Waste away to nothing in a dark dusty tomb. Looking for the traces of what used to be a room. Wipe away the blood from a tormented brow…Solve the wicked problem…never asking, how? Rock the sinking vessel until it rest on the bottom. Count the waves of water… Don’t remember? Forgot them. Taste the stench of living on thin dimes and a dream. Opening an ear to a painful, silent, scream.
Oh, life is BAD! The worse I’ve ever had.
Ache and writhe in agony like a vise on aging bones. Tar and acid drip from an ice cram cone. Holding onto a wind that chases the hell. Falling in the darkness of an inner descending well.
Caress transparent night as a demon with a sword. Speak with an eloquence… never saying a word. Look into the clarity then erase it with the muck
Lying in a pool of consciousness. No such thing as luck!
To being a beginner, to inventing the end. To living with a stranger… never a friend. Saddle slobbering beast… trouble is abound! Ride the devil’s bronco never hit the ground.
I am Brangien [Brangaine] of Weisefort, Ireland, lady-in-waiting to my cousin Isolde, who became promised to King Marc of Cornwall. His nephew Tristan escorted us to England by ship. But Tristan and Isolde fell in love at sea. As ye may know, or will find out, they cite the philter they drank as the cause, over which I was supposed to keep vigil. I would like to share my perspective of how I have created good in the world through my herbs and observations. There is much to tell, including how I have adopted this odd language. In good time. My life is in God’s hands. –Inspired by the modern French translations of the Tristan and Isolde texts