| re: Mourning Would | |
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Posted by: |
John_Galt (g_brandon_martin@ureach.com) 09:23 pm UTC 04/13/09 |
| In reply to: | Mourning Would - Vin 01:38 am UTC 04/10/09 |
| Good. This voice is different from the previous lyrics/poems that I've read from you. It sounds like someone at a Renaissance show, the language is mostly formal in a historical way, but also includes a few contemporary references. I really liked the entire final stanza. You usually know how to finish and this is no exception. "Fragile feelings and careless tatoos" should be the name of an album. -=John Galt=- > A poem. Good or rubbish? Please advise. Thank you. > > > "Mourning Would" > > Mourning would become me, > if Death did not become you so. > And weeping might console me > if consoling I did need. > But mightn’t tears be finite, > yes, in limited supply, > and wiser saved for darker days > and those in direr need? > > Nay, I shall hold my tears, I think, > for they’d fall futile, surely, if at all; > for what sadness is there known to Man > by Nature or Artifice devised, > by God or gods or Happenstance contrived, > that hath any hope to long withstand > such beautiful and bountiful bouquets, > assembled here in grand panoply? > The overwhelming wave of color and scent > washing roughshod, never subtle, > o’er such petty, salty, brazen tears > as dare to have their way, > to claim this duchy as their own > and over every courtier hold sway. > “Hark, alack! There lies a body, > so weep us, weep us hard!”, they’ll say. > But ‘tis not to be, recreant tears, > not for me, and truly not today. > > And waiting might offend me, > if a weight had not been lifted thus; > this lengthy line might bore me > if it moved with lesser haste. > But the gathered horde converses > -hear!- > some laugh through whispered guilt, > foreshadowing the evening once this Glooming Hour abates. > > And this body, yours, so statue still… > Would that your stillness were some grave affront > to sense and sensibility, and thus > no assault on conscience, however slight. > Would that the silent song your lips now sing > fell harsher on the ears, would that it leaned > further to the realm of Cacophony > than to that of her comely sister. > > ‘Tis de rigeur, this Mortis, > pedestrian in all ways save one, > and that the most literal. > (And, had you your say, > the most important, I surmise, > this irony not lost on me, > as you are not.) > > And mourning black is easier on the eyes > than many a bright pastel, > and slimming, too; > enhances nuance, missed before, > of the bleating, misty, doe-eyed girls > -all hair and make-up and awkward heels, > fragile feelings and careless tattoos- > whose common cause from two to four is grieving, > fleeting and soon forgot. > Only grieving you. > > > | |
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