Time is fleeting, time is fair, and if it were a maiden; her beauty none dare compare. Her youthfulness in spring, and calm eloquence in winter, like a rain drop on sea as mighty as is gentle.

How fleeting is my lady's beauty? How fleeting is the pride of younger days? When we had laugh and cried with candied serenity all the same. How fleeting are those youthful days, now my lady and I are old and grey.

I am trapped within this reverie of revived memories; of when you were by my side.

The warmth of dawn feels as though a cruel, albeit gentle lie. My Sun...set, tis that day, when you left me with why.

Why?

Why... couldn't I make you stay? Why does everything I grasp tightly... still slip away?

I will love you, until we are black and blue; bruised by these pains and pleasures, that I offer you.

Mon amour, in this room I am haunted by my cologne, that you stole and made your own; it lingers, like these feelings of you alone.

My hands ruffle the sheets; nails and fingers birth wrinkles where they meet. Though the memories of your locks between my fingers... to these I retreat; to these feelings, I fall asleep.

Pray return to my embrace, and end this eternal vigil with grace. Pray return to my arms, sound and safe; for each breath breathed without you here, is a waste.

Another glass of wine, to silence the silence speaking within my mind.

Another laugh... Another whine, these ten thousand thoughts, and their sweet sorrows; I claim as mine.

Another glass of wine, for these wounds shall be slow to close with time. Numb me, by the virtue of the Vine; liberate my heart of the bitterness of Lime; baptise me, as yet another glass of wine; I claim as mine.

Love is as a peom, written without its end.

As its weary poet inks his barren pen.

An art all men wish to read, though very few can see; yes love is above all things, this world's greatest mystery.

Love is gentle.
Love is true.
Love is temptation.
Can you refuse?

Betrayal... is that piece of metal, placed beneath the tongue. And though you rinse and wash, its taste remains; it is too strong.

Betrayal... is that castle on high; no matter how far one goes, it still shows in the sky.

Betrayal... is the lord who demands with each new day, of your heart, a greater tithe. Advising you to march onward and love; even though foes charge at you from the sides and above.

I am tired... so very exhausted of it all; inside of this frail body, heart and mind wage a war. I am human, and only human after all.

I am the boy who sits at the back of the class; I am the myth and legend, that you have never heard laugh.

I am the eloquent, who so seldom speaks "Good day." and "Goodbye."
I am the b r o k e n, though you will never see me; p a r t i a l or cry.

I am the Lie.

I am the Lie, well housed in the illusion of an ever-present smile.

I am the wary traveller, exhausted yet still encouraging others to walk the extra mile.

I am the dying and ill, who screams to others. "Keep surviving and living, hold fast to your will; life once truly lived, has both bad and good."

I am a human... for better or worse. I am a duality to all others; either a blessing or a curse.

I am a song sang, though others remember only a verse... I am a play, that has been exhaustively rehearsed.

Love is at first a whisper... pressed against your ears, by the wind. Then it becomes a flicker, that burns from within; emotions expressed... exposed and eternalised; though you would wish them only to end.

So, in a futile attempt to repent, you remind yourself of a reality well known; though you would wish it, not your own: "We are friends, just friends... and nothing more."

So you brace yourself, content to never show, those emotions that you have buried in an unmarked grave; so that they will never know.

Lo, you embrace your hell, content to type the words that you cannot tell; love is the blurred line, between heaven and hell.

Love is the lullaby, that you sing to yourself; an elixir of poison mercury, that you drink for your health.

It has never been this hard to breathe, but it has been breathless... suffocating, since you decided to leave.

It feels as though you took a piece of me, and left the rest behind to grieve; as the Sun of our Future dims and sets, shadowed memories of our Past are cast; offering me no relief... no release.

Can you hear my silent screams? You have made nightmares of our pleasant dreams. The tears I shed are often unseen, just like the wounds from which I bleed.

My silent screams, they fill the air, they are at their loudest when no one is near. They plead for a need yet unmet; for a want though beyond my gain. Yet even they weep and wail, at the mere mention your name.

Within these walls reflect, rising remorse and roused regret; symphonies of sorrow seasoned and spiced by despair: Broken promises have brought and forsaken us here.

I close my eyes and hope to dream, I have slept myself wary of the darkness' company; now the monsters they come for me. Afraid, I CAN'T even scream! I am trapped in this nightmare, where none can hear me.

They emerge from beneath my bed, seemingly thoughtlessly; as they have no heads. Yet still I hear them crackling, "Please be our friend... sleep, and stay till the end."

I see them annoying the shadows, I hear them hissing sins. Yet again they entreat me, "Please be our friend."

Now, I ask screaming, "When will this end? Tell me what sins, have I committed?"

