Thursday, March 16, 2017

The world, it is not for me

The world, it is not for me,
There is beautiful poetry about chasing me into the sea,
And every blame that can be laid, surely, they fit right on me,
I am unwelcome in my country,
As is truth, but it means so little.

Injustice is celebrated,
Genuine cares obliterated.

And justice, my life's pursuit,
A mockery. A sham.

Honey lipped deceivers flourish,
And the ignorant are allowed to govern,
But I am guiltless,
At least for now,
I am at peace with God, and Mother Earth.

And if not for my love of God, I'd leave the Earth,
What can ever be achieved within its domain.
Like the Titans, it eats its offspring,
And the world, is but a trap,
Waiting to draw you in.

I believed your lies once,
But your ideals were false and self serving,
Foolish me, I guess,
But I still believe in ideals.
Just not yours. Yours are false lies.

Wealth is illusion.
Just the right dry spell, and all is quickly lost.
And poverty can be quickly alleviated,
Or, so we are told, by those who make it all the worse.
By those after others' wealth.

Devil's tales are spun so well,
And the masses buy into them,
And kill for them,
And hate for them,
Oh, how good it is to feel so righteous and to hate,
To hate the innocent as the devil,
To retell history,
And to tell all good they've done as a foul tale,
And the benefits you have as reparation, and act of God, good fortune,
Never theft. But it is. It is theft. In your heart, you know it.

I'm unwelcome in my country, I've always been.
I'm better for it, for the things I've seen.

I'm sceptical of the world,
It's a trap, you see.

You signal your virtue over me,
Your ill gotten claims,

But, I have studied history, broadly, and spanning millennia,

Fool that I am, speck of dust I may be,
But my end is something to consider,

As millennia shift, shape, and pass,
You'll only be remembered for your hate.

I'll be forgotten altogether.
At least, by your false world, your soiled histories, you see!
Or, rather, you don't, I think that may be the point.

Saturday, September 17, 2016

Unexpected, life mine...

Unexpected, life mine,
Not as predicted, I've become.
I didn't know - I would lead this way,
Nor you, I guess, we'd say.

And yet you faded, but muse,
Forgotten, archetype, distant fuse.

Unexpected, path mine,
Not where I projected, far in time.

And the winds rustle, a breeze, light, upon frozen heart mine.
I cannot pretend to have predicted, the future soon.
In my heart, hope or ruin.

Wednesday, September 14, 2016

Mixed into life with chance, but lacking anything not yet bittersweet

I take my coffee, swirled with intermingled energy,
I forget my headache, my whelm of whelping concerns,
Headache, thoughts, any name you wish,

I take my coffee, my tongue, it burns,
And with it, my luck squeals and screams.

Memento Mori... The call of the grave.
And the Grim stalks closer with the passing of every day.
I toss another coin, perhaps I'll lose my of sudden closer tail,
For the world has turned, and again, the day is made anew,
With new thoughts to penetrate from another exterior world.

Frozen, like a character stuck forever in a horror scene,
But my fears are simpler, nuanced, more sophisticated,
Not but opaque, to any but me, though shallow as the Bering sea.
My terrors, too latent, profound to glimpse,
Except in my slight expression, fears a camera obscura would all but misread.

And in it, despair, a seed.
And in it, despair, none but me can read,
Even if they understood the foreign type I find an engrossing read,
Luck, libations and deeds.
Respice post te. Hominem te memento.

Hominem te memento.

Yet, my face, it would not display my thoughts, tedious silky weave.
I add a little milk, and sip my coffee, before time takes its potency.
With savage purity, and nothing sweet, it gradually invigorates me.

And in a game of toss and woe, life,
The background, and the grave, they always win.

I take my coffee, and read a little,
In a tongue, as burnt and unsophisticated as what I read,
And pretend I'll yet have good luck, good fortune,
Not the comeuppance due all who are, for a time, alive.

And I will out of bitterness, for a future,
A path to impede, for even a second, or a lifetime,
Memento Mori... The call of the sombre grave.

Sunday, August 14, 2016

It catapulted you through your many happy dreams

Remember me, the shadow, the one you once shared your hopes with,
Remember the things you told me, as you stood before the empty void,
Forget not my woes, and the love we once had honoured,
Forget me not... forget me, but remember a few of our moments.

