Who sits amongst the tree tops,
peering down, inquisitively poking his nose?
Ah, yes! The little Nature boy.
The forgotten child whom nature has reclaimed.

Why it was years ago now, but yes, still
I remember. Eerie foggy mornings,
the quiet groan of the forests, and the distant
rustle of the foliage, above and around them.

Then, as if by some cruel plot,
a ravenous pack of animals wild,
bore down upon them,
one, two, three to a person,
weapons fired, weapons dropped,
useless, now they lay lifeless.

Yet, by some strange miracle
the boy survived. He grew and grew
eating of the plants and fruits
which the forest gave.
And, until this day he is a mystery
but a mystery people long to see.

When my eyes befall the splendour of the land,
the softest touch of grey amongst the peridot grass,
timber browns stretch from left to right,
the amber touch of daylights beam,
the reflective wonder of the flowing stream.

Natures chorus and elegant noises,
harmonious beauty fill my ears,
beauteous avian warble,
the sensitive rivers trickle,
the beguiling Autumn leafs rustle,
the winds subtle whisper,
the orchestra is ready,
now it begins to play.

A beautifully fair day presents itself,
and I given just the chance
to gaze, hear, and feel the beauty,
might just indeed take it,
for this is natures Ode to life.

The way things are,
are Ne'er eternally set in slabs
of stone and marble,
for if man wishes,
they might bend and warp
beneath the pressures we
apply.
Ne'er lose hope you young
people, for this is your time,
time to change,
time to reform,
time to knock down,
and rebuild,
be it Love, work,
life itself, ne'er to late.

Of all the women I know,
She alone, stands out.
She walks with an air of grace,
Of gentility and kindess.

Days may come, hours may pass,
and still my love of her will never
meet its end. I see her heart,
it draws me nearer each moment.

One could say, I love her,
One could say I'm in awe of her,
I say, To love her is to worship her,
and to pursue her just as the Father
pursues her.

Despite my youth, I yearn for my past!
To relive some little joyful part of it,
To remember and feel such a blast,
That it is forever recommitted and I not forget
That all I am is borne of those moments!

Ah yes, small moments maybe,
But a big ripple can be made by a small stone,
And times in my life that are happy,
Far outweigh those that would see me undone,
Keeping me fresh years after they occurred,
I wish to travel back!
Just for a day!

An aged battleship retires,
A child with a newborn sibling,
Last months trends and desires,
Or even last years Christmas giftings.

Old news.
Unfortunate.
Used and abused.
Neglected.

Old ****** news.

What a lonely little road!
Shadows creep on either side!
The end is in sight,
then it was yesterday too!
how can this be?
what trickery could this be?

I'm almost at wits end,
i'm almost going to surrender.
the whispering shadows follow you.
they scream, cry and howl at you,
begging you to join them.

Don't.
Do not let go!
It may be beyond reach!
but STRIVE!
Re-e-e-each!
For ***** Sake,
Re-e-e-each!

O' Youthful heart, why dost thou drift haplessly across the sky?
Can ye not be like the merry vessels and set your anchors in fair seas?
O' youthful heart, why dost thou bring pain to the lives of many?
If I gaze upon the lives of many, what do I see?
Pain, suffering,
slow and bitter,
weeping torment,
thousands of young peoples
hastily given hearts,
lay in ruin,
and all because the heart,
acted as a cloud.

Enjoying his view at a glance,
everything from the stillness of the trees,
to the bristling of leaves along the floor,
the variances in cloudy colours and the haste
with which they move.

The Birdsong called from open beak,
carried by faint whisper of the air,
heard both near to and far from his pane.
Slithers of blue like a snake out of place,
make their way around me.

The sound of adolescent class and youthful springs
are heard abundantly as laughter and converse grow
into festering harmony of contemporary sounds.

Notice how they cease to be idle, but only ever moving and
active, move in this and that way, heading
North, South, East, and West with motive and intent,
the teachers bark heard through the wall.

I pray that you note the observer through the pane,
he watches and glances, not in idle captivation, but in
simple observation. He notices their behaviour, their patterns
and movements, their groups and divisions, common attributes
and uncommon, differences in personality, not by sound. Instead,
he listens to the motions of mute lips, and silent movement,
as if it were a ballet, only music is absent from the show.