Then they replied, "Aren't you still breathing? That is your sin. You're still living, and we the dead... want us a friend. One will sleep, and stay to the end."

I had one wish; one word. Now only in nightmarish dreams, might it be heard.

"You."

That was all; my one entreat of mortal men and God. Though in my wanting of you... I had opposed them all.

Your questioning of my loyalty and our love, were to my heart, colder than the most cruel of December rain, from above.

My heart is fragile and frail, and few are the words that she so sparingly; so seldom says.

"I love you."

My heart, she says.

O, my silent singing bird, how I worry for you this day; for without hymns or choruses, you have allowed the Sun to fade.

Lo, though I have your ear, your heart is anything... anywhere but near, but here; for you, my silent singing bird sings a song of silence; souless symphonies of sorrow your aid.

Were only your chirps of greeting and discourse of our hopeful meeting, I could hear; then I would think it a concert, and listen well to the performance that you have prepared.

I met with him, again beneath that Willow tree, whose roots ensnared all the land that could be seen.

Though the most striking of imagery, to me, was the fact that December's snow-white sovereignty, was usurped by a vibrant, vital green; the legacy left behind, by the Willow's fallen leaves.

He sat around the table, his back against the lake; his face was as always, nonchalant and noble, as if though unmoved by our date.

I rushed towards him, worried that I was late; fully prepared to apologise and explain, as I would have, could he only wait.

But he, he confirmed my worries with a smile and said. "You would have been ten minutes late, hadn't ten seconds remained. Luckily I told you to meet, ten minutes ahead, so there's still an hour for our date... Friend."

"Friend?" I returned an innocent smile to him, saying. "So, is that the lie that we're telling... to ourselves and them?"

He sighed for bit, absent-mindedly giving the chess pieces a toss and flip.
"Father said... if one tells a lie long enough; it becomes the truth. So I have lied to myself for three months; that a friend is all that I am to you; and you to I."

Clicking my tongue I replied. "Mon amour, that's a difficult lie; and one that I tell myself as well... my own little sample of hell."

"A friend... your friend I will be; and tell myself this lie for an eternity. So long as I can see your smile, beneath this willow tree." I said within my heart, silently.

O how sweet the taste of cavalry, where Christ the Lamp was slain for me. His hands were nailed, His brow was bruised, His feet were bind, His blood was spew. Oh how great is my due, O Lord to You, that Your precious blood was spew, my all, my all I render to you.

I searched for you that day... beneath clouds overcast and grey. First, to the park, where with you by my side, we had slowly walked, whilst the moonlight lit our way... but you were not there.

So I looked here, within this place, whose walls still lacked any remnant of grace; chipped, while winter-white and bare; hoping...praying to see your face, before the sun had fade.

Leaving me in a perpetual darkness, and with a perpetual question of Where.

Sweet... so sweet at first; as if intending to overbear, and then in a moment's breath, the intensity having mellowed fades.

Next one's tongue does greet, a nuttiness that begs it to retreat; reviving dead memories of when you two first did meet.

Having now fallen from heights, be they ***** or steep; the taste of your tongue becomes bittersweet. Ending this final kiss, silently pledging to lose neither hope nor sleep; heartbreak leaves the taste of caramel upon your teeth.

Gaze not at your Christmas tree, nor the many wrapped gifts laid there beneath. For what ever they may be, the greatest gift of Christmas, was long ago bequeathed.

On that cold night in Bethlehem, was born him without sin, Emmanuel, the Promised One, did the people call him. O do you hear the angels herald and sing: "Glory to the King of Kings."

O, what priceless gifts have ye. Of which, how many may set your spirit free? Silver, Gold, precious gems and jewellery, though all are good within none salvation be.

So on this one night promise me, that you'll forget your hams and turkeys, sweet wines, rums and brandies. For Christmas should be more than a feast, festival, or fair, it should be a time of reflection of yesteryear; accepting one's losses, and appreciating one's gains. And most of all remembering Christ for whom, the day is named.

And I'll promise you, after all this pain, a Christmas that you will believe: Could never be the same!

What is love and true? What is more perfect than You? The perfect Lamb, without blemish or shame, into the darkness with light, You had came. O blessed be Your sweetest name; a name at whose sounding does heal the lame. O what other given name, king's or commoner's may do the same?

The greatest gift for Christmas was long ago bequeathed; given by Jesus Christ, our Lord, that all might receive. So please, accept His charity; and from sin be free... and be on this Christmas day, truly merry.

I gazed through my window, to the field of Summer's green below, releasing a sigh, more akin to a moan; for having been born to this tropical paradise, I have never seen fields of snow and ice.

The Capital bustles, with crowds I'm sure, those legions advancing towards all stores; thoughtless exhausting the coin that they had for all year stored.