Remember when you tried to convert me, to a God in whom you no longer believe.
Remember all your certainty, sometimes I wished for it too.
And I wasn't insulted, when you asked it of me, but I stuck somehow to my lesser beliefs.
You had such steam running through you, it catapulted you through your many happy dreams.
But you never once lost my esteem.
I wonder where your passion went, which had such concern for little old me.
And my lesser God has yet to abandon me.
And I still hold my lesser beliefs.

Remember when you talked of marriage, of your plans for us to elope.
We haven't spoken in many years, it's something that was once your hope.
If only I had held your beliefs, which have long since gone up in smoke,
If only I'd been good enough, as good as that of which you spoke.

Remember well, how you looked down upon those whom you now best resemble.
How you spoke of your vision for them, them who now mirror your heart and trembling soul.

And I wonder if you've found some right or wrong, amidst the grey of your world,
And whether your hopes still remain in some escape to be bought, for the wage of your salt.

And I mutter words in a language long dead,
And bow down still, with my lesser thoughts in my head.
And shadows pass before me, as candle light flickers ahead.

And I am glad I did not change for you,
In fact, I've not altered much at all...

And though I hardly remember your name or your face,
I remember when you asked me to change, to become something other, greater than little meek me.
And I feel relief in these shadows, as I softly worship my lesser God,
A slow river, not swift passion, my lesser, lesser beliefs...

I hope you somehow found the peace you sought,
You always jumped for a hope.

Saturday, December 19, 2015

She pretified me. Her hypnotic eyes. I was fascinated, like snake prey, staring at one. #Poetry #Poem #Prose #Love

She petrified me,
I was fascinated, like snake prey, staring at one, upon the hypnotic eyes,
Or a cat in headlights. Screech, splat, there it was, that lifeless deflation, it had once been me.
She undulated and swayed, like an old pine tree,

My blood solidified, burning lava turned to tarring stone.
My inner organs liquefied, my stomach felt a little upset.

Her textures and curves and smoothness enchant,
As shadows dance upon her unholy nights.

She gave me a solid fright,
And turned my world 180 degrees. I ran right out of sight.

I turned and ran, I tried to fight,
But whenever I stopped for breath, there she stood,
Waiting for my eyes to droop,
She petrified me, as though I were a timid mouse before a blood-thirsting, readily curling snake.
Or a victim before Medusa and the furies,
She undulated, with serpentine hips,

I hold back, and search for an antidote,
But she approaches even when I dream,
And darkness and nightmares are her quiet rural streams.
And my eyes and neck spin and move as she lets loose her beat.
And she enjoys her own dance as she moves her feet.

And she'd delight if I fell truly into her trap, and fell into the darkest deep pits,
If I joined so many others, whom she controls with the empty hand movements with which she strikes and whips.
But I do not desire to be on unsteady ground, as she continues with countless others,
An illusionary muse. As she hits the floor in ever new dresses and shoes.
And delights at the countless captive men she nightly woos.

To fall for her... I'd only lose.
So I turn away, and leave her and her empty rhythmic noose.
And she dances, as though devils and sylphs let her loose.

Saturday, November 28, 2015

A ghoul seeks my December, subtly, secretly, seethes

(Listen to this poem being narrated by it's author, Marc Evan Aupiais:)

A ghoul seeks my December, subtly, secretly, seethes,
It wants my soul and my very anguished end, charcoal flames in an otherworld,
By my grave, it breathes in deep, my death scent, it awaits, it adores the thought,
Of the inevitable easy decay... of my ways, it so very delightedly brays,
- to waste and edible death paste, it whispers away.
It is already a creature of death's final say.

And in the passageway, to my chamber's bed,
Awaits a foul ghost, a phantom spirit,
A soul split in many tortured horrible death tarred ways,
Angered by my stay, and by my living breath.
Glacial presence, haunts the summer haze,

And upon the clouds, heaven is amiss,
Dragons fight in the darkening white shades,
Their breath's discharge, smoke, like clouds of snow and rain,
And a Fomorian beast, meets the Celtic Gods with ease,
As Ra and Oden come out to seek.

Shades trace the way to Hades,
As the devil's widely grinning creatures grin, with glee, bray, moan, precipitate.
And demonically, in the darkest fathom of the gloaming,
Sometimes my mind does striate, upon the darkness, a pattern of unfaith,
As diabolic wraiths do fly, sour and ply the inevitable fate.

But logic divides dreams, and imagination it does mitigate,
And for the most part, the preternatural fears of primeval man exert latent, unspoken stress,
Are but a wisp, hidden in lurid night terrors, of humanity's intermittent sleep.

