A morbid turn of thought has led me here-
At night, where all the dead do rest in earth
How sickly strange the soil, knows how I fear-
This graven yard of death, and deathly birth.

To then torment myself, I visit hers;
The grave upon my heart and on my love
I taunt an older spell, a book refers:
"bring whom lay here, their spirit from above,

Let none the hardened soil halt thy path
Revive this parted soul and gift her air;
To crawl from out the deathly calls of wrath
To walk upon her ghastly bed to fair,

If this be done then I do promise thee;
My soul unto the force that gifts her 'wake,
Relinquish then this body's husk and be
Where I am deemed to whom her soul's remake".

I wait reply, with none a hope in breath,
But sweeps a gust of wind about her leaves
And there an eerie chatter out of death!
'By God!' I thought, is this to be, she breathes?

The leafage seemed to hear and then responds-
With whispers 'mongst the rustle... 'here she be,'
Without no pause, the mound implodes! With fonds-
Then whirling, whispers weeping, to then see:

Out crawls my frailed, deceased, beloved Ruth
Whose form still bears the scars of death decays,
I'm stilled by horrid screams of torrid truth
'What have I done to you?' my love dismays.

Her falling jaw with eyes of pain, now speaks....
'now 'tis below thine self must claim this grave,'
It's then do I recall, as terror wreaks;
That I did bargain then, my soul to slave.

By unseen force, I fall deep in the hole
And lay inside her coffin, ready splayed;
As still as dead, my light in life have stole
As closed the cast with dirt upon me laid.

Entombed, I scream, but none alive can hear;
By love I lived and love's me buried here!

Should twenty more of yours and all the same
Proclaim that they are you and you for me:
What tells could tell wherein my love became-
And where my love by one shall ever be?
Yes, eyes be all of blue and whitish snow
When met with mine hue even more azure,
And blondy lush of hair; do summers' show
By sway that gold commands and winds allure,
With equal tones may all review my write,
Ah! whom most moved, aware that she's my muse;
With hand to voice bare not the read's recite;
Then turn and run to me with love's enthuse!

Yes beauty plays it's part in lovers' choice
But heart reveals your love's the greater voice.

Let he, like I, of whom with dimming light:
Does view the setting sun within his glass;
By his depressed, or decade's bitter sight;
With stare of sombre eyes, his hours pass,
Onto himself may wish his furrows filled;
And brighter sun complex upon his face;
By reminiscence make what years had splilled;
That he may shine within back yonder grace:
Dear friend, decay has not yet creased your heart;
Why spend the seconds bitter of your years?
Your face is yours as born it's youthful start,
Enough of time is bitter, minus tears!

For we of time; may seek where ours began
Creating merely time's unhappy fan.

My furry coated fluff-ball does so bark
As tho' by each a roar is pleasure met
Not via song nor tones of sweetest lark
But in such voice that my acusstoms let,
Why do I choose to burden my own ears?
And glue to clothings; sticky canine fur,
To then have soaked saliva's ridden tears
About my cheek with enthusiasm's spur!
I witness disregard for leather's couch
Complete with shear disdain for carpet floors
And horrid shoey murders by a grouch
With innocence of eyes upon all fours!

But with such pain now I divulge by heart:
Without such farce, would I be torn apart!

My mirror cries, my mirror sighs
But mine are dry, too dry to cry
The glass it seems, has cracking seams
That seep of wine, as red as mine,
But mine withold, and far too cold
To drip and fall, to splash and crawl,
But mirror mine, was never fine.

My mirror speaks, of sorrow's weeps
And weeping by, the seconds die
But silence stills, and lips with pills
Drink both by brine, down sorrows' mine,
Tho' differ we, the same we be
My mirror dies, whilst I in lies:
That mirror mine, is all to fine.

My mirror knows, it barely glows
No light to shed, on who is dead
No breath to breathe, no breath to leave
Yet I do shine, appearing fine,
Yes differ we, but same we be
For none to see, except for me
That I am fine, but mirror mine.

If found her beauty, then have found my eyes:
As painter's draw their muse, do mine of hers;
That when in blink her lovely youths apprise
Depicting truth as tho' by glass transfers;
No dreaming brush omits the slightest curve
Nor other light bestow that grace increase;
That artistry does best by mind preserve
So she through time bare not of time's decrease.
Yet could the years by force of cruel age,
Redraw by season's pen what I had drawed?
No! Art's the soldier 'gainst what time can wage;
Whilst skin may crease, by heart is none withdrawn!

But when her portrait's gaze outlasts my time
This canvas shall replace her frame with rhyme.

If love is equal to the fame it claims;
To fame it has no great monogamy,
Behind that which so prides, by self defames;
As plays the part of one's misogamy:
First has believed the host, with wondrous gift;
Deferred the eyes from under beauty's veil
To then proceed the 'everlasting lift'
Until of heart does love itself impale.
Yet have, by love methinks, I've been unjust;
By wary heart in search for better blame;
Than what in shattered glass is shattered trust;
Then love's still love, retreating where it came:

The bitter shards is not of love's remake
Apologies to love, for love's own sake!