A few lines written on fruitless endeavours lacking determination.

The Song of the Minstrels.

Eerily, I began my journey of desertion

To a fabled vale of yore

Abandoned by many in the age of hesitation

Eerily, Muse molded in me a denizen of the lore.

I hearken to the melody of the foams

And trailed the breadcrumbs of the gnomes.

Trotting against the shrubs, I pondered

Perhaps the tales of this cursed vale

Of my journey surely sheltered

Shakespeare’s Weird  Sisters and Keats’ Belle

Dame, art they sans merci?

What do their broth carry?

Ere marking an end to this horrid journey

In the early morn before the dew,

I was hexed to the rhythm of a minstrelsy

A strain so beautiful that bade my limbs adieu.

Wise men did warn me of a mirage

But the melody silenced the sage.

“Eros is my name” said the charming lad

And adjusted the quiver on his back

“Whilst  the young birdies gaped their beaks

To their perching mother, I hearken’d

A prophecy of yore of fertility and elation.

A young lad from the east ascends,

To replace the mantle of Johns and Williams,

With words worthier from a colder ridge.

Take these hands, O earnest soul

We shalt sing ballads far lyrical.”

“Make haste, my fair child, flee

Young lad, I fear for thee

Step no further and retreat

With thee, I see a Keats sans Brawne

Haste, the vale ahead yield none

To a soul pure as thine.

Heed my words not

And a life of remorse awaits.

No prophecy hath ever existed

In this barren land Flora ceased.”

“Hold, my faithful child, stay

Why art thou wan, brave traveler?

My sister has a malady of black bile.

Wipe the fresh stream on thy face,

Thy journey has merely begun,

And release a sigh to my minstrelsy.”

“I come from the rendezvous of waters

Thou can call me Aphrodite.

I toil betwixt elations and desperations

Many seek I for their longing heart in vain

But my fair child, come forth

And in scorching summers and chilly avalanches,

I shalt shield thy head from deadening.

When tedious  thoughts of yore mask thee

I shalt remind thee of Beauty

And with it, thou shalt ever dwell.”

Thus marked the arrival of Melancholy.

Euphrosyne hath concealed herself from revelation

Every morrow brought a new sorrow.

The black hath too ceased interaction

With the red in this fallow.

The passive thinker is desolate

Muse abandons his thoughts

Even the sage above the glens is desperate

Aphrodite exists in mere mortal’s thoughts.

Thus marked the arrival of Melancholy

And the end of anything jolly.