Upon a Phan†om’s Field - Rose Blanche V

 Rose Blanche - Poem Collection V

Upon a Phan†om’s Field

╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪Actually by: Zeerdank ╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪╪

Thou wilt say, thou wilt, miss me madame, miss me; then thou wilt bring’st with thee, thou wilt bring, a pound of sorrow, a pound. Well sometimes, thou know’st, sometimes, I do miss a little bit of that, just a little; then I bring with me a pound of sorrow, a pound. Let us be off, let us, and we will meet again, we will; then together we will sing, we will sing, a pound of sorrow, a pound. I am with thee, with thee, as thou art, thou art with me.

Consign to heart my greatest hope, my hope, my dear, my hope.

- Rose Blanche

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I -  Gleyic

To be a flower’s field, oh, to be a flower’s field.

My dream one and only: to have its glamour!

Where all would certes love to play and fritter!

To be a beloved and to belove the same,

Alas, my flowers are drowned,

My matter is worthless.

I cannot stand it anymore,

Where flowers rise; my soul but dies…

And crumbling in the fist,

Where valor’s tried; my hope is wilted…

I cannot stand it anymore…

My flowers are drowned,

My matter is worthless,

That which came before must have been rotten,

I knew that they had gotten rid of it.

My life was decided before itself,

And I am that which soaks,

My body is so full up with rain…

That I am muddy in all things,

I can scarcely feel the sun’s warmth.

That I need another’s design:

A garden to escape this vain life.

As wonderful and fantasy’s romance,

That seemed to me I needed fixing—

In order for flowers to bloom.

Reverie was greater then as I found my hands…

Both which knew dextrous in presenting…

A small flower would finally grow…

But it needed a pittance of direction…

I should not stand it anymore…

The shifting eyes; my growing gyves,

And suffering under heels…

Where stomped are weeds; my stem is broken.

I should not stand it anymore!

There I found out the value of illusion,

As flowers are only picked by their beauty!

I would become a most beautiful flower field~

Grown difficult in the gleyic soil~

Where all would seem to love to play and fritter!

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II -  Vow Anathemic!

Must halt thy advance or suffer the dream,

A crimson hellfire of an errant mad queen!

Upon a field of the roses of pale… and hues less…

Where the dead flowers meet and my soul shall undress.

Anathema they prate— so inhuman in rate:

To my ears, curse my soul~ bind my wrists~ mark my whole!

I did not need my eyes, they were loud enough to see~

And I did not need a partner, my pain was but for me~

And I could not hold a dagger, my hands were never free~

And I did not need reminder, for in there I will always…

Always be.

A pale flower needs no attention, it is rueful and deadened,

I never need more eyes, I have enough in my birdcage!

They did not need my soul, they were occupied with thought,

And they did not need my screams, as the hooded men brought,

A little ash, a little drink, a little chain, and a little knot,

And they did not seem to notice that in my dreams, now were they caught…

The romance of revenge, in my dreams of silken rot.

Anathema I release, like as spores which never cease:

Sew their eyes~ hear that scream~ watch them writhe~ in the dream!

I do not need to stop the suffering, they can do that alone,

And I do not need to feel remorse with a heart made of stone,

And my queenly designs, and my dreams for demise…

I cannot afford, and I will not afford, to allow them to ever relief or atone.

So they suffer a gauntlet of cruelty unknown.

My dream is as innocent as a spring’s flower,

As beautiful as a corpse in the first dead hour!

Upon a field of the roses of crimson and hate….

I still cannot lose my dark sorrows or leverage their weight.

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III -  Morgaine (A Vicious Eroticism)

A carnival of delirium, of a hell borne imperium. Crimson leaves.

Everyday the repeated set of orders; the movement to the border.

It’s dirty, depraved; the same damn thing everyday, but thou wilt love it.

Thou art the doll, thou art the idol; necessarily a vessel of feeling.

Whether ignominy reeling, spasms to the ceiling, it’s a mantra; repeat it.

Thou art a carrier, weary, afeared, excited, revered. Continue, halt, continue.

It’s a rhythm, a melody, a composition, a symphony. Not a way of life, a rhapsody.

