Lift not the painted veil which those who live Call Life: though unreal shapes be pictured there, And it but mimic all we would believe With colours idly spread,--behind, lurk Fear And Hope, twin Destinies; who ever weave Their shadows, o'er the chasm, sightless and drear. I knew one who had lifted it--he sought, For his lost heart was tender, things to love, But found them not, alas! nor was there aught The world contains, the which he could approve. Through the unheeding many he did move, A splendour among shadows, a bright blot Upon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that strove For truth, and like the Preacher found it not. -Percy Bylsse Shelley

I live in a house of veils with quiet company A still, stag, stall, a dim-lit hall, where live the visitor and me and when I hear him I freeze Oh that cold, cold creep sweeps over me I'll never see him but I feel the draft of his dealings I'll never see him but I hear the howl of his boots ‘hind those doors oh arresting danger oh familiar stranger oh unwanted mover oh enfeebling enemy oh binding boarder oh unknown invader oh that confining howl

look and see me and anodyne we float like fog in a river clean we sit like willows and comb our hair we have no post, we have no care and we're not worried for our pay for there's no food for us but hay and we regret none of our days well who showed you the right of way? sometimes we buckle and bend and sometimes we tire sometimes we fuss and fend but we'll never lose our fire cause we're not worried for our pay for that's just less for us to weigh and we're not sorry for our play well who the hell are you to say? (look and see she and anodyne they hover just like bumblebees they sit and sleuth, and fix their stare they have no post, they have no care) look and see me and anodyne we hover just like bumblebees we sit and sleuth, and fix our stare we have no post, we have no care

Theia the dreamer’s a dancer in dim, A woman of winsome who worships her whim As keen as a keel, hard as steel She talks as fast as a spinning wheel And walks as heaven holds her helm But always keeps one heel in hell, Our Theia! If see her, ask yourself Oh, you usurper, you usurper If you catch her, ask yourself Do you deserve her? You deserve her In the night she may caw, she may cry But only as soft as the feline by her side

When I ran to you, Expecting open arms and warm tea, I got sour rind and sop When I ambled toward you, Bridging bramble toward the sea I stuck only in the stubble (flanked atop) The thistle by the barn rallies its barbs like swords from arid land not wicked, but dry When I wanted lift, I got stone When I wanted rest, I got din When I wanted cheer, I got cap When I wanted shade, I got cast When I wanted drink, I got dust When I wanted warmth, I got soot When I wanted food, I got swill When I wanted wool, I got thorns

So quietly it seemed to happened, So softly we found our cave And now we sleep in crystal caverns As sound as pearls How did we find heaven? How did she find us?

Grab your buoys and your bells Warm the warbler in her cell Maybe not a hollow knell Maybe not freedom as well But hear her sing and sing along, Add a chorus to her song Sweet as honey in the throng What can sting can still be stung Is this all in vain? Do we only serve to entertain? All day long we sit around And watch the wicked take their crowns, Drink their wine and stumble down While our ship goes down and down All day long we ask ourselves Should our arrows see the shelf? Should we even be so bold To tell a story that’s so old?

There’s a pleasant port where a boy fixed his course On a lesser-trodden landscape north And on his journey boreal met one corporeal One returning journey forth “What draws you to the barren there,” he said “That land is nothing but dampen dread, and sour berries, and rotten cherries, and icy rime and that snowy, snowy pine. That bleak, bare lawn is woebegone But carry, carry, carry on” “Oh no,” he said “You must have misunderstood, it’s not the land’s comestible goods, not the berry that I seek but the way it hangs on the arrow wood And I am not after that snowy shawl But the way the faint flakes float and fall And to me that alabaster milky rime Is as sweet as sugar and just as fine And I don’t care one bit that the pines are gone But I do care what they look like at dawn, I’m not concerned that their life is drawn But what happens to the land without their brawn.” And so his journey goes, though his story’s old But a tale is not trite if it’s still being told

I will not bend like a bow to a rut in your road Heaven knows you know no more than I know But if you want to find me, I’ll be under the Wonderboom tree… I will not let you carry me I will not use another’s feet But if you want to find me, I’ll be under the Wonderboom tree…

Are we moved or do we move? Are made or do we make? Are we strays or do we stray?

This started out as some things do One wispy wire, one thin, lone shoot And it spread ahead before me And where I used to run, it outran me Many buzzing wings we all contain Many many-veined and cellophane We are twisted from fibers, wound to thread And we will wind ourselves til we’re dead That black boil weighs like a pit of ink And it sits in many chests, where it sags and sinks I know it well, it knows me But it has known many more before me From our tissues and from our strands Sits a figure with outstretched hands Saying we can sit solitary We can crouch in sanctuary Or we can gather Our threads into rope and pull