Crimson shades that hang on late
on cloudy mornings, cormorants
that carry tidings from afar
reeds that roll over slow in their measured nuances:
wind roars, noon bells, distant shorelights at night.
I sought glory with love in my heart
Midas-like, glory became my gold.
Every wave carries a new meaning
for one who sees life
from the window of death;
How many deaths for honour, how many
for glory, how many more for perfidy?
Ah blessed love, that
- when the glitter of glories descends
into quicksands of darkness -
from whom nothing can ever be snatched away,
the one love that shone before my birth
as Athene, who I loved as Penelope and
who loves me as Calypso, receptacle of worlds!

Do you realize you lost someone
even before finding them?
In your stubbornness, you never
smelled the jasmines in bloom
in the waning hours?
All life, your words matter most
yet my feelings for once
make you indifferent; The
most un-equal among un-equal
things, some relationships:
tilted the other way by birth,

I tear out my heart and I place it eloquently on the page.
Piece by piece, I break it down like the history channel in a documentary on the golden age.
The chunks of raw emotion show up in the form of black and blue rage.

You can’t see it through the thin sheet of paper, but you can feel it if you’re careful.
How hard is it to see how someone is feeling when its far more than just a handful.
Every feeling that they’ve had in their winding past is strewn across the page
Like blood splatter on wall left after getting popped with a 12 gauge.

Organized by line and by stanza, yet you’re blind to it all.
You’re incapable of seeing how it looks when I fall.
Yet you still remain beautiful in my eyes and that’s a miracle in itself.
The only trust I have in this world lies in my family and this pen, while you’re placed harmlessly in a frame on the left side of the shelf
As I write I feel the grip on the pen getting tight
like the damp air setting in with the darkness of night.
It is but another image that I scribble across the page,
an outlet for the increasing, on-setting rage.
The words on the page don’t get demoralized once they’re written.
They’re permanent, so stands my love for you, though six times forgiven.
I don’t know why and I don’t know how but your love is what I want and I need it now.
I can forever write these lines and build images that will remain
until I either die or they are destroyed in vein.

But my words they will forever be and scrambled within this page you can find the characteristics that are built like cement inside of me.
No matter the situation, I’ll still have the same smile or grin,
no matter what mood I am actually in.
Because the world, on the surface,
is better off when I walk along its pathways with purpose.

I feel that if I don’t I will crumble.
The point of this script is that this pen will not stop or stumble
until I run of ink and dispose of it. Use it I will and I plan to make the most of it.
It’s a joke to continue the love I thought was real,
walking together behind an impenetrable shield.
But now you’ve gotten up and left,
this pen I write with is all I’ve got left
so if you want me in the future, grab a surgeon and sutures.  
Pick up all the pieces off the ground and off this page and especially my heart.
Sew them back into my body, You better be sorry, cause I’m sending you back to Start.

I cannot recreate your smile with lines of a pencil.

I cannot capture the twinkle in your eyes in a photograph.

I cannot imagine your bubbly laughter with no recorder.

                                               I can, however,

see and hear you as best as I can in my mind,

and wait as long as needed until I see

                  your full smile,

       and that twinkle in your eyes,

and burst from your contagious laughter

                                                     again.

Timidly comes the lavender moon,
Who approaches singing a moaning tune,
Begrudgingly greeting a setting sun,
Are you there, pal?
“Yes, but the day is done.”

Darkness rushes into the valley,
Trouble stirs in the cold back alley,
The moon lets out a hazy bellow,
Are you there, pal?
“Yes, but aren’t you an odd fellow.”

The twilight hue turns black as night,
The moon ascends; he’s scared of heights,
Sick to his stomach, he might just lurch,
Are you there, pal?
“Yes, but I don’t fix hurt.”

Trees bear the burden of fresh dropped snow,
The birds and the critters have nowhere to go,
Dismayed by the thought of broken homes,
Are you there, pal?
“Yes, but I’m all alone.”

So many sights and people to see,
But he can’t stop thinking about his *** ‘ole knee,
The moon, desperately, into the void,
Are you there, pal?
“Yes, but I’m just a boy.”

Conversation just to pass the time,
The moon sums up a nursery rhyme,
The boy asks the moon a question, too,
Are you there, pal?
“Yes, but I’m kind of blue.”

Blue or green, he says, it’s all in your head,
You could just as well be yellow or red,
It’s nothing more than a mix of light,
Are you there, pal?
“Yes, but it’s been a long night.”

The boy walks out to the edge of the cliff,
Asks the moon, please, to give him a lift,
He reaches down with a wispy hand,
Are you there, pal?
“Yes, and I understand.”

Lines composed while climbing the left ascent of Brockley Coomb, May 1795

With many a pause and oft reverted eye
I climb the Coomb’s ascent: sweet songsters near
Warble in shade their wild-wood melody:
Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear.
Up scour the startling stragglers of the flock
That on green plots o’er precipices browse:
From the deep fissures of the naked rock
The Yew-tree bursts! Beneath its dark green boughs
(’Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white)
Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats,
I rest:—and now have gained the topmost site.
Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets
My gaze! Proud towers, and Cots more dear to me,
Elm-shadowed Fields, and prospect-bounding Sea.
Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear:
Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here.