My First Chapter Book

I have seen behind the blinds of the minds of the friends I find
incapacitated by their winding worlds as wings unfurl
Only to be captured quick; a flick of the wick and the flame slips
to the paths of the smoke before it, as lore bore it to be dispelled
I had a chance to smell the scent and quell the descent, but felled relent
and the trickery of storybook's sick mockery of fickle majesty took its
hold. Oh, the gold and the spark grows old and dark, this lark
will not sing for the song still stings and the long notes ring
as if to say "stay, and pray for the day when blue eyes arise and
awaken and see how mistaken!" oh, forsaken, the binding you
thought had ended in rapture was a mended chapter and
see the many lines you've missed, the signs you quipped as
unnecessary to pages end. The sage's best friend is the wisdom to mend,
but dawdling mentor, your squabbling renders the soul uncentered
and wary, you tease those who tarry until they're despairing and
wearing the signs of sublime uncaring for they've been decaying
along the way.
Take heed old man for the gold in the sands can be found in the hands
of the boys who risk loss for the gain, who in chaos remain
to test the seas and seek the shore and may rest uneasy but know
for sure though you may wish, a fish you throw back will ne'er attack
the same hook twice. No dice. Don't gamble on ice. No more descending
to the caverns of numb unfeeling, the ending only comes when one stops reading.

Singe

Don't wait for me, you'll find the hour, has come to pass, has come to flower,
and every waking moment was a chance to up and ask.
My trepidation wanes, while your elation drains,
together this relation holds temptation by the reigns.
And since we're on the subject of the object of desire
You know you must relinquish and extinguish burning fire
for the flames will come to claim you and consume you in their ire
Come to find that your creations are all cinders and sensations
and all were just equations of your own engrossing mire
Seek to find the dancer who still dances though she prances
on a stage with no more chances and she does it just to fly
For she will be your answer, no deceiving, she is feeling
pain and love are reeling, but the pleasure makes her cry
Her heart may be racing and her fans may be bracing for a chance
to see her facing them before they throw her roses
She knows that this performance was a rush, was a torrent but
she could never warrant to be always on a high
Fire can be hot on low, dancers can be fraught with woe
if they seek to feel only flame before the curtain closes.