So vast is this view from the behind the pane,
artwork is created by manmade structures blended with
nature and her beauty. Pleasant are the "random" meetings of
two, in open space, such happenstance.

When in the course of circumstances changing,
the classes mix and intertwine for few moments,
I notice many, the aversions, and the attractions,
what catches eyes, and what defers them.
But come the final ringing of the bell, he
heads for the door only to return again
the next day and do as he did.

Come hither dear child,
and bequeath upon me
the declaration of your love.
A love which you hath in days
gone by professed before my
scandalous fellows, those
who would conspire even now
to make me dead and seal my fate.
Profess to love me yet again,
lest my masked enemies shall ****
me in the quiet of the night!

Profess to love me once more,
you my daughter whom I dearly
love, above all else this world may
give unto me. On this my deathbed,
profess to love me, before it shall fall
on the ears of the dead and have no
great effect on this my aged heart.
Prithee, let the last words I shall hear be;
'I love you!'

Have I in youthful folly given devotion
to something that is naught but a dream
of ash and hollow pain, locked with envy
and anger. Am I pursuing something that
is nigh but a dream and something that is
truly not destined to be?
am I pursuing an idle dream?
Aye, this thought of mellow and unease,
plague this youthful mind,
and bring down this giant.

Have we not got dreams?
Have we lost hope for Good?
Have we reduced life to narrow parameters?
Is there life beyond the text and PM?

Once, not long ago,
I yearned for the pen and page,
now, I find myself mulling
and withering in front of the screen.

Can it be helped?
Can it be fought?
Can it be resolved?
That this is not my limits!

There is more than,
'Nathan has sent you a message'
which flicks on and off my internet tab,
There is more than that.

There is more than this vacuum lets on,
a master behind it,
who sits before it,
lost without, but found without it.

You're a filthy little *******,
you were always undesired!
You look like ****,
and also smell like it.

You're a worthless little *****
who I wish I could kick.
Of course you dress like a ******
and I could say bye with ease.

You inspire the worst in me,
Please! Just leave me be.

Of course its easy enough
to say the worst,
to a realistic reflection
in the mimicking mirror.

The seas are tough,
an eerie calm before a storm onsets,
and the fear and paralysis it possesses,
cripples me, and I suffer the doubt,
that the captain is right.
But lo’ this average day
is turned fully about,
and I stand in glorious
light of day.
That Hope is given to this
the wearied sailor,
and I might rest confident
of his assured skills and
power o’er the seas, and
this my vessel.
He steers me to calmer seas,
and giveth me rest,
taking me down narrow courses
for his names sake.
And tho’ I do sail on bitter seas,
I shall fear not, for his limits
aren’t limited to mine.
You Comfort me.
You giveth me rest,
when I am weary,
you giveth me rest,
when I am stressed,
you giveth me rest,
when I am angry,
you giveth me rest,


You, Giveth me rest.

IN the Rose Gardens,
Down by the riverside,
Sequestered by high hedge,
Riddled with beds and trees.

The Youthful Couple,
Mediocre at first, fall into sync,
They make their way,
enjoying the Rose Garden.

They intertwine their fingers,
and take a moment to admire views,
and sights. They move elegantly,
promoting closeness rather than distance.

They are at the height of joy,
they are together,
they profoundly adore each other,
and one they love.

They provide a new sensation,
their bellies tingle and tickle.
A dance resemblant of the butterflies flutter,
felt to their core.

What is the cause?
profound yearning, and desire,
not of lusts, but loves,
Love for one another.

This is the Rose Garden sensation,
Perhaps you're lucky to have it,
or soon find it,
all have their luck.

Back in the sands of time,
Before the voices of the Aenílì sung,
And created one and all,
Rua'grain' battled with his brothers, and sisters.

For two thousand millennia, Rua'grain fought,
And it is this that bore the children of evil.

Rua'grain defeated, was cast out of immortality
Consigned to live a mortal life.
Stripped of divinity, he maintained his hold on one power,
His voice.

For whilst his brothers and sisters sung angelic song,
Creating all that was good.
He alone sung twisted music, creates spirits of evil,
His children.

And silently his power and dominion grew!

