My memories of you have no feelings but of the heart, and the rest of me aches for you.

The trees never did go so high,
and boy were they afraid to try,
but no one wants to be shy,
when in the end you can reach the sky.

I don't mind life,
but reality I don't care for.

I saw her standing there, cold and alone, staring at the place her heart used to live, now just rotting, stinking; being eaten at endlessly until it is gone, ceases to be, endless emptiness filling its place. Her eyes still filled, overflowing as they did for a year now, but maybe her eyes had no conception of time, or maybe they wept for that heart she lost, so dear to her once, so dear to her always. If only those eyes filled with sorrow knew what she was really weeping for. Weeping for death; weeping for pain. Kept in the dark by that blindfold, if only her hands could remove it and see the light from that torch she held so dearly to, but her mind is distraught by those eyes. Those eyes that weep endlessly for what she cannot see. The earth's pleas muted by those eyes. I saw her standing there and I lied. I let slip the evil I so detested in where her heart lay right through my teeth. Why? She held that heart of darkness so near, so dear.

The sensual curved line on the bed
perfect.
The eyes: burning, red, leaking for reason unknown.
Private room for me and you.
Darkness quenching the need to hide the
lustrous actions ensued.
Accept your fate, useless strumpet, unrivaled *****.
Your garden grows quickly out of control.
Weeds in your rose bush, fence weighed down by
inherent overgrowth
of emotion:
fervor, passion.
A kiss.
The last sweetness of
your lips
that will ever be given
or gotten.
Death.
A sweet relief for the world
from you,
Desdemona.

There is no connotation nor denotation to a word in existence among us retched mortals that can be used to describe the superlative nature of my goddess' supreme and utter beauty.

There she was, her eyes bright and shining buried in her rosy complexion of which was indecently shown through the discharge of the temperate winds longing like lost military men to taste a woman's sweet words once again. She held in her delicate fingers, thin and unsteady, a chain of sweet nothings that trailed after her scrupulous footstep as if solely existing for the chance to be in her superlative presence. Gladiolus, Poppies, Aster, Delphinium, Orchid, Peony all linked together in a perfect array of scent and color reflecting the consummate image of the girl that led them. The world accompanied her to a cliff looking down on a cold river, the scene smothered with the orange glow of sunset and the sky clear of all but the unwavering flap and call of the birds who claimed it as their own immovable kingdom. She walked to the edge of the land and twisted around, her heels grazing the edge of everything and nothing; life and death; to fall and to walk. Slowly she tipped and her gaze caught mine. I cried out in my head Ophelia, but nothing came to my lips, cold and thin. As she hit the icy drink she smiled, her flowers cast above her about to disappear forever along with all other sweetness worth living for in Denmark.

A tree stood there, waiting. A majestic, flourishing Douglas Fir, not the largest, but the second largest tree breed in the world, covered in moss and weighed down by life climbed the deep blue, open skies and exasperated all the lives around it with its ponderous aura as it counted precious seconds, precious moments, in wait of late knowledge and new life to bloom and provoke wonder into the minds of every beautiful being that might so happen upon the superlative setting so prodigious that even the birds stop to sigh at its warm welcome and fathom how its creation could be anything less than God’s own immaculate paradise.