O', my grace, my Empress of the Sun.
Your beauty, your glamour, it burns me deep.
Do not tell me that we are to be done.
Do you wish to watch this wretched wretch weep?

After all that I, your darling, went through,
will you truly toss our love to the side?
After the world which I moved all for you,
will you slice and then slight my justly pride?

I implore you to hence reconsider,
if you realize what is best for your head.
Do not make me a sick, sinful sinner,
if you do wish to not thence become dead.

Please, I beg of you, just be mine alone,
and let me rest upon your flaming throne.

Everyone in the world today,
has a place, has a role to play.
In this turning world of ours,
everything's in its place proper.

Everyone has got a role to fill,
everyone and everything, in
every possible way has a part,
in the great act called Life.

From the humble farmer,
to the noble doctor,
they all do their job
to make our world turn.

The teacher who teaches,
the judge who judges,
the butcher who butchers,
the plumber who plumbs.

From the sweat of their brow,
our orb is able to function,
From the toil of their labor,
our earth runs like a machine.

If just one person
couldn't find their way,
then all around us,
would soon fall into disarray.

Everything in its place proper
makes for a world stable.
Just one thing out of place,
and the whole thing is ruined.

Like a stack of playing cards
or a tall, towering stack of blocks,
it requires perfect, precise placement
for premium optimization.

Consider the burning sun,
and the frozen moon.
Just inches difference apart
could not support us at all.

Or the very force of gravity,
that keeps our feet grounded.
Were it too strong or too weak,
our world would be flattened.

From the atoms that make us,
to the planets that hold us,
to the people that shape us,
to the decisions that change us.

So when you begin to wonder
if you'll ever find your place,
just remember this one fact
Everything is in its place proper

What a crime it is that a man ought to die.
That our feeble lives, like calendar marks,
pass by so quickly and without warning.
What is 70-80, 90 if you're lucky, years
really worth in the big picture?

What can a man amount to honestly
when as soon as he breathes, he dies?
He can do a lot and achieve much, sure,
but imagine what more could be done,
what could be made, with just a
few centuries more time to play with.

Imagine the discoveries we could find,
the secrets of time and space unraveled,
the elixirs of health that could destroy disease,
and everything else on earth that could
be made better if we only had the time.

Imagine the weight off our shoulders lifted,
when no longer must we fear the Eternal Footman,
no longer must we fear the passing of the seasons,
or the changing of the times, or even the start
of a new day, as we would all be there together.

People could live fully and happily,
knowing they had all the time in the world,
and no sick, twisted date with Death
awaiting them on the gilded horizon.

As it is now, time passes us by,
before we know it, and in the dust,
we pathetic humans are left.
In the scheme of the grand design,
a life is just a few puny particles,
of a few tiny granules of sifting sand
in a cosmic sandbox.

For humanity to truly continue its noble path,
we must find the secret code to stop aging,
to make our cells replicate anew forever,
or at least, for a few more centuries,
so that our destiny can be achieved,
to make a world truly terrific.

A world of youth, a world of beauty,
A world of truth, a world of joy.

Rotting men walking rotted streets,
as rotten scents choke the pungent air.
Their tired, weary, restless feet
pound the agitated concrete,
which is as worn and weary
as the people who so rudely
stomp its grayed features.

They make their way to their jobs,
their means of survival, the place
where much like zoos and reserves,
they are poked and prodded, pestered,
and provoked by smiling, grinning men
who are above them on the evolutionary
totem pole that we call the rat race.

So they laugh off the abuse labeled as 'jokes',
they suffer and endure countless injustices
from their fellow animals and their zookeepers,
all so that they continue to earn their measly peanuts,
all in hopes that they can save their nuts,
and maybe buy something that will
give their own existence some new meaning.

A new car, a new TV, a new bit of restless noise,
new white static that will fill the void of
emptiness that they all suffer inside,
and then when the new becomes old,
the process starts anew with another
new trinket or new toy to make more noise.

And so they return home from their misery-laded
job, to a home of misery where their wife
chides them and chastises as a way to
vent her own frustrations at her own personal zoo
where she was poked and prodded and made
to question her own self-worth, her own happiness.

She yells at them for forgetting to put the clothes
in the dryer, although she had clearly said the night
before that she would take care of it and then
she fusses at them for forgetting to put his cup up
even though they were JUST getting ready
to throw it in the dishwasher if she would just
give them a minute to finish their sandwich.