In my ideal world,
There's no you, no them,
You see it's my world,
A construct of my imagination.

A glass of scotch, a piece of swing
Blaring for all to hear,
Eyes shut, as I'm lounging,
My legs rest on the arm, without a care,
Small gentle sips,
A warm burn, and sensation,
Slowly drifting,
Away,
           Away,
                       Away,
Away into my own mentality,
Imagining my little place of peace,
A slight bite of heaven,
A taste of something, something just for me.
Here, I'm never down-trodden,
But cheerful and amazingly,
Happy.

In the world of a simple scotch
And the sound of a piece of swing,
Oh that this world would be,
Something of a reality.

Not too much, not too little,
But just right,
That'd bring me such delight,
If only it lasted a little.

The seed of the tree,
tho' it may fall in a gust of wind,
or with the weight of the rains,
still will take root and grow,
blossom and bloom, only when the time
is right. When the season is at hand,
and its flowers bloom,
and bees and birds spread its seeds
far and wide,
and soon enough,
the whole countryside is filled
with the ocean of colours.

All for the seed taking root and growing
when the season was right,
and not a moment too soon,
nor too late.

Of those great moments,
the ones where epiphanies occur,
be they on the loo,
or in the stunning view,
they occur more often than not,
in solitude.

You look at me,
with eyes that bring me glee,
those starlight eyes,
is it of no surprise,
that I adore you,
and those starlight eyes.

What is this feeling,
I get so strongly,
its like I'm stargazing,
its like I'm drifting freely,
Deeper and deeper,
into those starlight eyes.

You look at me with those darling eyes,
in my life I start to feel a new sunrise,
I'm o'erwhelmed by those dreamy eyes,
all worries within me subside,
at the sight of those starlight eyes.

Is it of no surprise?
I get lost in your starry eyes,
they hold so much, and don't disguise
the matters of which one cries,
its your starlight eyes,
which makes Joy in my heart arise.

Storms may rage,
winds may howl,
the night might grow uneasy,
but of this I am certain,
my heart remains steadfast,
my love unchanging,
my dedication,
commitment, decisions and choices,
speak volumes about my heart,
and to no other would
I give my fragile heart.

Even if the days grow limp and cold,
my heart shall remain the same,
deeply, madly, wonderfully
in love with you,
my dear dearest love.

I've meandered the dusty roads,
and seen the rusty machines in fields.
I've wallowed in the pools of self-pity,
and sorrow 'neath the yellow streetlight.
Such is my life.

Sing me a song, o’ muse Calliope,
that in the summer solstice music
does release, wave upon wave of glory,
joy, and harmony, that with smooth lyric
this uneven heart might embrace
the golden summers dawn, that kisses
the newborn day, and nothing shall deface
this my radiant summers bloom.

Tally-**, Tally-**!
On our way we shall go!
Merrily, merrily we shall hunt!
Pursuing the fox with hound and mount!

Over brush, under felled tree,
dashing and bolting the fox eludes us.
Round the hills, still running free,
this amber devil can make sudden disappearance.

Tell her this,
Daily.
She is beautiful,
she is wonderful,
she is pleasant
and delightful,
Ne’er is she disastrous,
Ne’er is she unappealing,
Tell her that you love her,
even if as a friend,
Tell her she is a wondrous blessing,
amongst the very best.

Tell Her these things,
tell her you support her,
even in the bad days,
tell her you are there,
even if its hard some days,
Tell Her this,
there is none like her.

Beneath the Amber sun,
above the reflection of the waters,
his armies did assemble,
ready to smash, bash, and gnash,
the hope of the Fea'inor
dwindled.
Numbered so few, that any host of evil
could easily leave them ruined,
Rua'grain, absorbed the fears,
and disolved the confidence,
until, Mædhras, delivered words inspiring
to all.
'Be brave my fellow warriors,
that this day Evil may take not one
step more, and We the free,
may tell the tales of this day.
Fight not for the chance that you
may live, but that your children,
your wives, you families may have
just one beloved day more!
Waste not that which is sacred,
be not careless with your lives,
but fight for that one extra day.
It is worth it.'

