Thou shall refrain from embracing the sun,
Or even setting course, too near a star;
In fear of the heat, exhaustion, and getting burned.

Though in time we all do learn, a trip can be more than but a destination..

It can become a journey in search of love, worth or salvation,
A trip becomes a memory, those memories become a life been lived.
And what good story exists without a point
Of

...Hesitation.

I shall grace the, with my misery.
Eluding certainty of attraction.
Stirring the ***, of everything sought,
After I poison myself in humilitys fashion.

I shall consume thy concoction;
Devouring all that delights,
Whilst keeping my soul
And my heart, out of sight.

I may claw at my throat,
From the poisonous notes.
Grasping for air, claiming life isn't fair,
To avoid the one certain truth,
I'm the only cause, of despair.

The unworded truth lay twisted,
Where teething creatures stir.
Caught in the cobs of forgotten crevasse,
The doomed but dormant menace.

Thy beast shall be relieved of such burden,
Set free to light all darkness in flame
To extinguish all, til no brightness remains.

Putrid air from foul corpses, permeate the living.
Forsaking unfit, weak forces; creating a race of productive courses.

Allure me with silence, causing a stir of thoughts
In my heart as an ocean, in my mind as a sky,
In all of those rivers which have long since run dry.

Is this your endeavour, to drench yourself in splendour,
Leading eyes away, whilist running astray.
Watching me squirm, with each second of delay.

Perhaps it is not, the outcome you've sought.
Though the truth is so far, from easy to spot;
As any good killer, not easily caught.

I arrange these messes of letters;
Trying to express feelings and thoughts.
Twenty six letters do not suffice
To describe some states of mind.
No metaphors, or similies, could portray
The hyperbole, of self induced dismay.

She was a child of the universe,
Wading through the tall grass
Only stopping to reach up, and touch the stars.

I asked her how the stars felt when she touched them,
She replied, "like sunshine in the winter."
I asked her how they made her feel,
Then she told me, it was far too surreal.

The gypsy queen of eighteen,
Her soul, a map of destinations.
Her actions never needing explinations.
As wild and free, as a ship at sea.
She never was, but she will always be.