Many years I've spent in your grace.

Days filled with joy, orange sunsets on summer nights,

but slowly, and then all at once, they turn red.

In the next moment it's over, and you can breathe in the breeze;
Fresh Air.

Free from bindings I carefully crafted, out of a stifling cell, gone is
The Warden.

You know what they say,
"you and me and the devil makes three",
but you're the devil in disguise.

And honey, I'm not in hell no more.

Every day she plants the starseeds
that grow into wishing flowers,
their petals fall down to the earth
and we call them meteor showers.

We beseech the celestial wanderers
and when our words reach her ears,
she makes all our biddings come true,
but each one is stained by her tears.

She yearned for one to call her own
in her garden above the clouds,
but to think of herself and not of the world,
her duty is disavowed.

And so the lonely Starwarden
only smiled on us from above.
She could not keep the wish of another
just because she wished for love.

DOES it feel like to be in love with you as a punishment? I repeatedly appealed, requesting that this verdict be exacerbated and expanded.

     Does it feel to love you as a prisoner? I am happy that you are a warden who is never far from my lockup.

     Does it feel to love you as a kind of forgiveness? I do not care, love still love, no matter proven guilty or free from lawsuits.

We have gone against the counsel of the Spectre.

It warned us of the dangers of succumbing to temptation.

But we did not heed its words.

She came to us, eyes filled with tears, reciting words we thought we would never hear again.

How could we refuse her?

She, who held our future in her emerald eyes?

She, who banished the Solitude that plagued us so?

She, who stole our heart before we knew it was missing?

How could we refuse her?

Yet it was those same emerald eyes that we saw when she departed once more towards the same arms as before.

And we wanted to engrave our anger with crimson ink.

We screamed at the Spectre, demanding vindiction.

And the Spectre listened.

We spat and cursed at it, our tongue spilling rage like a torrential downpour.

And the Spectre spoke.

I am the warden of your lucidity. I am not your enemy. It is you who deviated from my guidance.

Through gritted teeth, we ask why we are tormented so?

The Spectre's response was simple:

For you continue to dance with the devil, then wonder why you burn.

My mind is a-buzzing
So many thoughts flitting about
Of friendships, love, and life
Each one begging to be let out

But my mind is a prison
And my fear the warden
My thoughts are the prisoners
But I'm the only victim

My thoughts scream,
Set me free to follow my dreams
My fears reply,
**What dreams? You belong to me