And I awake, to praise the bright African sun,
Awaiting a life, surely of love, affection, to be won,
And after death, a heaven perhaps,
But preternatural fears of primeval man exert latent, unspoken stress,
And many inhabitants of this earth, blame and wildly gesticulate,
Whatever it is, we are powerless, it certainly awaits.
And one day, we will know,
Or we will merely lie dead and emptily decay.

Sunday, November 8, 2015

Softly flap the winged clawed digits...

(Listen to this poem, 'Softly flap the winged clawed digits...' being performed in spoken word poetry narration by its author, Marc Evan Aupiais)

Softly flap the winged clawed digits,
Of the darkly silent smidge of a death bearing, life searing bat.
It swoops above, and had dived upon the head.
It speaks, and squeaks, and listens intently,
As its night eyes, and mouth combine in perceptive proprioception.

The clouds are white, as the gloaming begins to reap the sky,
Softly speaks the squeak of the uncannily canny, unsettling bat,
As it circles, with bacteria infested wingtips,
And fangs from which maroon berries or blood drips,
And disease, an aura, surrounding it,
As it follows the moonlit aisles of night sights.

And in the distance, something preternatural speaks,
A voice or was it the rustling of leafless trees, squeaky clean,
The whisper in the worrisome willows,
An instinct speaks,
It says I lack some secret knowing,

Softly flap the winged clawed digits,
Of the darkly silent smidge of a death bearing, life searing bat.
And I ignore the otherly instinct,
And head into even stranger things.

Sunday, October 25, 2015

And you told me of your dreams, how you'd go into the night.

We lay together, on our backs.
Looking together at the great black.
Bright white dots, sparkle in the lonely sky.
And from the stars, our star looks quite white,
Bleached dry, phantom sight.

And you told me of your dreams,
How you'd go into the night.

You climbed upon a futuristic craft,
It travelled to the speed of light.
And I looked at you, as you sped off into night.
Time is but change, and the more massive you became,
As you approached the constant, the barrier for light,
The slower you moved. You were there in the blink of your eye.

And you followed the stars about the milky way,
You went to strange planets, and did speculate.
You looked at the black whole, some distance away.
You said that from space, Sol, our sun, is white.
And you realised that the coloured photographs from the radio telescopes,
were only in reality almost black and white.

And you visited the quasars, and the pulsars, and even approached the great wall.
You did not realise, that time went for you, ever so slow.
When you got there, it was gone, only darkness and night,
Though our galaxy, which you left, still shone ever so bright,
As light travelled with you, one and same speed.
You realised I'd been dead for billions of nights.

And so you headed back home, you were lonely and alone.
Every now and then you stopped to take in the light's ghost of long dead lonely sights,
And time sped up, as you and light did collide.
Billions of years later, you reached, in the blink of an eye.
There was darkness, not a solar system. The earth had long since been taken and turned to night.
And amidst the emptiness, a distress call did sound.
A last craft, with a woman in charge.
She spoke of the end, our race quite extinct.
As you neared her, the time did begin to fly.
You realised she had been dead a billion years hence,
Not even a body remained to decay.
You docked and boarded, you let yourself in.

You discovered that man had learnt to weave gravity, to thwart the universal constant,
And had spread out across every stretch of time and space.
Trillions of galaxies, and trillions of souls.
Mankind had grown and matured.
And you heard the many greatest songs, watched the top films of ever world,
And read the annuls and the greatest of books.
Shakespeare was forgotten, you said... compared with the greats, you weren't too surprised.

And the last survivor had left a diary of the time. Some of her crew had children,
But the gene lines were thin, and even they died within a decade or so.
And they had all taken pharmaceuticals, to extend the range of their lives,
From several decades to centuries,
And you thought that no doubt that was wise,
And you read so many books with your time,
And you watched the greatest of films,
And learnt of the history of time.

And discovered that gravity did not just weave space but time,
And so you sent the ship back so many billions of years, and the vast distance back to were earth is now in the cosmos.
And you found me to speak,
Your eyes were bright like stars, and you were a little older than when you left.
You spoke of so many things,
But you had never looked me up in the great history of things,
Why would you, I guess.
And you hopped back upon your great craft,
And sent yourself through space and time.
You spent millennia exploring planets and stars,
And seeking out alien civilized life,
And when you found civilizations long dead and gone,
You sent your craft back those millennia in time,
And you found the planet which you had found,
Those many parsecs and light years away.
And you watched great and small civilizations rise and then fall.
You observed and sometimes intervened,
You saw the most beautiful and ghastly of all scenes,
And told me of history's great highlights,
And how the first man came to be.