Resounding horns, echoing on the waters,
the flash of steel, magnified by the reflection,
the hearts of Men, united with Old Allies,
once more bore a flame, akin to none
beheld before.
The force of Good with swiftness moved,
the host of Rua'grain,
creatures from every shadow,
crevasse, and lair,
assembled to have at the free and fair.

10,000 creatures, all with sullied eyes
stampeded in a wild craze.
With courage, the Fea'inor defended,
pushing back against the rage,
fighting to the last,
and making this en-darkened host pay.

Mædhras, stands, resolute upon the eastern shore,
his foes strewn all about him,
smote upon the bloodied shore.
His courage unyielding,
strength unending,
the host of evil festering around him.

To his call his men did rally,
showing all valor and courage,
defending, and assaulting,
inflicting devastation upon they
who sought to destroy fea'inor' homes.

In one final push,
one last show of strength,
Mædhras lead his men
along the endless shore,
and forced his sword,
gleaming and rubied,
into Rua'grains soulless chest,
The Host of Evil, corruption
and all villainy departed,
fleeing for the hills,
and making a victorious sound,
Fea'inor went in humbled pursuit.

Yet, along the endless shore,
after all Good and Evil had left
these two figureheads engaged
in the greatest combat,
Locked for all eternity,
to create the birth of Day,
and death of Night.

Take ten paces apart,
then turn and I shall start
My count up to three,
after which you may feel free
to take your shot,
and hope to miss not
the man who has challenged you
for failing to pay respects long due.

One,
Two,
Three,
Cracks on either side,
groans and moans of pain,
one of sweet relief.
Deep breaths, and forced composure.

Even as his aids assist him,
they are cool and calm as ever.
The duel is over,
and that is that.

The heart though it is heavy,
may lift and bubble,
fly and drift to newer heights,
to freedom,
but such freedom
that it is short-lived.

The hearts that were free,
sink and fall,
hastily to the sharp, jagged,
rocks of the deepest crevasse
of shadow and nigh-light.
Breaking upon the night,
with little light.

Here, see the elegant ebb and flow,
of balloons and hearts aglow with passion,
love and care, that they are so delicate,
and full of emotions, which if treated
poorly will burst and fall in sadness,
hurt and pain.

These are the Balloons and hearts,
that ebb and flow to life's,
fair current and nature.

So many unchartered channels,
and coursing currents, in the deepest ravines,
or the steepest hills,
masked in shadow, drenched with emotion,
this is the human heart.

The poor explorer,
the one who wants to know every nook and cranny,
must endure the rain, heat, and cold,
the light and dark,
he persists, deep into the human heart.

That poorest fellow,
but by choice he carries on.

In every season,
in all our misfortune,
he persists until every sector,
square and quadrant of the vast human hearts
expanse, is chartered, and know,
leaving nothing to mystery.

Through the night,
rode the poorest knight,
o’er vale, o’er innocent glade
with thundering and beating heart,
that matched the quickened pace,
of the steeds nimble stride.

Tho’ the stormy gale opposes,
and the might of winters snowy,
blizzard, should keep him at bay,
he rises to the challenge
and crushes them ‘neath his heels,

When at times the spirit is low,
and normally a liquor does restore,
he hastens past the tavern,
to where his mount does drink and eat,
and makes fast the saddle,
in order to make advances on his merry
quest.

When the day he has been riding
for presents itself with fate and circumstance,
at its left and right,
and this poorest knight, tho’ stout of heart,
and a little bit stout of figure,
might be bequeathed with one
small gaze at Her.

He had ridden many miles in many days,
for what purpose he had no knowledge,
although, now that fate has blessed him
with the cause of his lengthy travels, and quest,
he might smile, and become the richest knight,
that other might envy, and wonder at,
indeed this is what did happen.

the village, town, and city,
all were amazed that this poor
nobleman did acquire someone
such as her, whose looks were
stunning at the least, and were
nigh short of some divine providence,
and making.
That when he rode through town,
with her arms wrapped around him,
the down did gawp, and wonder how,
that he did prove them wrong, and
hadn’t a care for their rude gawping
faces.

He and She,
carried on unto the sunset,
whereupon not a soul saw them
again, nor needed to,
they knew where to find them,
they were happy, and needed not to
be bothered by the troubled
villagers, and issues.

