You are my Dante, you are my Vergil, you are my Beatrice, you are my devil. You are the spineless and endless tortured souls of men and woman who form horizons that never seem to end. You are the hung bodies in the trees of death, you are Cleopatra and Antony. In that never ending tornado of lust, cursed to spin and spin, conjoined in cursed love. You are the undeserving unborn who are tortured before they've ever even breathed dear life.

And I, I am only another accursed undead.

I no longer want others to understand, I want them to see me. They keep staring at the curtains, once they've opened, but not at what's standing right in front of them. Maybe it's selfish, but to me, this is my show. That I am performing for them, and I am no clown. I am a poet. So please just see me, stop trying to understand me.

I am beside myself in bed.

I'm awake when I must sleep. I do not want to dream of you any longer,
I want to be there.

I'm starving though I must eat. I hunger for your breath,
I want to be there.

I'm alive though I want to die. I'm dying to get ahold of you, I want to be there beside you.

I am no more than the ground beneath you, I hold the life of everybody so dearly in my roots. You are fire, and you burn me of those roots with every step you take. I am no longer a safe place for them to grow. I am only salted ground beneath your marching feet.

A sleight of hand, and a boot that fits. Tightly; so tight a long walk seemed a step backwards.
So he walked, around the rings of Saturn, given the spins. He dances, a waltz for Venus.
He manages to steal his own heart, before she can.

There is only so much a man can write before he is someone else entirely. So leave him be while he is still himself. Run away.

Be like tides, adrift. Watching as the smiling moon rises, and as the sun in all it's glory weeps. For love without melancholy is nothing more than a joker's folly. Feel the highs and the lows that come and go, and know that you are not alone.