Only recently has Zhane begun researching the Art of Poetry, and he has utuilized the many books containing poems within the Castle's Libraries. His favorite authors are the more pleasant ones, though they are also the most difficult to find within the castle too often. He enjoys sharing his poetry with open audiences, and especially enjoys thsoe who go to the Brotherhood Meets at the fireside on Sun's Eves.
Zhane's lead Poetess is Kittyn, who coaches him through his rather blocked times and leads him on through his endeavors. She is like a muse to him and he's proud of that, proud of her. It's a rather interesting piece of simplicity, that he likes to keep to himself , you know like a little glimmering jewel only he can see or hold.
He draws mostly from his own personal experiences, though at times, he allows his imagination to fly high above marrach's cloudy atmosphere, and spread out over the world drawing from stories, dreams every little inkling of the universe. Otherwise, al his poetry would be rather depressing in form and function.
I include for your eyes some pieces of Zhane's work in hoeps that they will nto be stolen , or ripped off in any way shape or form. If they turn up in the books or pages of others without my name given cradit, I shall simply take down my poems, this is purely on trust.
Sweet Entrancing Snowflakes
Have you ever seen sweet snowflakes?
how they glimmer in the light,
how when they land, they linger,
with some unknown delight?
The soft entrancing sparkle
of each and every FROM,
seems to shine minutely,
as they fall from in the storm.
I often sit and wonder
of the things this snow has seen
of the world it might have traveled
as it flies from dream to dream.
I'd like to see our gentle world
through the eyes of snow
I wish I could change my simple from
and go where snow would go
I see it all around me
in the air and on the ground,
It just seems to stare at me,,
and never makes a sound.
I often wonder what it sees
but that I've told you so.
I suppose that I should leave you now
to gaze upon the snow
Facades and Secrets
crumpled satin sheets of antique white,
a half-burnt candle ,flickering away, barely.
a book of my poems stained with sweet claret
two silver bracelets, linked together alone.
a pure white towel stained with sweat
The last remaining proof of last evening
the evening that shall never return
lest it be the death of both our secrets.
Secrets are all we have anymore,
secretas to be kept and never disclosed
The kind that last forever, even in death
for fear that death will bring ultimate shame
The sweet mincing manner of our existence
seems to shade the facade of our singularity
our one little attribute that keeps us different
not different, but not the same as the rest.