Mea's (bits of me)

Ritishmpire

 

In days of leisure long now past

twas once a nightly gather.

Of vagabonds with minstrel gifts

for dance and ale and laughter.

All but a few, this nightly crew

 frolicked from dusk till dawn.

Twas on such night two souls first met

Sir Bitter and Lady Forlorn.

 

One brief glance can change a course

One look can calm a storm.

As their eyes touched a fate was sealed

and Ritishmpire was born. 

 

Sir Bitter, quite the jester who

was renowned for performance and wit.

Laid guitar to rest, to ponder some riff

to bestow on the Lady Forlorn.

His pockets bare, just matchsticks there

perplexed with naught a gift.

  on striking sticks- a thought was lit

and Ritishmpire was born. 

 

***  A matchbook cover_ a cardboard cover

with the words.. "The British Empire".

He measured and bended and folded it over

in twices and threesomes and fours. 

Then he tucked in the seems

creating a ring

and grinning with satire fed.

Pleased with his jest, he looked at the crest

" Ritishmpire " it said.  ***

 

She turned to him, his heart went still

and born within his breast,

Some awe bit upon and he vowed her then on

the one he would love till death.

With eyes pooling his in liquid sleep

down on one knee he bent.

With kiss to her hand in earnest deep

" Ritishmpire " he said.

 

With laugh suppressed she asked his quest

and twas then she saw his means.

A rounded thing, to look a ring

no jewel would ever best.

"I have but lowly gift for you,

but with it- intent to wed."

Upon her finger it came to rest 

" Ritishmpire " it said.

 

She realized intentions can die

with time if nothing else.

She fought to ignore, she'd heard before

this childlike sentiment.

But willy all reasons she chose to accept

this emblem- though rudiment.

So off with their visions of fancies ahead~

" Ritishmpire " they said.

 

So soon these two became entwined

soon after bore a Son.

And in this mix you'd hope for bliss

but fate would have it none.

The paths they chose were in oppose

in all that they endeavored.

The dreams they sought were never more

then fleeting hopes of pleasure.

*And Ritishmpire was bled* 

So days were spent in slow descent
the more that time went on,
Miss Forlorn grew more bitter

Sir Bitter . . more forlorn.

No fault lay with the child sweet

they loved him fierce and stead.

I merely imply their love had died.

" Ritishmpire " it said.

 

One day she removed the tattered ring

and placed it safe to keep.

Within her jeweled box of things 

for sentimental peeks.

Unaware that fateful moment-

ah' that chosen deed.

Entombed what love along with it

in dark with it

alone with it.

Whispers weeping ~ reaching ~ leaping!

" Ritishmpire" it pled. 

 

Thus in darkness there it rests

together side by side.

The ring of jest and doom of quest

both locked in knotty pine.

This box beneath the earth now keeps 

till dust shall meet the sky.

 All the while neath the quagmire 

whispers.... Ritishmpire.
*
* 
 A matchbook cover_ a cardboard cover 
with the words..."The British Empire". 
He measured and bended and folded it over
in twices and threesomes and fours.
Then he tucked in the seems 
creating a ring
and grinning with satire fed.
Pleased with his jest, he looked at the crest
  " Ritishmpire " it said..    ***
   

  

 
{© #169 Mea.}
Dedicated to my son Justin