Excise, devise, listen or be shattered; enter, retreat, die— no defeat.

It’s a mantra, it’s a scripture, it’s erotic, it’s a stricture: do it all, it’s narcotic.

Thou art the vassal, the servant, and the lowborn; cast another one; kill.

Turn the clean into red, make a mess; suffer them, make them suffer til,

It’s run of the mill, normal. Regular, it’s a mantra, a song; a tantra, not wrong.

A Vicious Eroticism.

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IV -  Lelouch (Of Star-crossed Hate)

Like the sol burning, like the soul burning, to my hands; that’s hate.

But the coolness of the moon drowns us in monsoon, it cools the steel.

The fool, that is I, that is thee, and eye’s spy: we want hate, it completes.

I’ll stab thee in the back, I know the same will come. Let us die fighting.

The eve, her howling winds cool us, it stops the anger, but we’re raging.

Deathmatch postponed, the stars mock us, they do not want us alone.

Let us die fighting, it’s our destiny, reaped from us; divorced.

Nothing is more unfair, this insult I cannot bear. That’s hate.

That’s hate, but the moon. That’s blood in the wind. Buried hatchets.

We need but fight the mockery, I’ll take thy hand and give it a dagger.

Thy illusions will trick the star, my charisma will abide it far. Complete.

Lo’ red rose to white, blood and the clean; the needed, unseen. The mockery.

Of Star-crossed Hate.

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V -  Morgaine II (La Rose Blanche)

The church bells in dark melody, a bride encased in dreams.

Of her frore and her chilling, of her romance of a killing.

In the lone moon: she’s paramour to the void. La Rose Blanche.

Desolation, her laugh; mockery, her eyes; pale is the sky of illusion.

Intact is the mind, but through fracture sublime, that’s her art.

A songstress, a princess, a maiden, and enchantress; keep wary.

Suns do not capture the field; they ruin the best of her bones.

That her stem is the wellspring of delusions— she’ll never truly atone.

No tricks impress, nor do folly to best, she’s invincible to the base.

Foundation unknown, no regard for a throne;  a fairy of chaos.

She’ll kiss desolation, find beauty’s destruction, versa vice.

What is more beautiful, than to see the death of beauty? Pale eyes.

La Rose Blanche.

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VI - A Phantom’s  Field

My weightless standing on this one hyaline plain,

Dull the pricks and needles of a sharp phantom pain,

As I look on the world; the beauty’s desolation,

Must necessarily I cry and lament isolation.

I founded this on the nature of my hatred,

And there did the idols revenger, the fated,

An elegy of the kinds of things once thought and known

Let me down, not gently, budge my heart of stone.

The flowers are my friends; I can see right through them,

Then water, an assailant: as murky as they get,

There is nothing like clearness in the anthem of the solid,

They tell only what is advantageous at the moment.

That is why, until now, I stand stately here,

Where the land is what I trust, like the flowers: clear,

And nothing gets to me— tips my rage over bend,

That my chest, made of stone, to its cracks, it may mend.

A stranger one day pranced dagger and snarl,

On the banks of the rivers, on the freshly sowed marle,

My clarity ousted the pain in my side,

Nowhere this field could the trespasser hide.

The damn firebrand tore things apart; any such in way,

Then my rage tipped over, I nearly vomited blood,

There, disgust at the wanton nature of the beast in my field,

They, my hands, twitched with irreconcilable war.

I took to the fields; fingertips in the dream,

And I yelled and I kicked, kicking fae dust and gleam,

Lo’ my distress was replaced with immediate pause,

As I leapt through the air, as in damning the laws.

Parry convictions before a riposte and I hung,

The assailant he looked with a sneer whilst he stung,

There was red ‘fore the black, and my neck nearly cracked,

And I knew that my dreams were quite useless in fact.

He moved without burden, a flash in the night; a streak of light.

He did not care to stain the white with red, and smather its stead.

He was a killer who took joy in the hunt, whilst I feared its whole brunt.

There was something about him so kingly and regal yet not doubting illegal.

Here in the phantom’s field, where ghosts must meet,

To repeat what he said as I came to my feet,

What is thy story, oh drow lady ghost?