The poor knight,
is now living as a king,
though not wealthy of riches,
or prominence, or land,
but of the true happiness,
only love can bring.

One bush,
Dry save for one stem,
Dead save for one leaf,
Dull save of the one rose.

All others have expired,
All others have withered,
All others have wilted,
Just one now remains.

Few expected it to survive,
One last rose,
One perfect rose,
One lush ruby rose.

It is the final rose,
It is the beautiful rose,
It is the soul of the bush,
The Last Rose.

What eerie Mists, and Mysterious frosts
lay waste to this lively heart, that all its aspects
beauteous they may be, subjected to the rigorous
threats and faults of sinful life. They hope to besmirch
this lively heart.

The stormy gales, the warm clear skied vales,
all apart of this world twisted routines,
"Good Cop, Bad Cop' as it were, flawed.
When it is ridden on this routine, it soared.

The winter has subsided, the Summer has blossomed,
and all this vale does is resemble the good nature of the heart.
No matter what it is subjected too, it shall eventually be returned
and all this world will not thrive till hate is removes from the heart.

Beneath such grim lit skies, the migrating clouds,

o’er the autumn forest, leaves dancing to the ground.

The grey path, cracked and torn, leaves smothering its face,

red, brown, and yellow, blending together so nicely that it creates an

artwork in itself. Dark grasses litter the pathways flanks,

coursing like a cement river.

Remnants of recent rain caught in the midst of short blades,

catch upon the rough toes and soles of aged leather shoes.

The wind penetrating his tattered jacket, a bag slung over his

shoulder, it being somewhat used and expiring.

His feet neither cheerfully nor sorrowfully scraping the ground.

His eyes catching little of the days light, but the lack of light did not hide

his tears, his lonely life, he wanders the paths of the nations,

walks down the roads into the horizon,

into the sunset and away from the dawn,

he only ever wandered, he led a simple life,

he was not homeless,

but instead quite rich,

he did not like the suits, the jewellery, the houses, and

banquets, the business, he hated them all, the meetings,

the lifestyle, the expectations, he wished them all away to wander

the great expanse the great wilderness of earth, tame and un-tame.

He hated company, he hated humanity,

he hated nature, he hated war, but hated peace, he

hated work but hated laziness,

he loved to be alone in all that he hated.

He loved to wander alone.

"More ropes! Swiftly now,
more ropes! With all that we hold
we must restrain it!" cries the mind.
Such a mighty roar,
tho' t'were a beast from hell,
yet so such beast was present.

"Ah, yes, No such liberty for thee,
restrained, confined to the labyrinth
of stock and stone for this lifetime."
whispered unto its enraged ears,
countless other taunts cast from figures
afar, but this youthful figure nearby,
taunts fresh into its ears.

What foul creature could be so horrid?
Surely a beast of such sheer evil nature,
death, destruction and villainy,
that doth terrorise the world so very much.

Listen! there's its thump and thud,
its horrendous screech,
the chorus of the deep.
Ay, tis not of kind appearance,
not to me in the slightest,
instead, throw flame and ember,
deep into its chambers,
and pray to the heavens,
that some miracle may be
bequeathed unto such a foe,
and looks of horror, and foul appearance,
might be converted to the sleek and slender
restraints of the minds will.

Ay, this is the heart,
a foul and horrid creature,
the bringer of pain, the bestower
of a smouldering soul.
Let it not loose,
lest it happens again.

Within the chasms of Stone,
the great halls of the mountain
king, men of the mountains,
dig in search of treasures gone.
With eager minds bent on gold,
gems, all forms of greed,
obsessed with the things of old,
they dig, and they dig,
Ignoring advice to which they should take heed.

Their tunnels stretch endlessly,
they are dim lit,
holding all manner of mystery,
there is no way out of it.
Men tunnel into this curious maze,
but a spell cast over the mountain
secures them inside, keeping them in a haze.

This is how he gains new slaves,
taking advantage of mens greed.
He knows the way out,
never will he be made to use it.
This is his domain of might stone,
deep within the mountains side.

With blackened eyes,
and messy beard,
a crown of marble,
he rules the mountains.

