What's more deadly
A gun or a thought?

A gun gives you the opportunity,
But a thought pulls the trigger.

There's this girl sitting in the corner of her room,
With emptiness in her eyes and sorrow in her heart.
Not knowing what she's going to do
With her meaningless life.

There's this boy that loves her, but little did he know
She's in war with her mind,she's losing herself,
But she just smiles all day, making it seem all alright.

I'm sorry that you fell in love with someone as complicated as me
...

I lost my true love
once she found my true self,
I keep thinking life is improving,
before I'm under the rubble again.

And I'll miss you,
I already do.

I realised that I loved you
and it felt like hands around my throat.
When you had already left the room,
all freedom of my heart did too.

You see, I had nothing left but you.
But you and my assorted maxims.
Now, I've been leaked to the press,
all of my scales have been shown
to the blue-light;
now, all that is left, is nothing at all.

Darling I can tell you haven't slept,
Much since that last cup of tea.
I remember you saying it burnt like tequila,
And now I know why.

Darling I see the scars you cut,
In the space between your heart and your soul.
I know how it hurts,
To have them separated so.

But darling I can't help with your wounds,
I know so little of how to heal,
Self made wounds, though I have one to match,
I didn't make the incision, though I held the knife.

Darling you cut me so deep,
I think I lost my soul.
But sadly I still have my heart,
Scarred from the incision you made.

Sung by the people of Faery over Diarmuid and Grania,
in their bridal sleep under a Cromlech.

WE who are old, old and gay,
O so old!
Thousands of years, thousands of years,
If all were told:
Give to these children, new from the world,
Silence and love;
And the long dew-dropping hours of the night,
And the stars above:
Give to these children, new from the world,
Rest far from men.
Is anything better, anything better?
Tell us it then:
Us who are old, old and gay,
O so old!
Thousands of years, thousands of years,
If all were told.

Out of lemon flowers
loosed
on the moonlight, love's
lashed and insatiable
essences,
sodden with fragrance,
the lemon tree's yellow
emerges,
the lemons
move down
from the tree's planetarium

Delicate merchandise!
The harbors are big with it-
bazaars
for the light and the
barbarous gold.
We open
the halves
of a miracle,
and a clotting of acids
brims
into the starry
divisions:
creation's
original juices,
irreducible, changeless,
alive:
so the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, arcane and acerb.

Cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral:
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light; topazes
riding the droplets,
altars,
aromatic facades.

So, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
wells
to your touch:
a cup yellow
with miracles,
a breast and a ******
perfuming the earth;
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a planet.