Flowers of Purple and Blue

[Wu Tang Dan]

A piece of me has been misplaced
It disappeared without a trace
I know not where it hides from me
It rests nowhere which I can see

Without warning or any clue
It peeled from me one afternoon
I took a stroll around the Baie
And as I walked it flaked away

Panic drowned away all my thoughts
As I tried to locate its spot
Not one event could break my trance
Save but finding it in my glance

I began to search through the sand
But nothing fell into my hands
I thought to check the gentle breeze
And even climb the tops of trees
But even as I searched the roads
Not one trace of it ever showed

Posters were put on every wall,
Payment to whoever saw
A piece of me which now is lost
Which I seek regardless of cost
And though many visited me
To show me junk that claimed to be
That which I once possessed with mirth
None could match my lost piece's worth

And as my search continued still
I began to feel very ill
No fire's warmth dared touch my skin
A pain echoed from deep within
And food began to lose its taste
And all my efforts turned to waste
I lied in bed without the heart
To rise up, lest i fall apart

And while I looked around my room
Color drained from a flower's bloom
The light began to fade away
As my world became cold and gray

For as long as I miss a piece
My life's troubles dare not to cease
I wallow in my grim defeat
I remain hollow, incomplete

The meter is off but I think it is witty. I made this for a poetry night, but had only started working on it the day of the event and finished it 15 minutes prior to when it began. I am bad at waiting until the last moment to do these things. Maybe it is because I feel obliged to do them.

-A

[Wu Tang Dan]

The scribe loves the end of the page.

It was a fragment from a larger proverb. I forgot the rest, but clung onto this last bit. I became so fixed on the phrase that I no longer noticed the conversation going on around me. Everything faded from my consolation until it was as though a plaster wall had been set between myself and those I shared that campfire with. I shook myself out of that trance when I realized that the person I sat with was no longer beside me, and had instead moved to converse with someone else. I promptly excused myself to rest, out of fear that I was starting to stand out in an unfavourable way.

I attempted to force myself to finish "The Door", or even to just get through the first act, and yet all my strength and effort resulted in another unfinished work. But it wasn't always like that.  When I delivered letters to Wachter and Krezk I would draft up poems and songs in my head to make the journey pass faster. And when I first came to Port-a-Lucine, my acts were largely improvisation, and I found a great amount of amusement (and even pride) at my ability to quickly devise some form of act or song that would please the crowd that spontaneously formed around me. When did that change? Why did I lose my love for the end of the page?

[Wu Tang Dan]

Yeast, sugar, butter, and more butter.

Put into a ban, bake it, then spread butter over top.

A butter cake.

I bought a room at the Governor's as a gift to myself. I will try to hang onto it this time. It looks just like the old one. I appreciate that.

 
Deiz-ha-bloaz laouen, Arsène.