Evadne Soleil

"A Little Rusty"

This is between you and me,

something fragile, emotional, pure.

Confession, conveyance, confusion...

my gift perhaps precious no more.

Glass heart woven upright with steel

at its core, as its value and center,

weak flame-blown sand from the shore,

so very easy to splinter.

Pricked skin from the underneath wire,

a tiny wet ruby the price,

for breaking heart touching my spirit...

I wanted love; blood will suffice.

Spiderweb statue of steel now,

I ache for the touch of your hand;

you caressed me when covered in smooth, silken glass,

now you fear all these sharp bladed strands.

Steel wires criss-crossing in moonlight,

my cruel twisting shadow now stands

a mem'ry and warning to lovers

who hold glass with too harsh a hand.

But this is between you an dme now,

you've returned, callused, toughened by years,

my sharp edges were eaten away, love,

by the iron oxide of my tears.

"Five Years Removed"

I read your poetry again...

slipped into old feelings,

old fears and doubts and memories of who I was

who we were

what we couldn't ever be.

I never went through

denial

bargaining

anger

...I skipped those three,

went straight from grief to calm quiescence,

like my heart short-circuited.

yeah.

short-circuit (sigh)

there's something wrong with me, lover,

something you couldn't fix,

something he can't either...

I'm broken I suppose,

forever and away...

I am a woman who preaches of love,

I am a woman who preaches

I am a woman...

perhaps that is all.

My hips have slope and curve,

my breasts are full and round,

voice low and sweet and filled with power;

I can bring men to tears,

but I am...wired wrong.

I did not rail at God.

I never asked Him why.

I simply knew you were too good

I simply knew you were

I simply knew

and accepted.

'Perchance There Be an Inn?"

I am the wayward poet,

fine lines fine lines, fine...line,

'twist genius and insanity,

true brilliance and inanity,

renown and bleak ignominy,

I dance along that edge.

Crystal diamond sword of tears

smelted out of love through fears

insightful eyes too damaged peer

'to murkiest of depths.

Perhaps my wisdom came too soon

crafting a seer into a loon,

but only fools can mock the king,

in trickery and satire sing;

with pointed poignant insult fling

unadult-R-rated truths.

Alas, my dear, I cannot judge,

nor with my spirit e'er begrudge

the somber solemn writers dear

whose pens claim beauty's ever near,

who bask in pleasant atmosphere

and always so composed appear,

creating diamonds out of sludge

causing the hardest hearts to budge

but I shall keep my fripperies

my fine line edge dance slippery

so neither here and there I go

sometimes with joy, sometimes with woe,

and thoughts impossible to show

in blatant light so I'll forego

a play upon this stage of life,

I'll keep the laughter, leave the strife,

and though it's me you think you see

in black and scarlet misery,

the wrinkles here are made by smiles

the scars upon me left by miles

of dancing on a bladed edge

a teeter on this holy ledge

'twixt genius and insanity,

eloquence and profanity,

a humble heart and vanity

I am the wayword poet.

"Adagio"

Are you made of gold, my dear,

for sun gleams from your skin.

The constellations line your gaze,

such beauty could be sin.

Prayers of youth from flawless lips,

pomegranate kisses, ever present faith...

Little one, return, I see, (I failed you)

I see (I miss you)

I see.

Artist, poet, lover, dream,

definitions lost, perhaps discarded.

I press scarred hands to the glass that holds you,

my reflection, kept in chains.

You scream at me and I know, (forgive me)

I know (I'm sorry)

I know.

Please, re-emerge with lightning, flame,

make this heart once more full...

remind this world it's beautiful,

for I know it is cruel.

"Broken Broomsticks"

It is the night where wildlings dance,

and ghosts may leave their graves,

where every face is honest yes,

for masks make all men brave.

I want to shed my skin tonight,

and dance 'neath mother moon,

yet I must wear a different mask,

youth murdered far too soon.

Let fairies flit and wolves cry out,

let dervishes spin on.

My heart, my soul, which longs for night,

is still a slave to dawn.

So armor battered, eyes tear-stained,

I long for pasts restored;

I dream of life unhindered, free,

while polishing my sword.

"Origin Story"

Rain pour down and quench my thirsty soul.

Men are fighting Heaven's wars,

speaking profane dreams,

defying light.

By our imagination

gods and science contradict.

In truth they are the same;

are we not born of Spirit and of Earth?

How long will we defy

that which we see before us?

In our ignorance we build another Tower,

armed with swords

called Logic and the Mind,

claiming all we see with flags and standards...

yet nothing we possess

is without its point of origin.

The greatest truth is that we cannot know,

if we were gods death would not haunt this world.

I cannot cause a blade of grass to grow,

nor in and of myself give something birth.

Even these words are That Which Came Before,

a message to the masses with deaf ears.

Embrace our Father and our Mother both,

assuaging and destroying mortal fears.

"Into Heaven Vanish"

Tell me where you go,

shooting star.

Sing of streaking past the planets

bearing dreams.

I am near out of wishes;

my plans are long since spent and turned to dust...

I have dance for kings and gypsies,

kissed knaves and princes both,

spilt tears before a goddess,

and felt the touch of Death.

