No Lolita

Through the long classes, 

filled with intoxicating noise-pollution 

and fading attention, we found mutual adoration,

then love. 

Remember, my crass stubbornness created us;

never did I fuss or dispute a point 

which in any possible outcome


I had never loved before you. 

Humbert you,

marvelous professor of the unspeakable arts, 

the Muse of secret languages of the intertwined hearts;

upon first glance I was yours. 

An ancient man, 

panning the world for something innately more. 

Panning the room you lay upon me. 


though I am only there in spirit

(resonating in my old classroom- 

a known and comfortable stain upon it),

and not in flesh,

I remain, and must confess,

I'd rather the real thing.

Possibilities endless, 

your world an Ocean shoreless;


a vessel in distress, or sunk forever.

Castaway mess under uncharted waves. 

Hair blonde, smooth as water-trodden sand;

the land and all upon it quakes in your wake.

All Foundlings before you-


the knowledgable Muse to our world.

In my world, you were more,

for you were an exquisite object,

a fine linen.


where others could buy your secrets 

with age and similarities,


too young to taken as 


unfairly picked up your scraps 

and held them in my Brest pocket.

Age kept me from your Sagely Kingdom.

I learnt what I could from distance,

and hidden devout obsession.

High marks, 

forthcoming personality! 

All parts of my Masquerade shrouding my 


Yet we grew together in minute detail,

new stories were brought to trial;

I would pray, and you would affirm 

that all would remain okay.

Forever, which I now know

is the World's tragic farce, 

harnessed this fervor inside of me,

leading me on a forever crash-course into

Earthly Hell.

Love was my savior named Lucifer.

You sold me on these devilish desires.

We lived through our eyes, and distance,

and now, 

you play my requiem at 3pm,

when your room is deathly quiet 

and no artificial light dare pay me 

proper homage. 

I know you loved me,

even if it wasn't the right way. 

The way I was devout


you divine beauty.

Tall, man of the Arts

for the sake of his sanity.

Eyes; Oculus of souls,

that's how you saw me.

Common, but so extraordinarily


that you remained singularly special.

Locks different from day-to-day,

another length, parted another way,

relaxing and tensing then another wave of calm.

I remember that if ever you were 

plagued with distress,

pestilence of a family matter, 

or numbing work stress,

the tempo of your trepidation

matched the terrific calm before the storm.

Could anything make you cry? 

I wonder.

I believed in you; all you spoke

was my holy book and I spread your word.

Many came to you in wonder,

to hear you, then ponder

the mystic properties in your sensual

pitch and thought.

When you saw my casing,

the frilly girl-child lace

that was held together by hope 

and smelt of desire, you were wrong

for the first time.

You believed me to adore you,

"Father", "great Knower", or " old Non-believer."

But I'd rather call you Dear;

never to admit and deem you as less.

I suppose, if gifted with obsession,

and petite sensuality,

you could have loved me,

and admission would have been mutual.

But, I am no Lolita,

no Magdalene,

no sun-kissed darling,

no care-free starling in braids.

Yes I was falling for your games,

and what a shame it is that

I could not have fallen

gracefully into your warm arms.


I fell kneeling at your feet,

never gaining your attention freely

but ever so often when you felt needy.

I looked too old, 

and you were sold on another fantasy.

I spoke much like those you already knew

and you chose to keep me down,

not to stand in arm beside you.

I know we could have been caught,

but if we passionately fought,

we could have together been free-

wait, I forgot, 

you hadn't loved me.

And so, I end.

I must move on,

though I'd much rather rust 

in your presence,

for ages on pages like these.

I leave in body, only a lonely

hull remains sitting quietly in your room


when you arrive early before the crowd, 

or after its loud, pulsating mass leaves you

alone with your mistakes and heartaches;

after my requiem fades 

and the lights begin to blind your eyes,

I will surface.

And maybe then,

you will feel the real me

and cry for what you have killed.

Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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