You were older this time,
When you returned.
I guess many millennia had passed from your perspective.
You said you loved me, it was why you always returned,
And the reunion was a fun few hours, before you returned.
You were older when you came back,
Your hair entirely white, your face wrinkled,
But your eyes were lit like quasars, and your heart pulsed like the stars.
You said you only had a short time left,
You died in my arms,
And I sent your dead body to your favourite star,
As set out in your will.

I assume your ship crashed and burnt, disintegrating as your corpse neared its final tune,
For I did not accompany you, I felt your craft was not a great boon.
For it killed you young and all too soon,
And only a few years after we first had met.
I had wanted to have children with you,
A life, a career,
And that ship, had taken you from me, like a suicide, or the wind.
And we had both mourned each other's death,
You, at the end of time, a billion years after humanity had whimpered into death,
A great sadness, you had felt at my death.

We lay together, on our backs.
Looking together at the great black.
Bright white dots, sparkle in the lonely sky.
And from the stars, our star looks quite white,
Bleached dry, phantom sight.

And you told me of your dreams,
How you'd go into the night.

Thursday, October 15, 2015

Flashing, pointed sabre teeth, a point.

Flashing, pointed sabre teeth, a point.
The catlike creature stalks.
But I feel as extinct as he,
His teeth once so sharp and potent,
A tiger stalked the plains of day.
He is dead now, but bones on an empty display,
Never again will nature let his padded paws still walk this way.

And the shogun rides eternally upon his horse,
Outdone by devil fire, and an evolving world,
His sword flashes like a flint,
But he is locked in the darkness of a world now lost.
Yet I feel as extinct as he,
His sword once so sharp and potent,
The sound of horse hooves once a fierce sign of war.
He rode until the dust rose up, and forever disappeared into rust.

And I look to the sky, and gaze upon stars long dead,
As dead as actors in the old movies,
As full of life,
And I feel as dull and dead as the as-though-bright stars I see,
Even as I break with energy, and run through the time's trials.

For while my sword may glint,
And my sun may shine within my eyes,
I too, one day, will be extinct.
And what is worse, I wonder about,
Is what is missing from me,
Flashing, pointed sabre teeth, a point.
A reason - A raison d'être!

Monday, October 12, 2015

... and the sky bleeds like in a song

My vision hits the rays of the sun.
I quickly close my eyes,
... the light is far too bright.
And amongst well defined colours, and nothing in shadow,
I somehow struggle to see.
I notice its shine, you sometimes shine too,
... and my heart plummets, it forgets to beat.
I think of you, and what was once so sweet.

My eye catches a motor vehicle of all things, an elderly Mercedes Benz.
A girl's name, for an automotive beast.
I notice its shine, you sometimes shine too, my love.
And as it revs its cylinders into a dance,
I imagine you spinning in the midnight blackness,
... under the flashing and spotting of the many coloured lights.

My vision hits the rays of the sun,
It is setting, and the sky bleeds like in a song.
I look away, it is brilliant, I fear I will be blind.
You shine sometimes, your cheeks are as red as blood.
And I look away, for you burst with explosive darkly light.
And I cannot bear to be blind, I need to have my life-giving sight,
And with you it is always the darkest night.

Sometimes, I sense it still,
Somewhere in my bones,
It is not yet disappeared.
Some iota still feels love,
And like Rome's ancient Dido,
It desires to believe.

For what is rational,
The heart is yet to have seen,
And what is foolish,
It thinks is bound to succeed.
And I look at that Mercedes Benz,
And I wonder why he named it after a girl,
Not himself.

And at the stars in the night sky,
Named after muses, and the raging of the night.
And while some iota still hopes in you,
I know it is not quite yet rational,
And you are the darkly lunar light.
A shadow of dreams, a wisp of what could once have been.
And while I saw you, with unseeing glee,
I ignored what could have been.
I forgot what my eyes could have seen.
And somewhere in my bones,
It is not yet disappeared.

And I think of you, dear love,
And I wonder when it finally will leave,
When my love will disentangle from me,
And yet, still disappear,
... into the blinding sight of brightest day's inevitable night.
It only awaits the death throes of the final blight's fright.