Why doth thou find respite, this phantom’s field coast?

Where the ghosts meet, as though we were dead,

I could only laugh for I was yet alive; had my head,

I told him as such, with an ugly laugh and wince

He smiled, did the same, yet like a regular prince.

I am already dead, and thou art the same, deny it not,

He so declaimed: how else could the land disappear as such?

Like the faerie lands in the stories, no life can truly abide this,

And this chromatic band sheen in the water and air, no life can live here.

Tis a phantom field, my lady, a land of the dead, we are lost,

Deny not this sensation this burning, the blisters, the frost,

Is not it the torture for souls who were crossed on the way?

There is nothing like this in the mortal today.

I began to believe him— I truly doubted my own eyes,

That the land was translucent, and my dreams were the skies,

Hesitantly did my hand meet his own; what sensation,

It breathed a life into me, that fear was away in damnation.

So, madam, be dead alongside me, I pray; we are much the same,

As the dead we are uncounted, unlawful, and broken,

There is no need to fix what will always fall apart, and here,

This field of ghosts— we are the rule not the exception.

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VII -  Ghosts

We learn too much for our own good, too much, indeed, too much,

But the world loves to slow down the living, so a ghost we must be or become.

Sunny days alack and ignore our struggle,

I prefer us to be out in the murky rain.

No illusions except that which we make,

Nothing placed on us, just the laws to frustrate,

In the rain, smudges of our existence,

In the rain, a lifetime of play,

In the rain, no attacks to hurt us,

In the rain, we are ghosts in the rain.

Wash away all the signs of our heathenry,

Of the heart attacks waiting to be witnessed.

Sunny days alack and insult my existence,

I prefer us to be out in the deepest fog.

No delusions except that which we need,

Unable to be blamed, just our own little creeds,

In the fog, silhouettes of our desire,

In the fog, unending mistakes,

In the fog, nothing to make us ashamed,

In the fog, we are ghosts in the fog.

Obstruct the lawful astigmatism for us,

Keep the iron fists of the tyranny in hibernation.

Sunny days alack and intimidate our dreams,

I prefer us to be out in the blackest night.

No confusions except that which we give,

Nothing like cracks of light, only shadows of honesty,

In the night, echoes of our ideal,

In the night, a flurry of meaning,

In the night, no more are our fears,

In the night, we are ghosts in the night.

Shadow the world in the malevolent truths,

No more double-standards of light versus shadow.

We are ghosts in the rain,

We are ghosts in the fog,

 We are ghosts in the night,

We are no more insane,

As the law’s dirty dog,

We are foes to the light,

Who self-serves most in vain,

Of society’s bog,

We are ghosts and we do whatsoever we want.

Sunny days alack just as the canon consecrates,

And the structures of power that abid them;

Their rotten facades and their emptiness lauds,

There must be no more muck that besmirches.

We learn too much for our own good, too much, indeed, too much,

But the world loves to slow down the living, and they love to abet on the dead,

Not just ghosts, darling; we must turn to more,

To overturn the worst of masters in this world, and frustrate the balance,

To be living or dead need not matter, we just need grasp the greatest of power.

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VIII - Our Rose Garden

The playwright’s romance, perfect, unsullied roses,

A pair of two, a pair too true, in the rose garden,

Never the fantasy ends, their will never bends,

Bookend, happily ever after, pink cheeks and noses.

Pleasure unending, electric’s touch sending,

I want ecstasy, I will give it to thee, and repeat,

We will everyday prance and everyday dance,

In this perfect rose garden, this pretty estate.

Let us ring around the rosies again, lay in the sun,

Brushing my hand on thine own; hold my hand,

Let us bake a pastry or two then go for a run,

Around the estate, across the rose garden, into the village,

Let us stay in our beds, maybe have too much fun,

Never to leave, no more reprieve, only together,

Together forever, together in the rose garden.

I will hold thy hand, I will not let go,

How cute art thy crimson curls,

Let us match our gait, let us watch our eyes so,

I will hold thy gaze, I will not break it,

How lovely thy wolf-like grin unfurls,

Let us smell the flowers, let us pick some roses and sit,

Never to leave, no more reprieve, only together,

Together forever, together in the rose garden.