So this Christmas now, a feast and a fair; a chance for children to have a hundred toys, ninety-nine of which will never be played with again.

I suppose that's fine, go on then and dine, dye you glasses red with the decadence of wine. Feast! Feast till you are merry and fat; eat all on your plate, and I won't begrudge you that.

All I want for this Christmas are my kin, my friends. To have them near, anything I would gladly trade.

This page is too vast of an estate; too generous of an allowance, for my meagre heartache. Perhaps another language would do, employing whose alien words; My heart's entirety concisely expressed in such characters, though they be but a few.

Stone cold... these are the affection of my bed, nestled beside the fireplace, upon stone cold I lay my head; your warmth it no longer knows.

The longevity of nights have passed; now cruel and aching memories are your laughs; now, before my hearts retrieves its mask, a final kiss to you, my past.

The hours I counted on the clock, until the glass of milk turned cold and sour, then alone did I stop.

Perhaps to sigh, or even to weep, then returned to my vigil, to faithfully keep.

A clock has three hands, a man has two; yet not even a hundred hands may reach you.

So, O Luna, O Moon- be a dear friend and send her my affections, will you. I am waiting, my love, beneath the Midnight's moon... and biting cold winds.

"Tell me," Said the Eagle. "Can you see better than me? For even perched upon my mountain cliff, I can see the sea."

"Oh?" Said the Poet. "You have good eyes indeed. Do tell me now from your mountain cliff, what else can you see?"

"Hmm?" Said the Eagle. "I can see the trees and the many scores of fruits, hidden beneath their leaves."

"Impressive!" Smiled the Poet. "Quite impressive indeed. Do tell me now: Why you hadn't seen those two children, taunting that poor crab by the sea?"

"What?!" Cried the Eagle. "That cannot be." Refocusing his gaze towards the sea.

The Poet pointed. And over there by the trees... you hadn't seen the harvesters busy at work, beneath the leaves.

"How?!" The eagle began to scream. "Your vision poet, it's an eagle's dream."  

"Whatever do you mean? I am a poet, remember, this view belongs to only me."

"We poets have two pair of eyes, that we use to see; one for reality, and the other for dreams."

I miss you, your perfume haunts me in this empty room; though perhaps it's a cruel reminder, that I will see you soon.

Ah, were I to have just one wish, I fear that I might waste it on a kiss; and though lacking wealth, enjoy eternal bliss.

I miss you, truly it is so. So hurry up my love; and come home.

From where should I start to speak, this story's mountain path or its peak? What does it matter, where it be? I pray that these words may be what I wish that I could be: Free.

O Mother dear, O Mother fair, you must know this is not my way; and yet to differ you would say. Your words still ring in my ears: "What are my intentions?" They are clear, my heart cries out but no one ever listens to hear; so I offer up my silent prayer. As a soldier, I will march on; with bleeding scars beneath my spotless battle gear.

And O Father dear, you have no pride, yes, but what of shame? At the thought I could be gay, you suddenly have a son, whom you wish to call and care. I pay no heed with whom you lay, so may this kindness not be repaid? For kindness and compassion you cast blame, those two- those two are humans first, so call them by their names. I will choose my friends, whom I dare, they are not yours to take away.

Now I understand, people talk and talk they may dare. But life is just so much better when you don't care, of people, or what they say. I know what I am at the end of the day.

People smile, while they ask: "Are you okay?" And I smile in kind, then pleasantly reply. "I can't complain or whine." And that is my daily lie; an illusion of happiness for the pain to hide.

I scream out but no one hears, so to You, Father God I offer my silent prayer.  Give me strength for each new day; lest the real me fades away. And please, could you stop these tears, it's kind of hard to type a prayer in the rain.

Those days when you're hardly inspired, we poets have them too. When the pen pressed against the paper, no longer plays its tune.

When you silently reflect, then sighingly regret; whilst eyes are wet. " I should have done this... no I shouldn't have done that!" Pondering why and who. Then wonder no further, cause those moments you see, we poets have them too.

We poets have them too, and arguably more than you. But we poets also live to write, of the sad regrets, the lies and the truth. So, the fight to soldier on, we poets have them too. Each day we write, gripping pen in hand; to start the fight anew.

This is the melancholy of Innocence, so do sit and have a glass. Drink slowly, and savour the taste friends; for innocence shortly lasts. She is as a flower, most beautiful at bloom, but, we must not forget now; that flowers must wither too.

So what is the sadness... the melancholy of Innocence, if all things must pass away? Perhaps it is the longing then, that one's innocence did remain. Yes, the melancholy of Innocence; is that deepest longing, day after day. The longing for something, you know well that you can't regain.