Like a Higanbana to the Elegy

by Ser

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(Physical copies working to be printed)


released December 20, 2013



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Track Name: Novembre
The songbird against all poise and whim to fall with those undying leaves
Watches from stark branches
A dismal sight

A startling flutter of wings
In solitary flight
Above sculpted twine and clay
Above etch and grain

A slow halting decent upon algid ground
Like the swift through an embracing shadow
The clear of bereaving dusk
The sulphur in a child's tear

Death be a begotten widow
An undear gift of solace
For those whom wish for an eternal night gaze
And thus bewilder desire and hope, for torn pages and falling words
Track Name: Eravaill
Sweet Lila
Ushered my orchid

A grave by moon
Twice the crow
Cut off on my palms
My lament for you, my love

O, beloveth Luna
Why, if on this winter night
Must I hold these roses
Come to my spirit vice
and hold my tearing skin

I sing for the swans in the black lagoon
As blood quivers this mortal dance

Her voice detrains into morning's haunting dusk
and no batting bird will turn to my weeping
Light, so lightly thy wind catch my word
as it wafts it like trailing love, glissading and bleeding
I mourn on my knees

Sweet Eravaill
Cry to my cutted skin
The wound on my face
and kiss the limb and wrist, of dear lovelorne
Track Name: If she could...
In black leaves the red of autumned scars tremble by her loneliness, and blood, as though rained from wandering legs who which have carried and torn for the endless sorrow beyond the will of the sky, ever so quietly slips from Mother's roots... loving its way to the desolate ground...

She buries her loss, lost in burial, fallen in itself by the unworded touch, kissed by love. For that last moment she stared at the face, in despair filled beauty. She stared back, aspite the evanescence which clasped so tightly the rejoice of love, in its most painful, purest form...

At the glimpse of her knees, fell to the earth and grave in grace of a brideless orphan. She cries to the forest sparse of anyone... at the edge of every mournful word her wrists run off light astray, parting the knowing for if anyone can hear her sing, or if finally the existential vineyard left a note...

To lore the loom of branches, she won't know
To love another autumn... So speaks her helpless voice