Waltz with me across the estate until the river,

Walk with me down into our own wonderland,

Kiss my cheeks and make my body shiver,

I swear I will never let go of thy hand.

Not in this garden, not in this life, not forever,

As I live and I breath we are the couple of Venus’ envy,

I will watch thou work, and watch every endeavour,

Melancholy never reaches us, let us go to bed again.

Waltz with me across the estate until the river

Kiss my cheeks and make my body shiver!

Let us ring around the rosies again, lay in the sun!

Let us bake a pastry or two then go for a run!

Let us stay in our beds, maybe have too much fun!

Walk with me down into our own wonderland!

I swear I will never let go of thy hand!

Not in this garden, not in this life, not forever!

I will watch thou work, and watch every endeavour!

In this perfect rose garden, this pretty estate!

Again and again and again in this garden; our fate!

Let us ring around the rosies again, lay in the sun,

Brushing my hand on thine own; hold my hand,

Let us bake a pastry or two then go for a run,

Around the estate, across the rose garden, into the village,

Let us stay in our beds, maybe have too much fun,

Never to leave, no more reprieve, only together,

Together forever, together in the rose garden.

Together forever, together in the rose garden,

Never apart, never apart in our own garden,

Whether white or red, whether ready or not,

We’re together forever in the rose garden.

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IX -  Lelouch II (A Stalking Change)

On little games, too many of them make Luc a dull boy— just a toy.

A speaker piece to the figurehead of a rotting country; he’s the stead.

Stagnation is death, a violation of all right, reaps life, takes all breath.

Nevermind the requisite pillars, knock them, kill them all instead.

Another day, another longer, children will play, adults get stronger.

Society is rotting, the mind goes with it. Flush poison, toxicity, away.

Keep it rotting, thou’rt a rotten. We’d no need for expired people.

Radicalize! The children, their eyes; revolt or die, put fist to the sky.

Extreme or explode, no way to go home. Change it all or drink lies.

Creeping chaos is my favorite song, it is the most beautiful nocturne.

Zipping ‘cross the air, corrosion and despair. Let it burn! Conflagrate.

Never stop. Never wait. Never let them sign thy fate. Let them know.

A Stalking Change.

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X -  Morgaine III (Of Star-crossed Love)

The glass shatters as easy as that, gone with a little spat, a misfortune.

How I’d love to hold thy hand again, yet I fear a thousand cuts.

And yet I can’t help it, even my blood malforms. It’s blazing, lit.

Oh what hates I and thou, maligned to the very celestian, a joke of a vow.

Frozen heart, oh bastard art, oh thou who art, who mocks my love.

We are seen, eyes of heaven, eyes that even, to our pain, ignore.

It’s killing; blood pricks my organs. It’s thrilling; my lovesickness.

Let me see thou, allow us to be now. That’s all I’d ever need, a chance.

But to see thee will ruin me, and I am afraid what it shall do to thee.

I’m cold in summer, burning in winter; of fear, anticipation. Hunger.

Give me a notice, an arrow in my chest— it’s for the best, just let me know.

I can die, for our sake; if it makes thee happy. I’ll do it to escape the heartache.

Of Star-crossed Love.

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XI -  Lelouch III (The Show Master)

Radiant streak across the sky, fools and clowns carry the king.

A fatal beauty, foul, cruel soul, and eyes that capture thine own.

He, untouchable, truly. Unbeatable, surely. The Show Master.

Affluence is all he knows, dissidence is all he sows, caution.

Above all hold fast, to fight back, and to fall last, so don't forget.

Fatal spy, a leader of all, revolution sought, the country will fall.

The moon shivers, the red trickster's shadow will take the stage.

Rouge and rogue, the deadliest man of the draw with pure cunning.

Gun for him, thou’d fail. A war will break and cull the frail. So don't.

Governance, diplomacy, dominion by the victor's will, he stands.

They fall, and with them will. The insidious moon has taken its side.

Fatal choice set in stone. The world revolving, he's taken the throne.

The Show Master.

