, the

covers of an empty book,

some guilt, thirty regrets,

two seeking eyes,

one unbroken

silence of

what will

never

be.

This is the half of the tale we all hear. Indeed, this is the half many of us experience for ourselves, and along with it all the unsought emotions and sentiments. On another note, this is the side of poetry I rarely explore. Perhaps it warrants a quick foray...or two?