What more need have I of wishing,

keeping drive and hope and faith?

My only prayer is innocence restored,

my only wish that war remain a hell.

Promise me your confidence is strict,

promise me my cries will go unheard...

for tomorrow I must smile again,

and strive to change this world.

"Little Sister"

I live in the shadow

of Hercules,

iron grey titan with ungentle priests.

"We have brought you up from nothing," they proclaim.

"We have brought you up from nothing,

you are ours."

Shrouded in his shadow, I know nothing.

Who am I to question origin?

Who am i to challenge Fate?

Small and slender wrists were made for chains,

eyes of azure blinded by the sun.

By logic, yes, I needs be locked away...

made obeisant to a chosen One.

Yet no man bore witness to my birth,

so how can any, even priests, begin to know

if I might have sprung,

fully-formed,

from my Father's crown.

"That Which I Have Been"

Within my mind the old tale rings,

three dragons, one with broken wing;

what I let go, you gave to me,

sundered oath and empathy,

what it is I need to face

that river in Eternity.

Sing, I'll find the harmony,

search out the one from memory,

renew the bonds that I forswore,

I am not who I was before.

The knife I plunged inside of me,

I dulled and inked; wrote poetry,

a prophecy inscribed in red,

repayment for the blood I shed.

My planet strides across the sun

these ancient vows will come undone,

and this is all I ask, my dear,

sister, savior, angel, seer,

awaken me for the eclipse...

I will become new Genesis.

"Journeying to Truth

Part the Third"

"I bleed upon this paper,

but cannot thaw my soul,

I want to change this universe;

I want a world made whole.

Where metal hands are not a gift,

pain uncommon not the norm,

where tragedy is fantasy

and anguish never borne.

I want a new beginning,

an end to what now is,

this is no poem, it's a prayer and

all that I can give.

Forgive me, strange companion,

but I can write no more,

I must go change this world I see

with neither pen nor sword."

I threw aside the paper,

left the quill upon the ground.

No one need ever read my prayer,

my hopes need not be found.

I turned away from silence,

left secrets there to lie,

the answers aren't important now

for there are tears to cry.

New hopes and dreams must be embraced,

and Love must become known.

I turn from silence,metal drips;

I hear the crack of stone.

Part 1 - http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index;_ylt=AkuPT...

Part 2 - http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index;_ylt=AhCKj...

"Journeying to Truth

Part the Second"

Get back from here, you spirit sprite,

my hands are metal, see.

There's nothing left of beauty here,

just stale hypocrisy.

I am a slave unto this road,

I cannot leave it for

I'm cursed to neither sing nor speak

'til heart is flesh once more.

"The stone still beats," my stranger said,

"it pounds blood through your veins.

Tear it all out with tongue and quill

then tell me what remains.

As for your metal hands, my dear,

consider that a gift,

for words are weapons, pens are swords,

both sharp and hard to lift.

I leave you now to your own ways,

get out of borrowed time!

Or else the gods will name you as

a predecessor's mime.

Stop staring now, you silly goose,

you've yet to drink your fill.

Take out those steely hands of yours,

take up my bladed quill."

It left; I was alone again,

an inkwell in my grip,

so in the silence, open heart,

let tears and poems slip.

Part 1 - http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index;_ylt=Ai.GN...

"Journeying to Truth

Part the First"

It seems I write in rhyme of late,

I cannot rise above.

Metal wraps around my hands,

form-fitting like a glove.

I begged the gods for wisdom;

they turned my heart to stone.

Transmute it into flesh once more,

all secrets will be known.

Walk the lonely road, dear soul,

forget the ways of speech.

Silence alone can make you whole

you face this world, too weak.

I turned away from pantheons,

eyes changed from blue to black.

My hands were steel, my heart was stone,

I could get neither back.

So I traipsed the ways of quiet,

imprisoned in my mind.

Words rattled caged inside my brain,

no respite could I find.

Until a spirit stranger,

with horns and halo too

said "When you are alone, my child,

language belongs to you.

Forget the words of masters,

those seeds already sown.

Throw away this ancient clay,

mold something new, your own."

"Unsung"

Speak poetic once again,

I plead to pen in hand.

Write the world away today,

write with different sweep and sway,

too tired now to take a stand.

Anger seeps within my veins,

stealing breath and cracking voice.

Once I wrote in quiet tones,

wistful, longing, great unknowns,

now it seems I've lost that choice.

Soldier girl, unblinded see

shades of chains and misery,

spirits locked in poverty,

slaving for false liberty,

shrinking from the ugly Truth,

her heinous head, her words uncouth.

My veins split open! Yes, I bleed,

cry for the world that thinks it's freed

but sinks so deep in lies and mire,

laughing on its funeral pyre,

give me words that lick like fire,

sparkspit, madness, and desire,

let me once more with pen inspire!

Write the world in different hues,

let the darkness fall away.

End this suffering, this pain,

let beauty stir me once again...

anguish fade and peace begin.

"The Coming War"

I want to bury my lungs in the flowers,

and shelter beneath the weeds,

hiding from serpents and spiders,

from want and pain and greed.

