Where upon a time to capture your soul
On a window sill sat the truth behind it
Ages had gone by and your memory was lost
But flowing in your veins as if inherited
You twitch as if something is not quite right

Perched where phonetics are like some distant echo
Of a language whose rhythm rhymes not with mine
I listen not to some music that beckons me to utter
Devine wondrous sounds that your core understands
The words are like waves breaking on shores
Only there to marvel at as I take in a breath
And lay claim to something deeper than the Queen’s English

For how repetitive the song and the chorus
Like familiar time-traveling droplets predictable but nice
The voice that maketh not the goose bump and electrifies the hair
Too smart to be static for its own good
Urban and short-lived and certainly capitalistic
It pleads to move you in its irrelevance but to that moment
Where you access that brief sensation
Improvising yes but like the rest of your life
The story is left untold

So where do I quench my thirst but in the rolling dunes where
A mirage keeps me not sturdily in my song and dance
The bills the headache and the tragic end of that brief encounter
Where I had time but for a smile
I have drowned in a cup of tea as they say
How relevant where the jewel wares the crown
For as sure as the wind whistles its reminder
Leaves will fall and you will smile again
Having inherited that poet’s cup

How quaint but for the rhythm that swirls around an existential truth
To be discarded and spat back in the face of an alien language
Immigrants flock to your doors and religious zealots call for your downfall
While you distinguish them from yourself through the veil
They lay claim to your soul through their own ignorance
And you have naught but yourself to blame
The poetry flows through the veins of lives unaware
Of the illusion that absolute law creates upon a human nature
Corrupted through a sense of will
Not to survive but rather to define survival
According he who is closest to the court

There is no call for action nor a deeper than though
Only the Queen’s English from which to resurrect
The true nature of Elisabeth the 1st
Who built empire for the sake of her country’s soul
Where those on the left and those the right
Were mesmerized by the armada from that virgin birth
New beginnings like droplets temporary and subdued
While the Bard’s theatre was there to compensate