It seems that lately, everybody - not just TEFc - needs to calm down, relax, and smile for a bit.

in a world far away from here
a vulture scans the shore
for human faces sulk and leer
yet always look for more

the dying twilight sets the mood
and circles, they appear
a ring of painted bodies stood
across the straits of fear

give in to the moonshine
give in to the night
surrender your body
for that which lacks sight

give in to the moonshine
forsaking the light
perform sins of the flesh
forget wrong and right

and when the sun comes back again
we'll flee into the woods
but once again when darkness falls
the bodies set the mood

we'll take you all around the world
with lips as red as wine
we'll show you things you've never dreamed
in the glimmer of moonshine

listening to music in silence
as the fields rolled past our eyes
you looked at me there
and you saw my disguise

I helped you outside with your suitcase
and I aimed a small smile at you
we walked to the coach as slow as we could
postponing time, for your departure was due

my arms wrapped around you not once but twice
because I couldn't just leave you alone
and after I left you, after I turned
I knew if I looked, you'd be gone

against my own nature I started to cry
and when I started it was harder to stop
I cried in the car and I cried in my room
waiting for sleep as I waited for you

[=10]An alternate take on the basis of a previous story, re-written for an English essay.



When the dreams break, his eyes open, seeing strips of pale, cold sunlight cut through the air from the East. It's strange, seeing the sunrise when he wakes up. His old window saw only the Western lights; the glory of sunset and the ashen dark that follows it. He prefers the sunset, for the most part. In the night, there is solace. When it finally rains and the droplets create tiny shimmering pictures against the velvet dark, he can let himself think. He can dream up all sorts of things to push real life away. Child-like. Sometimes the whole world speaks to him, and he doesn't understand, but there are many things he doesn't understand these days and he wants to go back to that beautiful lack of responsibility, the years where he wasn't expected to care about anything. Is this what growing up feels like? If it is, he doesn't like it at all. Not one bit.

He unintentionally focuses on the pounding feeling that nestles in the middle of his skull, beating the waking brain, trying to force it to surrender to the illusionary comfort of sleep once more. But he's given in three times throughout the night and early morning, and he is not prepared to do it again, so he rises, sighing in dismay at the cold that has clogged his nose and head, for it refuses to go. It is either the third or fourth day of the bug's torture - he can't remember, but he just wants it to go away and let him get better. Maybe it's the new house. Maybe it carries little pockets of bad air like Mother used to talk about, and he breathed it in and got sick.

When he slips past the metal rungs of the ladders that lead up to the attic, unnoticed, his eyes fall upon another bedroom door. Not his own, no, but his mother's. Immediately, he is reminded of a time where his father would sleep in there, too - but back then, the door was a deep, furnished brown.

from sacred lands of honey-smoke I come
to sacrifice my reign to things long gone
my prayer heard, my will be done, I see the earth beneath the sun
into the shattered shards of light I call upon you

the bluegrass summer air has faded all to black
my demi-god, my king, will break free of his shackles
tell me, tell me where's the lowly gratitude?
I never knew the truth 'til I turned back

the mares of night will gallop on, bringer of the lonely song
I look and find that no-one hears my splendid cry
speed away on eagle wings, to lands of gods and demi-kings
how do you live when all is born to die?

there's a fizzing in my brain
that blocks my creativity
a mindless numbing pain
that draws from me my splendour

there's a sleeping man who waits
until the strike of midnight
we try to stay awake
in a ring of poisoned salt

in the witchery of nightfall
I seek a cure to end all ills
for all that came once you were mine
can never be ignored

as the shadows mark a path
through forest, river, mountain-top
the plague leaves dirty tracks
through the history of love

you were queen of the country
and the duchess of dawn
took my hand in the garden
then left me all alone

spent all my waking moments
enraptured by you
spent all my lonely nights
fading to blue

you were a love that didn't last
another page in my book
another faded photograph
that I'd never look at

took a trip down to Wales
right to Bron-Yr-Aur
slaved my way back
with a broken-down car

you were a lover of Mozart
and a singer of songs
you gave meaning to torture
and glory to wrong

the children played in the river
and they ran between trees
came back well-exhausted
with badly-scraped knees

our wedding was quiet
and the church was run-down
you couldn't wear white
but you never did frown

you played on my weakness
as I wove through your life
and you hurt me so badly
when you thought you were right

I remember the day when
you broke me for good
and the look in your eyes as
you then understood

when I came back from work and
you weren't alone
the kids were at school and
I hadn't been home

you clutched at his shoulders
and your nails left their mark
he was wrapped 'round your finger
with your spear in his heart

then I tapped on the window
with a masquerade face
and of guilt, shame or sorrow
your eyes held no trace

I left you that evening
packed my bags and set out
back to Bron-Yr-Aur
to settle my doubts

the country was fresh and
the grass, it stayed green
but I'd never belong there
as you were its queen

I missed our children
but they'd long moved on
and every so often
the wind sang your song

I opened my book
and turned to page three
splashed tears on the pictures
of you kissing me

the queen of the country
you died on the first
the sixth decade of living
you'd done since your birth

When one's duty is to rule over a kingdom full of energetic, meddlesome miscreants, a minute's peace is a true blessing. Sixty seconds can feel like forever - particularly if one rewinds time.

[=10]

In the half-light of the dying moon, you are being watched. Your high heels click on the cold pavement you walk upon; a mantra that tells you to go ever-faster as your skin begins to prickle. There it is, that forgotten instinct. You are being watched, and you know it. Isn't that the most frightening part of it all? You don't know where I am.

Quietly, you tell yourself that there is no-one there - and for all you know, there might not be! Perhaps your insecurity and fear is just kicking into overdrive, spurring your imagination onward. These thoughts run through your mind, too; I can see them, the little electrical currents that flash on and on and on through the brain. But then, predictably, you grow doubtful once more.

I make a deliberate noise; a subtle cough, carried by the wind and the stars. I see sweat on your brow as your clicking heels quicken again; I see your tongue flick out nervously over your lower lip; I see your eyes, so wide and perceptive, and a beautiful shade of terrified. Whyever do you wear that mask of false products and deceit? Your natural visage is much more appealing.

Sadly, that is the last thing on your mind. I move quickly; still watching, my eyes never leaving you. And not once but twice, you whip your head around and look straight back at me. But in your fright, you do not register my gaze, and turn back around, fast walk turning to a speedy trot. And then when my speed quickens, something snaps in you, and you flat-out run.

Your heels almost burn the pavement as you flee, handbag dangling dangerously at your side, hair falling from its neat bun and cascading down your shoulders. I, unlike you, do not need to watch where I am going. The stars are the ones that carry me; the wind is the one that guides me.

When the dream breaks, her eyes open, seeing strips of pale, cold sunlight cut through the air from the East. It's strange, seeing the sunrise when she wakes up. Her usual window sees only the Western lights; the glory of sunset and the ashen dark that follows it. She prefers the sunset, for the most part. In the night, there is solace. When it rains and it snows and the droplets and flakes create tiny shimmering pictures against the velvet dark, she can let herself ponder. Sometimes the whole world speaks to her, and she tries not to get too attatched. It'll only vanish after a while. Things always do. She's terribly used to having things run fleeting from her grasp.