Once upon a dainty hill
sat old castle of a young king
not busied by ***** thrills
but in the realm, fair Muse did sing

sorry as such
to trouble you sire
but farmer, lady and great squire
are, unto you, to enquire
how it is the sun makes such fire

to this the young king
furrowed his brow
and scratched his chin
and pondered how

eight days did pass
and woe betide
the pressing question
found no bride

the elders of the castle old
let fairy tales of disorder unfold

a great dragon they say
lit the sun
after finding itself lost
and on the run
from a shadow giant
of world unseen

but the tales of course
were all but dreams.

A little voice
filled the air
with light and weightless
soulful flair

a blacksmith's girl
of simple dress

excuse me sir
i must confess
this minor stir
has caused me stress

the young king bade her speak
and with that, the child weak
stood atop a wonky box
with certain eyes and wavy locks

dear people
i now must say
that it is on this cold and fateful day
my mind has led to such dismay

as I have learned to trust none of you.

you say i trust to equal those in the past
whom have brought only pain and hatred
upon those in their wake?
well it's time to take a look in the mirror
my friend, no, wait, don't do that,
i wouldn't want to inflate your ego
it would come as no surprise to me if in that
mirror you would only see the eighth wonder
of the world, ever wondered if you could see
the world? i take that back, there is no sense
in snapping and losing my temper,
but all i'm doing is back tracking and
finding my self exempt of the respect that i
deserve, only you can serve to notice
the pain that you have harboured
upon the empty hearts of which now yearn
for that ever self-loving and i can only leave
you with this advice

turn around and back off
that ain't love it's idolatry.

Not about love or life.
Not about sun and snow.
Not about hate or politics.
What more ought we know.

Not philosophy, psychology or history.
Nor horror, adventure or mystery.
Whether on sea or land,
it will not stand
in the vast oak court of reality.

She makes the sand,
the sand seep away.
Little locket on her chest,
with her steps a gentle sway.
Though her eyes cast
a tender gaze,
her fiery heart sets the sky ablaze.

Dry rain and dry puddles,
never will she stop.
'Til she stumbles to her knees,
the dusty ground, fiercely hot.
She cries out in pain
and laughs through tears,
a withered smile
of withered years.

She sees me.

Her faces relaxes,
her lungs give out,
her limbs betray her
and with one final strain she says:
*I can't hate.

Skyscrapers scarfed in dawn's mist,
their torsos shrouded by nature's wisps
a reminder that man made this,
that wind and the water could show it
its end.

Metropolis unharmed,
lit windows like the glints of a thousand eyes.
Unknowing and blissful.
The fog unfolds like an opened hand,
palms upwards, swaying in the boulevard.

Happ'ly I stand, upon the mountain's edge
and admire the regal coexistence
of man and its maker.