I went to visit the thaumaturgist one day,
His home this secluded edifice,
Though I found him, I lost myself along the way,
When I fain sought counsel closer toward the surface --
Yes, I remembered the Lord said...to humble myself and pray;
However, to have gone to Him with this plaint would've been blasphemous,
And I'm not wont to vexing my Lord with minutiae,
Whose gaunt frame we batten by being overly solicitous.
I knocked on the door, the clangor of my entreaty,
Resounding that tenebrous inane -- I flinched when it opened;
When asked to vouchsafe my reasons for coming, I obliged:
"Save weariness of the descent, I've fallen into that bottomless void,
having not done so in tandem..."
I paused to process what I said, continuing, "and my Lord, with this matter,
I've deemed it best not to beset, and have, thus, decided to come here."
He gestured for me to come inside.
"If your language I misinterpret not,"
He said, "there is a maiden by whom you're besot?"
I nodded, indicating his assertion was true,
"But," he put his hand on my shoulder,
"She doesn't feel the same way about you,"
"Can you --," he interrupted before I could finish,
"Of all I can do, I can't make people fall in love with each other,
For true love is something man cannot manufacture,"
I dropped my head in despair, "Then, my coming here was a mistake?"
"I can create a doppelgänger and make for you two dinner; every facet,
Of her being I shall in my creation endue, and you'll get what you want..."
Suddenly, smoke around me arose,
As though 'twas a fire raging in the foundation;
When it dissipated, that which the remnants disclosed,
Was the thaumaturgist's latest invention...
In regards to aspect,
The resemblance was uncanny:
Florid cheeks adorned with sparse specks,
Bright eyes & hair that bounced like a slinky;
Never before had I seen light such as that which she did emit --
Enough to outshine even New York City...
Beauty that doth make me weep now, even as I recollect --
Oh, how I wish you'd been there to see!
The thaumaturgist led us to the table,
"Kevin, this is Morgana,"
I kissed her cheek and it was so cold,
That, eager to warm my lips, I glutted my hot paella;
Upon finishing, I excused myself with manner respectful,
Seeking the thaumaturgist, with whom I spoke sub rosa,
"Sir, she's so cold, I'm inclined to believe she hasn't a soul";
Replied he, "She is her name spelled backwards: fata morgana..."
She was created with the sole function,
To love and be loved by me;
But her cold touch so discouraged taction,
That there could be no intimacy,
No passion,
Just the macabre of sleeping with a cold body,
"I can't do this," I said sans circumlocution,
"I cannot live a lie."
Nonplussed by my discontent,
He made his creation disappear,
"This girl, what to her is piquant,"
He started, "what has she a predilection for?"
"Well, she loves British accents...
And oft references eyes of azure,"
I grew eminently despondent,
For I knew I hadn't any of those features;
"If you did, do you believe things would be different?"
"Just as the world would be a different place without warfare."
So the thaumaturgist gave me those Anglo characteristics:
Blue eyes, a British accent; my skin colour brightened --
He even gave me diaphonous, blond hair she could cafuné...
Looking into the mirror, it felt as though,
I was looking through someone else's eyes;
I felt uneasy, but knew I'd just greatened my chances exponentially,
"It's only a matter of time," I said confidently,
"Soon my dreams will become reality,"
I called my mother and said I was staying over with a friend;
I sojourned at the thaumaturgist's house.
I awakened the next morning,
And discovered via her status update,
That she was to go jogging,
Upon the path by the lake;
After all my navel-gazing,
Ere receiving my new traits,
I was curious to see if all my body was missing,
Was a fresh coat of paint.
And I hied myself to the lake, the wind tousling my hair; when I arrived, I spotted with my clear, blue eyes that beauteous being for whose affection I changed my very aspect -- I waited 'til she drew closer, at which time I purposely fumbled and dropped my iPhone.
"Heavens to Betsy, I appear to have dropped my smartphone!"
I exclaimed with a strong British accent.
"Here you go!" she bent over & handed it to me.
"My, you certainly are a pliant little daisy, aren't you?" I asked. "What is thy name?"
"I'm," she gazed at me amorously, "Jen."
"Lovely name," replied I, "and I'm...Oliver."
I thought to recite one of the poems I'd written to her:
"Jen, 'like the day's first rays...that upon mountaintops straddle,'"
I lowered my voice to a susurration, placing my hand gently upon her heart,
"'Such is the resplendence of your very soul.'"
Before fainting, she said that was the most romantic thing she's ever heard --
Save I've said it to her before.
I've always said... "It's not as much the words being spoken,
As it is the person saying them,"
That you can write for someone a paean,
And recite it ad nauseam;
But unless you're the right person...
You will not fall in tandem,
You will be heartbroken --
And you will curse love as a sham --
Yet in the midst of an unfruitful situation...
One must learn to say, "Even if they won't, Lord,
I thank You for loving me as I am,"
I wept when I thought of what I'd done,
And knew I had to revert back to my God-given form.
I went back to the thaumaturgist,
And asked to be returned to my whilom state;
My eyes were brown again, as, too, was my skin,
The aureate locks faded to black hair not as straight --
What could've won me valor on her court vanished,
All gone without a trace...
But hope nonetheless within me exists,
I won't capitulate -- I won't quiesce,
Not until I find my princess,
Even if her name isn't...