Sunday, September 27, 2015

Laughter cackles like a scream

Music, and dancing - break the hidden sway,
The tide is rising, a flood is kept away.
I watch from a safe distance.
You curtsey to your beloved rhythm.
I bow... out... and say nothing of it.

The meandering of your life bores
- Me, it does not please,
Your sparkling dress does not delight my eyes,
Perfect notes, do nothing for,
Your noises do not alight my ears...
- What good to me, is your ever perfect pitch,
Water's teeth approach from beneath.
I do not wish it was you I was... carelessly... dancing with.

Music, and your dancing, breaks and sways,
Your laughter cackles like a scream or a quiet stream,
A haunted wind chime,
Flowing upon the deep strength of cold biting icy winds,
You screech with pleasure, in twirling form,
Eyes lit, a glint, like steel blades,
Or the sight of a rifle, against the hedonic delight of the Etruscan sun.

Darling, your delightful looks, and ever evolving borrowed worldview,
Do nothing for my inner peace,
And I am not native to your happiness sprees.
Water's teeth approach, they seek not to please.

Music and dancing, break our way,
The solemn notes of your life, frankly bore,
You sway, and dance, with catlike grace,
You ghost about, and float above the floor,
The delightful melody that is you, deeply offends.
As you gracefully seek a tad attention, for you, of course,
And riches and luxuries, for you, and your court,
And wonder about seeking out any other than me to please.
I do not tell you of what's hidden below murky waters just out to sea.

You smile and tell us of us ordinary folk,
You are certain to keep a few close at heart,
You gleefully grin, and tell us how you condescend,
And keep your feet grounded, upon the air above the dance.
The floor is flooded, perhaps you'd know if you dared touch it,

Music and dancing, I break away.
I do not want to meander and pointlessly sway,
And the music does nothing for my inner peace.
And the waves are just a bit too close for little old me,
I watch you from a distance, as is proper, yet,
You curtsey and meander to gain society's medals, proudly,
- to hang upon your well ironed blouse,
- and dark blue ribbons for your hair.
I leave you to it, and it is truth, that you are quite superficially good at it,
All continues, as water's teeth near, white, glinting, primal and bare,

- But my soul is not native to the notes - which you aimlessly play.

And you don't for a minute stop to think, before your ruthlessly sway,
And endlessly bray about all the delightful things you've done, as you've strayed,

And of your acclaims, ever wisely won.

And you cannot for a minute, nor a second, believe, that it is not you I endlessly seek to please.
I hide my silent grimace, and look away, as at a distance, something seeks you from your beloved seven seas.

Saturday, September 19, 2015

I set my dangers on auto correct, and seek you out in the recommendations of others

You hid it with a bizarre smile,
Plastered with lipstick and fake eyebrows,
Long eyelashes, upon your canvas visage of a fake face.

You run to the record player, and quickly fumble about.
You press a lever, and it lifts the needle up,
Like a druggie, you try to find the vein,
The next track... not this one,
Where with a record is choice, you don't much like this one.

Click, it drops, and after static, it hits the track,
And like a druggie you relax a bit... music soothes, it controls a mood.
Nothing vibrates in your brain quite like analogue,
As you play about with mostly modern songs,
Music, hits the spot, you say, it's your version of those Iranian bongs the students like
- it alters your foulest of moods. It soothes.

You connect your headphones, and switch between (twenty;) channels
Radio, blasting into a cranium, leaving - reeking and seeking... red hearts and yellow emoticons.

And you listen, and shift in the middle of twenty thousand annoying songs...
What you are seeking I can't quite tell, but the music, like an addiction, cannot satisfy.
You place YouTube on AutoPlay, and to dark places, you, it takes, once again.

And you reach for your IPhone, it weighs less than 20 stone...
Like Tor, it browses your dark web,
It speaks of who you love, and who you'd pay to waylay or spay,
And from it, more music blasts, and a spell, casts.
And you stand, and break into an unbegotten dance.
It seems like you are having a blast, like a suicide bomber could never cast.
And the clock strikes, and shivers with effort,
Time moves backwards as you sing along to a certain song,

And you raise your flag well beyond your mast,
And Instagram your latest self portrait, via a poor man's Photoshop.
And certainly, you are wearing quite the crop top,
You turn on the beat, and feel everything is quite sweet.

And so I set my dangers on auto-correct, and seek you out in the recommendations of others,
But they only ever lead to your darkest of webs,
And I fear this path leads to infinite recommendations,
And to songs that blast, and spells that cast, upon the tattered hope of any good man's mast,
SOS- now - SMS, I re-pen a redundant acronym- Save My Soul... I seek to say..