Take this world back to Beginning,

where words made all everything new,

before there were lies and deception,

and leather 'twixt me and 'twixt you.

My soul is still naked as Nature,

my song goes on wild and untamed

while freedom is sliced at by razors

and every advancement is shamed.

I sicken of striking at phantoms,

shined silver that leads unto death,

I want to withdraw from the madness

and bask in the beauty of breath.

My hand is no stranger to swordplay,

my fingers at home on a gun,

though I pray this does not turn to violence,

I swear if it does, I won't run

So I stand at the end of an era,

where evil says slavery's fine.

I want to bury my lungs in the flowers,

but no one will take what is mine.

"I Took Elaine's Advice"

I could stand here, in the rain, forever,

praying to wash away,

to fade into the droplets and soak into the earth,

become so inundated with All that self shatters;

lives life in reverse.

Like duct tape on a fool's mouth,

it wouldn't work.

Resistance is an epicene uselessness it seems,

when I find pen fueled by momentary fury

after she's lain still for weeks.

I beat my fists against a wall,

but my skin won't break, can't bleed

and muffled cries of weakness

slip through locked doors like a sieve.

Punch me full of holes, oh please,

fold me like paper and bind me in a book

so that I become more than words,

more than useless railings against a deaf pantheon.

Lay me, ungently, aside onto your shelf

where I can silent collect dust,

and save you buying duct tape.

"Knowing One Truth"

I do not weep for angels,

nor claim to see the dead.

I write the world in black and white

while everyone sees red.

Three faces and three names I have,

six reasons and one lie.

I know not who or what I am,

but ask you, who am I?

I speak in whimsy without wit,

I bleed four shades of green,

an artist with scarred hands and tongue

that ever speaks obscene.

I fix I break I falter,

I dance without a tune,

a song within my head that says

all dancing must end soon.

I am no sage or mystic,

no prophet priest or queen,

just smeary words on pages,

in ink too dark, unclean.

And once I wrote free verses,

each line with its own time,

but now I cage and conquer words

in prisons made of rhyme.

So I laugh aloud at weddings,

and yes, at funerals too.

I do not weep for angels, dear,

I cannot cry for you.

"From the Notebook that I Burned"

Make all the world a river,

and time the only lie.

Turn all beliefs invalid,

let nature testify;

let Whitman's Ghost sing

"Song of Myself",

keep Frost's one road diverging.

Poe's raven still quoths

"Nevermore"

to wishful poet emerging.

All I have are broken rhythms,

and quaint, simplistic rhymes,

my iambic can't beat Shakespeare's...

though it's tried a million times.

I search and seek out meaning

in a world turned dark and gray,

gray with an 'a' not 'e' you see,

because that's this world's way.

Anachronism is my word,

a thing out of its time;

no sweeter definition,

no greater freaking crime...

Make all the world a river,

and time the only lie.

Turn all beliefs invalid,

no one need justify

a poet cursed to never write

a word that glitters gold,

but trivial thoughts to fade away

on parchment,

battered,

old.

"Intent to Evoke Emotion...Success"

I broke the butterfly.

Took wings 'neath my fingers,

crushed.

Wanted to see

what made if fly,

inquisitive child,

never meek, far from mild.

Never had I been

where jungle vines were veins,

words machetes and emotions blood.

I can see that mistake now,

I sundered Hallowed Ground.

I am human again; less than wise,

preaching my one gospel.

Love can save the world, I said,

(it can destroy it too.)

Looking back is no sweet sorrow,

teeth lose edge and scars can fade.

My hands are gentler now than then,

more scarred, more tried, more true, but...

I broke the butterfly, my darling;

can't give it back to you.

.

"Forgiving Fate"

There's a dragon in the sky, baby,

all teeth and fire and bite.

End of an era.

Ending of time.

Strong knights will fall,

accused of crimes.

Bad men sing while good men mourn

dark days march on while we're reborn.

Living lingers as dreams die off,

cracked glass staircase

to another branch

of a different heaven.

Things must pass, my stalwart sterling.

Dreams must crown, be born, and die,

hellos all must know good-byes,

most truths can drown beneath the lies,

wills must bend to compromise,

as dragons perish

in greying skies.

Some sweet dreams must end in pain...

lest all of life the same remain.

"Tell Me..."

Remembering skin without scars.

How long has it been,

millennia, eon?

How long have I wandered in lands non-existent,

forgetting my name as I cry out for you?

Drinking of wine, sipping on firelight,

feeling wounds burn though the marks can't be found.

Memories long sundered, names now discarded,

but sisterhood, blood, must always ring true.

Now to embrace and to touch,

to see you, resolved in your gifts as I'm severed from mine...

if ever death was a gift.

Are you at least free now;

for that's all that matters.

Are you at least free now,

for that is my longing.

I can't bring back childhood,

nor raise ancient ghosts.

But I wonder, now as then,

were ever we children,

were ever we young,

did we ever dance without destiny's tongue

dictating our minds and our lives and our time;

were ever you yours?

Was ever I mine?

Did ever you not call the Goddess by name?

Did ever I not know the edge of a knife?