The clock strikes four and thirty.
My conscious mind is burning.
Startled by some spectral blow it suffered while it slept.

I frightened in it's ending...
The start was all just fine.
It had a couple friends of mine, I'd lost along the line.

It only left me lonely..
I miss the long lost friends of mine
So tell me as the clock strikes four...
Did a nightmare I awake to?
And then my feelings waxed sore?
Or into only? As it left me... wanting; Nothing more.

Just who are you, are you lonely?
You're clearly all alone...
Are you upset about some someone?
Something old you've overblown?
Hold on, I can see inside you now; I'll tell you just whats left...
Hmm, quite bereft of something subtle; of what I can only guess.
There's too much pain, or fear, or longing; maybe something in-between?
Are you scarred, or sore, or sour?
Come on, you need to tell me everything...
Don't look at me with so much lour.
This will only take a minute.
Your heartbeats full of so much power,
It's just there's not quite something in it...
I'll admit right here that this might be a special case,
I'll still do my best to help you. What memory needs be effaced?
Can you tell me what you're missing? Or what you think it's worth?
Oh let's just take it from the top now. Oh please really, just be curt.
Where does it hurt?

Did you know I wrote a poem yesterday?
I wrote of how a raven flew away.
I think t'was in the morning that it flew.
I don't know why it made me think of you,
But all I can think of is yesterday.

I can't finish it; not to my dismay.
I don't seem to finish many these days.
Every day I seem to think of you...
Did you know?

Even this... I hate it... It's cliche.
Every thought and feeling gone astray...
I keep running from the one thought that's too...
It's nothing that, it seems, I can subdue.
Oh, all the things that I wanted to say.
Did you know?

Dare I compare thee to a summers day...
As reminiscent works of times long past?
A lily in a vase long spent decays.
The wine of love deserves a pristine cask.
Who, with wide eyed wonder, wants old words cast?
You are worth a diamond; not a bouquet.

Fair is fair I say. That, she may have been.
With slow and silver words he did imbue...
But when you read his sonnet you see him,
And when the world sees mine they'll think of you.
The most beautiful in the world; It's true.
Said once by legends; Now to you, again.

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Poets can die from a blow to the heart.
A corporal wound would lack harm for a ****.
Prose is an armor of wit, and of skill.
One type of trauma can get him to smart
A puncture to **** him, love as the dart.
Pen as a hammer; paper an anvil...
The poems he forges in life are fulfilled
by death; serving as his own work of art.

Shot full of heartbreak a poet can’t rhyme.
It burns in his stomach like fire, or lime.
Watch him gutter and choke on all his tears...
Till horse, rough cries splinter away his mind,
And every hour goes on like bramble’d years.
Till he can’t finish a poem,