My heart held captive,
Within a betrayal,
And to no avail,
My soul endures.
Love corrupts innocence,
And her tainted smile,
That so beguiles,
Holds no cure.

Once a believer,
Who caressed and sighed,
And lived a lie,
Of sweet embrace.
Now a prisoner,
Who can never escape,
Her poetic shape,
Her pretty face.

The temperamental sea caresses,
Along the defenseless shore,
As gentle as a maiden undresses,
Or as hard as the hammer of Thor,
Likewise her moods they vary,
The helpless shore is me,
And as the comparison confesses,
My girls the wild sea.

The sweetest of tears,
Golden girl cries,
As poems and songs,
Cascade from her eye's,
To honeycomb seas,
And coppertone skies.

She gives the gift of love,
From where all poetry springs,
And of life,
The joy and the dispair,
That it brings.

The eternal essence of her,
This beautiful paradox,
Pretty flower,
That on a whim,
Could either crush or empower,
The fragile essence,
Of him.

The clock ticks the world turns,
One second to go of my last hour,
"He's gone" a voice I thought I heard,
A taste of flesh , a scent thats sour.

My soul departs this life with scorn,
And leaves no tears or hearts that mourn,
Just a clock that ticks and a world that turns,
And a bell that's struck atop the tower.

My hand breaks through,
Suddenly exposed to the chill,
From the very living air,
Of the cemetery on the hill.
Fingers caress the cold damp headstone,
And feel like braille the name,
Mine still,
And then retract back through earth,
To join me confused,
For i cannot recall how i was killed.

They gathered beneath an opaque sky,
And braced against a frigid breeze,
That flurried and stired the fallen leaves,
The sun was pallid and about to die.

I caught the scent of broken ground,
And looked up into their hollow hearts,
Their faces wore a solemn mask,
That conveyed a love unfound.

Your vacant eyes held no tears,
And saw straight through my forsaken soul,
Your beating heart could not console,
The lost lamented years.

For a moment across your mind there flies,
The flash of a life that might of been,
Lost within the swirling leaves,
And a pallid sun,about to die.

With a heavy heart the vicar,
Looks upon the cemetery lawn,
Then arrives the old grave digger,
A cold and overcast morn.

Callused  hands then grip the shovel,
Thus begins the old mans toil,
A bed for the no longer living,
Through hard but familiar soil.

There is thunder in the distance,
As the rain begins to fall,
But he keeps right on working,
And ignores the vicars call.

For the rain is masking tears,
Cried for the first time in his life,
Must make this last hole special,
The one to hold his wife.

A grave of perfect proportions,
A mixture of mud and ****** tears,
Is all that he can give her,
A wife of forty years.

His friend the vicar approaches,
Two men silent in the rain,
Callused hands release the shovel,
Never to be gripped again.

With sunrise the threat of oppression,
As the first rays filter through,
They saturate the garden,
And drink the morning dew.

The chitter chatter of birdsong,
Floats gently through the air,
And I marvel at creation,
Contented without a care.

But just as the warmth of the morning sun,
Belighs the true strength of its beams,
As in this tranquil setting,
All is not as it seems.

A mantis eats the head of her lover,
Ants tear away at flesh,
Everything scatters and ducks for cover,
For the hawks talons equal certain death.

My once contented mind is shaken,
A cruel dose of reality,
For life is just a constant test,
Of survivability.

The hearts of all men arise,
Her grace so soft so elegant,
Upon a meeting with her eye's,

A spell thats cast with innocence.

Springtime play and winters lament,
Reflect within her counternance,
Memories of the seasons spent,

A spell thats cast with innocence.

A maiden of the purest heart,
She domminates my conciosnes,
A beauty thats described as art,

A spell thats cast with innocence.

The power of her sweet allure,
Justifies my reverence,
Though all I require is a cure,

From her spell thats cast with innocence.