[Ossifrage's Scrapbook] The Boneyard

[Ossifrage]

The Boneyard Chapter 1 - Who is Ossifrage? Greetings everyone, I am Ossifrage, otherwise known to many as Daniel, Dan, Big Mac (I've never eaten one though, strangely) or Brother. I have gone by many aliases, and now I find myself with a new moniker within the realms of Mizahar. I felt perhaps at the beginning of my scrapbook, I would share some of the details of exactly who I am, and what should be expected of my curious writings, and deliciously warped musings. The first thing one must realise when they speak with me is that, for all the glitter of my shining persona (I'm not Edward, and I don't literally sparkle.. and yes, it is a joke) I am actually, rather insane, if you had not already guessed. My mind plays out like scenes from the worst horror movie you have likely ever scene, yet accompanied by the sort of music one would associate with the fairground, and merriment of childhood years. It is from within this blanket of twisted thoughts that I occasionally creep into reality and jot down the wild and random images that dance within my mind, and which I hope to share with all of you, in the hopes that you might actually enjoy them, and if not.. gleam some modicum of understanding of my persons at the very least. I am a sometimes poet, a writer, a lyricist, a reader, a creator, a gentleman, and at all times, an orator. I have written many things in my years of idle penmanship, yet have never sought to be published until I believed my work was truly 'ready', yet for all my working at it, it seems that for each version I correct, another mistake stares back at me, such is my perfectionism in my craft. I shall leave you all, from my first post, fair ladies and gentle sirs, with a poem from my past, one I am fond of and seems to draw the most attention, although perhaps not always of the best sort. This was written by myself when I worked at the Courtauld Institute of Art Gallery in London, whilst looking at the Degas Sculptures, of various dancers. The Blind Dancer By Daniel J. MacTaggart She only hears the music The Sound is all she sees And though I pay to watch her She does not notice me The way she moves; she sings her song But sadness taints the words She weeps alone amongst the trees And listens to the birds I watched her then, I watch her still She would not hear my call I sang with joy when she did well And cried when she did fall. Follow your heart, hear it's words To her this I would urge She did not hear, she was not saved So now I speak this dirge Here lies my love, unknown to me And from my heart she ran I did not have her like I should So now dear, no one can.