- Kevin B. Waring
His home this secluded edifice,
Though I found him, I lost myself along the way,
When I fain sought counsel closer toward the surface --
Yes, I remembered the Lord said...to humble myself and pray;
However, to have gone to Him with this plaint would've been blasphemous,
And I'm not wont to vexing my Lord with minutiae,
Whose gaunt frame we batten by being overly solicitous.
I knocked on the door, the clangor of my entreaty,
Resounding that tenebrous inane -- I flinched when it opened;
When asked to vouchsafe my reasons for coming, I obliged:
"Save weariness of the descent, I've fallen into that bottomless void,
having not done so in tandem..."
I paused to process what I said, continuing, "and my Lord, with this matter,
I've deemed it best not to beset, and have, thus, decided to come here."
He gestured for me to come inside.
"If your language I misinterpret not,"
He said, "there is a maiden by whom you're besot?"
I nodded, indicating his assertion was true,
"But," he put his hand on my shoulder,
"She doesn't feel the same way about you,"
"Can you --," he interrupted before I could finish,
"Of all I can do, I can't make people fall in love with each other,
For true love is something man cannot manufacture,"
I dropped my head in despair, "Then, my coming here was a mistake?"
"I can create a doppelgänger and make for you two dinner; every facet,
Of her being I shall in my creation endue, and you'll get what you want..."
Suddenly, smoke around me arose,
As though 'twas a fire raging in the foundation;
When it dissipated, that which the remnants disclosed,
Was the thaumaturgist's latest invention...
In regards to aspect,
The resemblance was uncanny:
Florid cheeks adorned with sparse specks,
Bright eyes & hair that bounced like a slinky;
Never before had I seen light such as that which she did emit --
Enough to outshine even New York City...
Beauty that doth make me weep now, even as I recollect --
Oh, how I wish you'd been there to see!
The thaumaturgist led us to the table,
"Kevin, this is Morgana,"
I kissed her cheek and it was so cold,
That, eager to warm my lips, I glutted my hot paella;
Upon finishing, I excused myself with manner respectful,
Seeking the thaumaturgist, with whom I spoke sub rosa,
"Sir, she's so cold, I'm inclined to believe she hasn't a soul";
Replied he, "She is her name spelled backwards: fata morgana..."
She was created with the sole function,
To love and be loved by me;
But her cold touch so discouraged taction,
That there could be no intimacy,
No passion,
Just the macabre of sleeping with a cold body,
"I can't do this," I said sans circumlocution,
"I cannot live a lie."
Nonplussed by my discontent,
He made his creation disappear,
"This girl, what to her is piquant,"
He started, "what has she a predilection for?"
"Well, she loves British accents...
And oft references eyes of azure,"
I grew eminently despondent,
For I knew I hadn't any of those features;
"If you did, do you believe things would be different?"
"Just as the world would be a different place without warfare."
So the thaumaturgist gave me those Anglo characteristics:
Blue eyes, a British accent; my skin colour brightened --
He even gave me diaphonous, blond hair she could cafuné...
Looking into the mirror, it felt as though,
I was looking through someone else's eyes;
I felt uneasy, but knew I'd just greatened my chances exponentially,
"It's only a matter of time," I said confidently,
"Soon my dreams will become reality,"
I called my mother and said I was staying over with a friend;
I sojourned at the thaumaturgist's house.
I awakened the next morning,
And discovered via her status update,
That she was to go jogging,
Upon the path by the lake;
After all my navel-gazing,
Ere receiving my new traits,
I was curious to see if all my body was missing,
Was a fresh coat of paint.
And I hied myself to the lake, the wind tousling my hair; when I arrived, I spotted with my clear, blue eyes that beauteous being for whose affection I changed my very aspect -- I waited 'til she drew closer, at which time I purposely fumbled and dropped my iPhone.
"Heavens to Betsy, I appear to have dropped my smartphone!"
I exclaimed with a strong British accent.
"Here you go!" she bent over & handed it to me.
"My, you certainly are a pliant little daisy, aren't you?" I asked. "What is thy name?"
"I'm," she gazed at me amorously, "Jen."
"Lovely name," replied I, "and I'm...Oliver."
I thought to recite one of the poems I'd written to her:
"Jen, 'like the day's first rays...that upon mountaintops straddle,'"
I lowered my voice to a susurration, placing my hand gently upon her heart,
"'Such is the resplendence of your very soul.'"
Before fainting, she said that was the most romantic thing she's ever heard --
Save I've said it to her before.
I've always said... "It's not as much the words being spoken,
As it is the person saying them,"
That you can write for someone a paean,
And recite it ad nauseam;
But unless you're the right person...
You will not fall in tandem,
You will be heartbroken --
And you will curse love as a sham --
Yet in the midst of an unfruitful situation...
One must learn to say, "Even if they won't, Lord,
I thank You for loving me as I am,"
I wept when I thought of what I'd done,
And knew I had to revert back to my God-given form.
I went back to the thaumaturgist,
And asked to be returned to my whilom state;
My eyes were brown again, as, too, was my skin,
The aureate locks faded to black hair not as straight --
What could've won me valor on her court vanished,
All gone without a trace...
But hope nonetheless within me exists,
I won't capitulate -- I won't quiesce,
Not until I find my princess,
Even if her name isn't...
- Kevin B. Waring
