Tear Drop

Twice virginized, idolized, seize these thighs, I’m alive,

I cried, bled, died, sighed, there’s so much, I am alive,

Failed thrice, what should I buy, a knot, a pot, a I am so,

And he died, I cried, I sighed, and I payed for this girl’s rice,

Said why, and he fell all the way to the abyss, and I was very sad that day,

A man died, why, are you weaving a soft cushion.

And he fell, something about crying,

Just didn’t care, said I would eat a bear,

And the virgin came three times.

The Call of the Red River

It was a long story, a boy grew up into a man, as one does, drumming echoed out into the distance, the ritual had begin, a walk through the village, across the bridge, to the cafe, a scent wafted in the air, it smelled like Lavender, an old wizard had travelled the trail, he spoke of an old world, and youth, spring had begun, and the flowers had been arranged, they took their places, planted their seeds, and were blooming, and a secret third thing.

A french girl was walking around, she was to get a job as a barista, opening doors left and right, the spring well was everlasting with this one.

A sun warrior had sensed her coming, so he began to follow the trail.

Up the road, atop the hill, was an old monk, walking the age old path, of poets and writers, watching the heroes go by, all on their journeys, to sew their seed, and make their mark on the world.

Above them, an owl to watch them all, “Send approval above you,” They called out.

The forest creatures scurry and the crafty raccoon smiles, “Tell my master, I’m coming,” he says with a laugh.

And the king in his castle saw the report, “The wizards call, the ritual has begun,” He says.

The virgin goes out into the world, and the witches echo their laughter.

Also walking these paths, an old hunter, a fisherman, and a hero.

And out they came, and out they called, “We will feast tonight,” The vampires sing.

And the writer, he left it, to think it through, overnight, when the moon calls out, and the wolves begin to dance, when the old dragons begin to coil up the tree, when harpies begin to hunt.

In the distance, a unicorn, to remind us, of the path not taken,

For the river,

Was drenched,

With blood.