For every Lontaine, there are tens of thorns
For every dream, a thousand woes
In every winning leap, a hundred falls
For every dying soul, a dozen crows.
For every sweet taste, a bitter thought
For every new day, a fading moon sought
In every lovers hope, a faulting note
In every final hour, a metaphysic plot.
Life behests that before I can address the jarring sordid question,
you must have reached your attaining mark.
Embracing our beings’ essence with discretion, would not,
should not strangle the spark.
My hopes dragged through the darkest of the dark,
while your dreams evaporating, fading, and paling out. Continue reading Aphrodite’s Child
Oh sweet Melancholy, Muse of all that is holy
Gracing the regrets of actions past
Beguiling desires that are not meant to last
I surrender to your bitter insidious glory.
The deceased beast of Sentiment lays in the gutter,
I traded a sinner for a martyr, and all i got was a lifeless pattern.
To tell a truth of blood and wine
Takes tears of liquid steel and a lazy tongue
Clenched fists, holding on to a hope that fades
Into the grave, sieving through the cracks like fine sand
I kissed your mind and our souls collided.
So I’ll give you to the count of three,
‘Til you think of me.
Splice us up in Sin-shine
Immerse us down to drown
Unhinged to depths unknown
Blow kisses against the wind.
Don’t bend the truth to be kind.
And so they floated, high, soaring the midnight starry sky
Above skyscrapers, fumes and sins of yore
Faith vested, lies exposed and tested
Beliefs of lesser men in the dark, feeling worn.
Tense as if your muscles are on constant strain
Blank as if your mind is empty
Numb as if your soul has been decanted
And you wait, in the waking
Perched on your seat,
Grabbing the armrests with all your fingers’ might
Helen Marie Joyce 
