Time and Its Passage

The last time complied well,
Right before the tower fell.
Traveling without a mount,
Carrying pains more than one can count.
What is it to leave?
To think indifferent and believe.
Dark invaded the space,
Bringing an insecure face.
What is rewinding time?
To fix the renowned crime.
Nostalgic and memorizing your past,
Perfection disappearing fast.
Who can define life?
Not one below the golden knife.
Are there any who think like me?
Few stay unseen to me.

–Erin Servey


The Isle Journey

Along the waters of lovers’ past
I sailed around fantasy islands
Where birds floated high above the mast.

On one piece of land to which I stayed,
The wind told of a true history
A pair who once lived near where I laid.

Tale tells of a man who loved his wife
In old age, time stole her memory
So the man ended his and her life.

Since these two escaped all their pain,
No haunting occurred as I slept, cause
Neither of them wanted to remain

Some time later across a blue wave,
I learned of another tragic end
In empty palace, built by the brave.

What I heard here; a sound from the Heart
Was of a spouse building a castle,
Though his dreams would be soon torn apart.

This new home was a token of love,
To be given to his cherished wife,
She suddenly passed to the above.

Depressed as he was he stopped making,
His wife’s unfinished sanctuary
Never to return he left, aching.

Speechless voices cry, the journey now ends,
I thought, does life end this way, in bad fate?
All we can do is hope for good-my friend.

Bitter or Sweet? A poem

When poems taste like caramel,
They cover up the bitter.
Though they may be lovely,
Truth is only found in harsh taste.
When poems taste like caramel,
People munch, crunch and eat them up,
People who eat all the caramel,
They always end up
Because the only thing that’s full
Is their slowly expanding belly.
People who eat caramel poems,
Are eaten by depression,
Because depression feeds on empty minds.
When poems taste like caramel, people always end up sick
They acquire the short end of the stick.
Poems should not taste like caramel, but of bitter instead
For it is far better than a full belly, to have a full head.

Jazz Emotion (a poem inspired by swing)


Jazz tapping the beat,

Can’t stay in my seat

Lights flashing around

Throw, jump off the ground,

Swish, swirl of dresses

The mien rids stresses

Fedoras in style

Smiles stay a while

Pulsing vibrates air

Flowing without care

Rap and tap your toes

Rhythm no one knows

Faster and faster,

Sticky sweet plaster

Chocolate warm feel

Rush of thrill so real

Spinning out of breath

Music far from death

Coming to an end

One, Two, Step, Three, end

Time to make your pose

Show off your last pose

The Last Bullet

I was standing there in the lonely shadows so I could be hidden from view when I saw it happen. The only other person in the Hall of Mirrors was a rotund, middle aged man, breaking the no food rule by eating a banana. He had a mustache and wore a bowler hat; I figured he was a tourist having a noon snack and would soon continue to tour Versailles. Everything else appeared to be normal; except that no guards were visible, which, having been here before I knew something was off.
Then as I watched the man, he started making choking noises, having obvious trouble breathing. Before I had time to reveal myself to help him, he dropped over dead like a fallen tree. I had been told by my boss—who I’d been working with for a while now, and dreaded disappointing—to watch for suspicion as a key clue to finding my target. I found suspicion, which meant no good Mr. Mort was not far behind. Exiting my hiding place for further investigation, I checked the man’s mouth to find the cause of his death. Opening his limp mouth I found the evident smell of Cyanide; one of the poisons I had been trained to recognize. Bending down over the corpse, I searched through the pockets of his grey trench coat to find a green and gold German translation book, two Hershey’s chocolate bars, and a Blackberry. Interrupted, I heard the light echo of footsteps coming from my right, I looked and saw a tall male silhouette. The sun shone through, hitting off the mirrors, making it near impossible to see who was approaching. The footsteps continued, suddenly the light dimmed, my surroundings became darker. The silhouette morphed, revealing a man. This blonde haired man who entered wore a red bandanna around his head and a muscle-suit, revealing his large biceps as well as a large abstract tattoo covering his neck.
“So Jack, everything here seems flammable. We can rid the evidence before anyone finds out”, he said. Then recognition hit me. I had seen his face from the countless hours spent analyzing photos of him, I was certain. Maybe, just maybe, the man who stole my Victoria and he are the same person. Though, his features seemed slightly changed from my memory of the man who took her. Maybe my suspicions were wrong about this George Mort being the same man who took Victoria several years ago. People could change their names. Either way, he matched the criteria of the man I was sent to kill: George Mort, age 32, height 6ft 1, weight 210, born in London and hired by the boss of the famously known Bloody Gang of Paris. Currently he thought that I was on his side, which benefited me.
I contemplated how he did not recognize me. Silence continued. Though neither of us shot there was a loud bang! A gun fired, coming from who knows where, bullets ricocheted around us; all was confusion. George yelled muffled swear words, which were covered by the smashing sound of the mirrors as they shattered; the broken shards hit the stone hard floor in slow motion. The shooting ceased and the shooter became visible. He said,
“George, it’s me, Jack. Looks like we have a dirty mole on our hands. Probably works for them: Barnes Co.” Then George looked me straight in the eyes and said with a tone of voice, which would frighten small children—and even adults,
“Who are you then, my sneaky friend?”
As I, Thomas Benson, placed my thumb on the smooth metal trigger of my 1895 silenced revolver I replied,
“I’m just a dirty little mole,” Before he had time to react, I pulled the trigger; the bullet hit him right in the heart: I wanted him to have a slow painful death because this—I was sure now—was the man who had caused all my suffering. It was revenge for myself and revenge for my Victoria because she was incapable now of getting revenge. I could tell his blood had started flooding his lungs because he had trouble speaking, but I still heard him say,
“You, I think you should know something.” Taking his last breaths he said faintly, but clearly,
“I am not the real George Mort”
I just murdered the wrong man. Shit, I thought. This is the end. But, that was not the end because I had not planned on George (real or fake) to have a friend. Both Jack and I gripped our guns, and our fear; shooting back and forth, aiming to kill. Then, out of nowhere came the sound of two distinct gunshots. The first one flashed, killing Jack: he fell. My mind never had enough time to process what was happening or who was shooting before I heard the second shot. It hit me: I fell. The shooter: George Mort, age 32, height 6ft 1, weight 210, born in London and hired by the boss of the famously known Bloody Gang of Paris.