Tempests of Thought-Revisited

In Honour of the new Season…

In Tempests of Thought Thou first Unspiraled
Mystery to Every mind,
But fact to Thee, like its own fiction spinning;
Are Deductions Simple, that none else shall find.

Casting back Thy Silken Locks, where Thou Gazest sharply,
To Pique Thine Interest fortune Plays a hand,
But Given over to Conscientiousness,
Hints of Thy true nature, to Understand.

Clues in lesser shadow falling than in darkest night,
To Tempt Thy Passions, most Bemusing,
While Accosted in the fleeting Light of Day
By floods of details, Generously accusing.

Lest Thy Brilliance might unfold Thy complex Nature,
Guilt hides in shadows for lesser things Unspoken.
Chide Thy jailor with reckless Tedium pacing,
While Piquant Treasure lies Untested and Unbroken.

And when Thy mortal Merit Seeks transitory Pause
To Kindle a semblance of Keen Distraction,
Delirium, in its Splendor passing,
All too Fleeting Lends Sweet mental Abstraction.

Kissed not once, yet Passion Ever hounding
In places splintered by apparitional haze;
Twilight settles Upon Thy Shoulders, weeping,
To find fear within Thy Ever questing Gaze.

Untold secrets, All asunder in Thy Compass Guiding,
With Ruse of Purpose tailor made for Thee;
While Watchmen run in rampant circles, Aimless,
Profession of Thy Wits, Elementary.

Yet, In Quiet Moments that Entreat Thy Soul,
Reaching for a Notion that yet escapes Thee,
Touching One whose features dull Contemplation,
What Considerations Tempt? Thou Shalt not See!

Deliberate Disparity, to Hide Thy Longing Soul;
In Duplicity Thou Hidest in plain Sight;
While none may query such Silence Breaking,
Shattering Thy Ruse like Shards of Light.

Success is measured in Measures on the page,
In Music Sweet, Thriving just beyond Thy ken,
Where Devils sit Enthroned while Angels Bending,
To Touch Thy ‘haviour, Transforming from Within.

For as the darkened night Peals Mornings Dawn,
And Thou dost Waken from perilous Dreams,
Avenues once walked in Certainty,
Falling in Shadows, now not what they seem.

Echoes Accusatory rake their icy hand,
And Twist Thy Judgment like a feeble Pawn.
Decisions based on subterfuge, misguided,
Taint Thy Character and Mask Thy Cerebral brawn.

Menace creeps on stealthy hooves like demonic sorcery,
Trapping to its Purpose all Thy Provocation,
While, Innocent of threat, Companions walking,
Forcing Thine Unselfish Abdication.

‘Til Pain in moments most Diligently Guarded
Speaks into the Hush of mortal Sorrow,
Delving not the Flagrant Ruse to Ponder,
What Mysteries Shall Waken ‘pon the Morrow.

As An Afterthought: This is a Bit of a departure, to be sure. In explanation, (because I do realize this one needs some form of rationale) I Wanted it to be a bit “high-brow”, a bit contrived, a bit cryptic, because the Master Sleuth himself is, in my opinion, all these things. The archaic language was my method of translating this “high brow”, contrived attitude into a touch of snobbery and the Shakespearean flair easily made it cryptic. I hope this helps to shed some light….

~Morgan~
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Magnifying Glass Image found at: commons.wikimedia.org
Graveside Image found at: Sherlock BBC