It takes all their strength to not just scream
right back and give her something worth
yelling over, but as their teeth clench,
and their eye twitches, they simply nod
and yes dear until she is satisfied, and leaves
them to go work on their sudoko after-dinner.

With the dishes put up, the clothes in the dryer,
as they are sure to not make the same mistake
twice, their children approach them, begging for
attention and affection, and while they can't blame them,
right now they just want to take a minute to relax
and not hear any more voices of any kind.

But as the child raises their voice to scream,
they wave them off and give them what they wish
for hours, until they tire themselves, and mercifully,
most mercifully, they can be put to bed and put
out of mind for the rest of the night.

The midnight hour fast approaches,
and so they resolve to enjoy the last few hours
of their night, but right as they prepare to
enjoy the newest episode of the newest tv shows,
their smartphones bleats its high-pitched ring.

Its their zookeeper, asking if they can come
into work tomorrow early, even though its the weekend,
and they were promised to get the weekend off,
for the fifth time in as many weeks, but they REALLY
need them to come in and help the cause.

They want to scream, they want to shout,
but they know they can't refuse, because
the first time they dare to, they will be treated
like even worse dirt on shoe if not outright
replaced by a more willing circus animal.

So, through a forced grin,
that can be heard over the phone,
they accept and thank their keeper
for giving them the opportunity
to work once more, and as they hang up,
their wife asks who it was calling at this long hour

They explain it was just their work,
wanting them to come in again, which
makes the wife mad, as she yells at him
for not spending enough time with her
and the kids and why can't he just say no
every once in a while, it's not like they'll
fire him for not showing up one time.

The wife doesn't understand that
his job is what funds her spending,
her lifestyle, their lifestyle, for that matter,
in spite of their best attempts to explain,
and so they fight, and fight, into the night,
until they just decide to give it up, and go to sleep.

The sun rises, and they get up, and
eat their eggs, and put their cup up, and
get dressed, and get ready for one more day
at work hoping that at least sunday will be a free day,
but they have an odd sick feeling in their stomach
that they'll be called in once more early in the morning,
and be forced to make that same rotten walk
to their same rotten old miserable job.

I loved you when,
you glowed like the sun,
when the skies were clear
and the clouds were puffy.
Oh, how I loved you then.

I loved you when,
your heart was open,
when your soul was pure,
and your light was shining.
Oh, how I loved you then.

I loved you when,
we were together as one,
when our hands were clasped,
and our lips were matched.
Oh, how I loved you then.

I loved you when,
you loved me too.
When our love had yet,
to fall apart like falling cards.
Oh, how I loved you then.

I loved you when,
you didn't hurt me,
when you didn't curse me,
and didn't slap my face.
Oh, how I loved you then.

People are like oceans,
each their own collection of
of currents and of waves,
thrashing and bashing
against wayward seas.

Some are intertwined,
and connected like straits,
others flow apart and alone,
their own self-contained sea,
a world within itself.

Some are calm rivers,
lazily flowing like the Mississippi,
others are rough and choppy,
bruising against the cliffs
and seabeds of the world.

Some are deep and dark,
with mysteries lurking in their depths,
like buried treasure or cursed ruins
others are more shallow waters,
their depths clear, clean, and pure.

No man is an island,
but we are oceans,
each with our own ships,
and waves, and currents,
and bays, and buoys that
shape and define our course.

Clouds up high in the skies
floating, flying far above us,
like stars for our watching eyes
to dissect and to discuss.

Whether puffy or wispy,
whether eggwhite or gloom-grey,
whether full or misty,
clouds always seem to stay.

Even with a clear sky blue,
there can be found a cloud.
If not one, then maybe two,
floating on high so proud.

What is up there so high,
waiting or perhaps watching
we humans do they spy?
What could be stalking?

Is there a man of the stars,
resting on his fluffy pillow,
a man who came from Mars,
with a beard of smoke-billow?

Or perhaps a race of ancients,
from a long-forgotten age,
who possess great patience,
waiting for a war to wage?

Or maybe so far beyond,
there rests a city of gold,
that wonders where we've gone
and awaits our return foretold.

These thoughts of mine,
do keep my mind thinking
as I enjoy the sun's shine.
and the clouds, like ships sinking.