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The Novel
It’s raining now, the thread that holds the clouds
Together, ripped right open, it unveils
A messy tome of scarlet from a shroud
That tells of things that once were welcome tales
I find some way to feel, the throbbing of
My heart which turns like rustling sheets, it turns
Around and round, a long despairing love
Of gentle things that makes the eyelids burn
The pen goes on, it writes of endless things
Of feasts and songs and wines of innocence
A world of life complete, the perfect ring
The whistling of the golden instruments
Yet fingers cannot catch the memories
From revels long departed, they must clutch
The empty air, the silent libraries
Forgotten books that crumble at the touch
These passageways are beautiful when wet
The bricks appear as glass, the houses striped
With pearls, like those you gave me when we met
Alas, they melt, collapsing out of sight
You are no more, a feather from before
But graves of lives gone by have marking signs
Some words to constellations unexplored
Released, the clearest visions of my mind
I know that years are born and fade away
And tallest trees to chains of time fall prey
Behind the walls of covers, I could stay
I’d stand, I’d watch, I’d count the endless days
But like all others, this worn tale must end
It ran its course, another will begin
To take its place, the gashes it shall mend
Its thread, a stronger silken strand will spin
We’ll write a new book now, a new design
To forge more gold than what the others made
By piece the bookshelves filled again will shine
For summer’s riding fast in hollow glade
And these old wishes we shall set aside
A dear collection, and when time goes on
They’ll rest assured that they once lived with pride
And in the end, this novel shall be gone
It’s raining now, the thread that holds the clouds
Together, ripped right open, it unveils
A messy tome of scarlet from a shroud
That tells of things that once were welcome tales
I find some way to feel, the throbbing of
My heart which turns like rustling sheets, it turns
Around and round, a long despairing love
Of gentle things that makes the eyelids burn
The pen goes on, it writes of endless things
Of feasts and songs and wines of innocence
A world of life complete, the perfect ring
The whistling of the golden instruments
Yet fingers cannot catch the memories
From revels long departed, they must clutch
The empty air, the silent libraries
Forgotten books that crumble at the touch
These passageways are beautiful when wet
The bricks appear as glass, the houses striped
With pearls, like those you gave me when we met
Alas, they melt, collapsing out of sight
You are no more, a feather from before
But graves of lives gone by have marking signs
Some words to constellations unexplored
Released, the clearest visions of my mind
I know that years are born and fade away
And tallest trees to chains of time fall prey
Behind the walls of covers, I could stay
I’d stand, I’d watch, I’d count the endless days
But like all others, this worn tale must end
It ran its course, another will begin
To take its place, the gashes it shall mend
Its thread, a stronger silken strand will spin
We’ll write a new book now, a new design
To forge more gold than what the others made
By piece the bookshelves filled again will shine
For summer’s riding fast in hollow glade
And these old wishes we shall set aside
A dear collection, and when time goes on
They’ll rest assured that they once lived with pride
And in the end, this novel shall be gone
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