You to your beauteous blessings add a curse, 
Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse. 
                                                -Shakespeare, Sonnet 84
Crack- crack- crack
There was a boy I remember
Who stood in the spotlight,
Pleasing an audience 
In the shadow of the night.
Crack- crack- crack
It burns they say
The light of pride.
This boy knew none of it
And neither of his demise.
Crack- crack- crack
He was an innocent boy,
I recall quite well.
But he was pulled into
A darkness of the fell.
They used him for such,
Used his body until it rot.
They filled his head with petty lies,
Dried his tears with their silken ties.
Crack- crack- crack
He grew and grew and
Fate became too clear.
A vision of darkness
There was no hope for my dear.
Yes, I knew him, the child so sweet.
Fed him before he was led to deceit.
Long ago, I remember his warm embrace.
It longed for a mother’s loving daze. 
Crack- crack- crack
He was a lovely boy,
One so sweet.
Used for a golden coins’ greet
Then filled with the lies of cheats.
Crack- crack- crack
He fell too soon
Into the hunger of the night.
Not knowing where to go
Too far from a  mother’s sight
The boy loved the light too much and
Forgot its shadow.
He had fallen to praise’s delights,
Ignoring the mirror in sight.
For he was corrupt,
Empty and flawed to its worse,
Angry, tempered and cursed.
It never mattered then what beauty he once held
For a mother, it was a mirror of meld.
Crack- crack- crack
It was your brother
Of long ago.
You were too far young 
To tell so.
He was stolen from me,
From the love of a family.
Turned into their mirror
Of lies and deceit.
He cracked under their feet,
But he never felt the hurt;
Because by then, he was cold as ice
Becoming finally their mirror of lies.
Crack- crack- crack- craaccckkkk




“Although in me each part will be forgotten

Your name from hence immortal life shall have”

                                                                     – Shakespeare, Sonnet 81


Sitting blank in front of the mockery,
Silent and still, empty of words that should fill this white.
Lone dancing letters of black ink in my mind,
Incomprehensibly insipid and checked of thoughts of late time
Leaves of green solitude I imagine
Trekking these mountainous ranges of stone grey and snow
Images in my mind, I cannot put on paper
As I see nothing but grey stone in the blankness of my mind
Come words, letters, I pray
Mock me, papers of white
Who disgrace me to the bone.
I can’t and shan’t write of another.
My words, eternal they shall be,
If the dance of black letters shall ever conclude.
I will write to you my confessional solitude
But until then, plead you be the inspiration I seek.
To write another verse of equal rhyme,
To show the world the loveliness of eternal lines.
Hear these scribbles of dripping ink on paper?
I have finally begun
To write what you seek
An eternal verse of boreal, surreal rhymes.
About the journeys you once spoke,
Never shall this boulder come again
Until you order again for my head.