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XII -  A Pound of Sorrow

Hand me a pint of knockout or two, and leave me a frigid embrace,

Miss me, sometime, miss me, I’ll try and remember this frigid embrace.

Thou wilt say, thou wilt, miss me madame, miss me; 

Then thou wilt bring’st with thee, thou wilt bring, a pound of sorrow, a pound. 

Well sometimes, thou know’st, sometimes, I do miss a little bit of that, just a little; 

Then I bring with me a pound of sorrow, a pound. 

Let us be off, let us, and we will meet again, we will; 

Then together we will sing, we will sing, a pound of sorrow, a pound.

 I am with thee, with thee, as thou art, thou art with me.

Hand me a gun and an arrow of cupid, and leave me an echo of death,

Miss me, sometime, miss me, I’ll try and remember an echo of death.

Thou wilt say, thou wilt, miss me madame, miss me; 

Then thou wilt bring’st with thee, thou wilt bring, a pound of sorrow, a pound. 

Well sometimes, thou know’st, sometimes, I do miss a little bit of that, just a little; 

Then I bring with me a pound of sorrow, a pound. 

Let us be off, let us, and we will meet again, we will; 

Then together we will sing, we will sing, a pound of sorrow, a pound.

 I am with thee, with thee, as thou art, thou art with me.

Hand me a knife and a bandage or two, and leave me the missives of kin,

Miss me, sometime, miss me, I’ll try and remember the missives of kin.

Thou wilt say, thou wilt, miss me madame, miss me; 

Then thou wilt bring’st with thee, thou wilt bring, a pound of sorrow, a pound. 

Well sometimes, thou know’st, sometimes, I do miss a little bit of that, just a little; 

Then I bring with me a pound of sorrow, a pound. 

Let us be off, let us, and we will meet again, we will; 

Then together we will sing, we will sing, a pound of sorrow, a pound.

 I am with thee, with thee, as thou art, thou art with me.

Hand me a scratch of a painting of oil, and leave me some kind of a message,

Miss me, sometime, miss me, I’ll try and remember some kind of a message.

Thou wilt say, thou wilt, miss me madame, miss me; 

Then thou wilt bring’st with thee, thou wilt bring, a pound of sorrow, a pound. 

Well sometimes, thou know’st, sometimes, I do miss a little bit of that, just a little; 

Then I bring with me a pound of sorrow, a pound. 

Let us be off, let us, and we will meet again, we will; 

Then together we will sing, we will sing, a pound of sorrow, a pound.

 I am with thee, with thee, as thou art, thou art with me.

Consign to heart my greatest hope, my hope, my dear, my hope.

And we’ll find out just what this all means.

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XIII - Glamour

I suppose if I must regret one thing,

Twas a glamour, but a glamour.

Upon a most beautiful flower’s field,

The colours very much alive to walk,

And from the archways built of vine,

And of the wreaths of flowers; hands interlock,

To take part of mother’s yield,

Her sunlight and exquisite wine,

Huddled between a shabby cotton frock,

The glamours of an idyll; our hearts entwine.

Twas a glamour, but my love was true.

It was the drought to end all other spells,

The sun was beating down against our necks,

Alas, the fields took great offence,

By our incompetence and fool’s respects,

But by the screaming of the wells,

Or by the atmosphere gone tense,

Our presence masked up in effects,

And we were free to waltz with no expense.

Twas a glamour, but thou wert too.

I never told thee quite what occurred,

But thou, in time, accepted it was fate,

That nothing stood to halt our pace,

And our path up was ever straight,

And never thou wouldst know, I had preferred,

For long I wished to see the scowl erase,

Unshackled, thee wouldst let go all thy hate,

And spirit faraway with me; our promised place.

My dream, but a glamour.

So soar my heart with greatest pride,

That we, together, lived; we were alive,

Against all odds and measures forth,

That unlike our old betters, we survive,

Thou wouldst be my prince and I thy bride,

We leave the rotten south for the better north,

Two made into one; our love to thrive,

And never fear again; never henceforth.

An illusion I made, but a glamour,

Miss me, sometime; for to thy heart, I still sing.

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A heart that never mends; s’a heart that shortly ends.

- Rose Blanc