Daegal

Half the world lives,
Half the world makes,
Half the world gives
While the other half takes.
...

There’s a strange tree which lives near me,
And this strange tree could not agree,
That if this tree could ever see,
A stranger tree it sure would be.
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Hello, you, who looks like me,
Will you tell me what you see?
Answer, please, my spoken plea,
I wish to see my mind’s debris.
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O’ wicked witch, a secret death,
Your local gypsy legend reeks,
Curse us all in rotten breath,
The light of the world coming down.
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Dead. The Winter silence amplified by
Muted objections from the misty ghosts
Which prowled the murky streets like a cheerless
Ariel. Stark murmurs of a twisting
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At dewy morn’, there hangs a crystalline
Intricacy, casually tempting
Harmless flies into its morbid, frosty,
Inescapable grasp. Devoured half-
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I - am too meagre to bear a flag.

A - lthough I’ve whispered dreams to others,
M - ust I endure their selfless fruition?
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Have you ever seen a giraffe drink?
If not, pause, stop to think,
It spreads its feet,
With eyes discrete,
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They ran through the flowers, they say,
They played all the hours away,
They sang all the time of the day,
They picked at the Summer’s display.
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Prelude:

When ages in our world were young,
And man stepped lightly ‘round,
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I think I’d choose a scenic place,
With sunshine on a smiling face,
And in the glowing daylight’s grace
Their happy eyes in warmth’s embrace.
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The carrousel seahorses' picturesque circus dress
Flows behind in a wave.
The pantomime symphony echoes a mocking song,
Which winds all the hours away.
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Orpheus, won’t you turn around?
Spin your heels upon the ground,
Gaze upon me, I’ll not wilt,
And you ne’er will need faulty guilt,
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A fatal song, did dress us wrong,
As we passed into the night,
I saw with fear, and frightened cheer,
A fiend come riding out from spite.
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I read the Bible once or twice,
It struck me as a text lacklustred,
I turned the pages once or twice,
I feel conflicting thoughts a-flustered.
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I am glad that I have kept most tempestuous to the last.
In a shrieking call of a mad audience, the seeds of crudity are cast.
An entertainer with a faint and engaging past.
No more than a jester with hands and tongue tied fast.
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I don’t know what it does to me. I do,
But I don’t understand. The leathery
Morn’ sky pre-dawn giving up the ghosts of
Night. Odd silence, even the bustling towns
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Congratulations are in order,
The curtain’s up, but your eyes are down.
Would I be right in saying you’re not happy?
I remember your laugh and your silent tears,
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I went into the loft today, where the
Spiders and mice are kings and queens, and light
Is scarcely a natural thing. The night
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A ghost upon a moor’s dark banks.
What was it’s grand story?
...