None of which I desire to follow.

Do you hear me?
If you see what I mean?
Perhaps if I uploaded it to Instagram?
But it's not quite my style.
And your most annoying songs have blasted for quite the while...

So I seek peace, with my curtains closed, my door locked,
And a book set in 1884, a century before the era we seek, everyday to once again meet, on empty streets,
And you lay down on your bed, upon another planet, in black and white,
And set about photographing every item you choose to eat.
And in some bizarre unthreading of fate, autoplay has us listening to that same foul beat.
For some reason, you think it's sweet.
To me it's not quite the same,
Music is not how I seek to speak.
And the futuristic novel I read, has me quite upbeat.

Tuesday, September 8, 2015

So I said, let's give lost love a test.... even if it's the worst at best...

Curls, in unwashed hair.
She twirled them, with her front left digit,
She smiled weakly, and looked to me.
Her eyes were... were questioning me.

Curls, in unwashed hair.
She twirled them in, with her feminine digits attached to...
An appendage from her torso...
She was done up nice, more present than a package below a tree.

She asked if I loved her...
I spoke my truth,
I said, I really didn't know,
I love a you, but I don't know if she's real, not yet, you see.
Curls, in unwashed hair.
She twirled them, with her front left digit,
She smiled weakly, and looked to me.
Her eyes were... were questioning me.

Pretty curls, in unwashed hair, she twirled them with her fingertips,
She licked her lips, and relaxed her furrowed brow.
Wrinkles had spread about her beautiful visage of a face.

I love you too, she said, but I don't know if you're real, just not yet, you see.
I was glad she agreed.
Perhaps she'd fathom my soul from a venetian canoe.
Maybe she'd twirl my thoughts about, with her front left digit,
As she licked her lips, she narrowed her brow, and funnily looked upon me.

Curls, in unwashed hair.
She twirled them in, with her feminine digits attached to...
An appendage jutting out from her left, connected to her shoulder, from her torso...
She was done up nice, more present than a package below a tree.

She asked if I loved her...
But still, I spoke my truth,
As I had that time before,
And she frowned, but hid it well.

Time, will tell, it is the test,
She said this to me, and I heartily agreed,
I looked upon her, more present than a package below a Christmas tree.
We'd argued at times, love was put to the test,
But the woman I thought I loved, still stared me right in the face,
So, I said, let's give love a test, even if it's the worst at best.

And she frowned at me, quite strongly.
For she didn't know just yet,
With her, even the worst was always,
In every way, the best.

Curls, in unwashed hair, she twirled them,
And with her eyes, she braided my soul to her,
As she twirled her hair, and curled it into some other thing.

And I smiled, and I told her I love her, for I think she's real,
Her form, complied with my fantasy.
And she frowned, and with great sorrow she looked at me,
And finally, she said it to me, as though I were quite daft, you see,
'Your fantasy, complies with me, it's not that other hurtful thing, you just said.'
'And my fantasy, complies with you, too,' she kindly added as an afterthought.
And she twirled her hair, and curled it into some other thing.

Saturday, September 5, 2015

A boy, fallen, upon a beach - it's just, he couldn't quite breathe.

She said I was mean,
Cold hearted about these things.

That Lion, Cecil, was it,
Had died up in Africa, while I focussed on... other...
Everyday and mostly mundane things.
And a boy had fallen upon the beach,
It's just... he couldn't breath.

And perhaps the toddler's parents had been tortured,
Forced to leave a far flung war zone... a Syria, so to speak.
Maybe they leaked out of the country, fearing a regime.

And the boy, he'd fallen upon a sandy beach,
In Europe, a place his parents did as safe-haven seek,

But Europe rejected them,
As did the stormy seas,
And a boy sun bathed upon the lifeless beach...
He'd bathed in the treacherous seas,
Floating like driftwood upon a beach.
- Except, he couldn't quite as yet breathe, you see.

And she said I was mean,
Cold hearted, for I said he was one of many,
The cadaver of a boy, who'd once sung, walked, and dreamed.
The unwelcome corpse who'd immigrated onto the beach.
One of many, he is, I mundanely did speak,

And then did wonder my thoughts, my dreams,
I pictured them, as the photographer has the long sleeping infant...
The many dead toddlers, claimed by Europe's bordering seas.
Sunbathing upon the ocean floor, just as yet... unable to breathe.