If I were a painting
hung upon a wall, be I a
painting of flowers, ships or sheep,
it would be of no major concern.
For should my owner have a change
of season, he might remove me
and put another, perhaps more
sought after painting,
I hang on feelings and ratings,
though I am skilfully crafted,
my flaws determine whether
I should rise or fall.

O’er the hills, in the far eastern valleys vast expanse, there lays the green pastures, on which the shepherds flock does so comfortably feast. Where the knee-high blades bend beneath your hands as you reach down.

Barefoot, you run across the wide, open plains,
the beads morning dew catch on your feet.
As footprints you do leave, trail across the emerald plain.

Small seemingly insignificant dots of flowers,
Red, blue, yellow, a great host of colour, quite the pretty painting it would be. The flowers beds, home to the elegant dances of the flowing butterflies, and the youthful crickets song.

The sapphire sky, with snow white clouds, lingering here and there,
float and drift in timing with the winds whisper, gentle though it were.

As one wanders throughout the Wonderful grasslands, you see the fleet of blades shiver and dance. Final beads of dew do catch the radiant spot of sun, and catches in your eye, a photograph a painting, of a wonderful Elysian Field.

A place where the rivers gentle flow
transforms into the monsters mighty roar
bombards the waterbed below.
Giving rise to the gentle mist,
which masks the brutal churning of the
rivers clear and gushing water.
The waters edge around the nigh but brutal fall,
ripples and trembles,
splashing drops upon the rocks.
Yet, with what malice it may seem,
the water falling,
falls not without elegance and grace.
One glorious summers day,
I did sit upon a nearby stone,
and saw the morning sunlight pierce it.
That morning light, crossed with waters mist,
revealed to me the rainbow of seven.
The seven colours seen,
in the nearby wildflowers,
amidst the nearby trees.
I spend so many idle hours,
sitting by that water pool,
admiring the rainbows,
and the deep churning roar.

'Watch out!' one of them cries,
then theres the one who denies,
he's broken by the surprise.
The Patrol found him out,
now he's only left to pout.

The rest skilfully scramble,
no hint, no sign,
the patrol walks on through the jungle.
Then, at Five to Nine,
all are uprooted, marched off,
single file. To the holding pen,
awaiting the work they mingle and cough,
one might escape only to be returned to the men.

Meticulously planned,
cunning is the patrol,
it weeds out the trouble makers,
and prospers the vigilant.

The poet wanted no money,
nor the overwhelming land
nor property, but the wealth
of the heart, and of the soul,
and so he commenced his
quest, to search himself,
of words, feelings, thoughts,
so that he might enrich
his very life, and live
once more as a content poet,
tho' to the world it leaves little to be desired,
but to he, it proved the most valuable thing
he could want.

Such a rare sight,
In the dead of the night,
When all is resting and nesting,
pushing past all the testing,
is the one delicate flower,
not a plant revolved around power,
but more faithful strength,
embracing the renewing love
of its father.
This flower,
the rarest sight,
gave off one thing,
one small thing,
that meant the entirety of the world,
one
single
tear,
for it was made alive,
healed,
restored,
by the fathers caring,
tender love.

Of saddened heart was he,
That dreaded day that he was beat,
upon the distant fields of war,
Brave, Brave, Sir Eorand.

Of stout heart,
yet of staggering limp,
Of wholesome mind,
yet of cleaved flesh,
Born to the land
on which his victory eluded.

How he sits ‘neath willowy boughs,
poised in humble reflection,
immersed in Character creating loss,
and still shot forth into Victory.

His reflection upon the waters,
distorted and unclear,
thus reflected the truest form of his heart,
oddly enough.

Kneeling by the abbey’s altar,
Shedding tears,
and of heart he cried.

I was no ordinary child,
if anything I was something mild.
My Friends were not always people,
but something more desirable.

For one day, as chance did have it,
I was walking through the store,
my parents just behind me, then, there it
was, that teddy bear I began to adore.

I raved and I got excited...
There was simply this wonderful bear,
and to receive it, I would have been delighted,
but...Little did I know the story of this bear.

Many weeks if not months had passed,
Christmas fell upon us, and in the passions
of removing christmas wrappings, I had
seen the white fur, I thought is was illusions.

But nay, It was my bear from the store,
wrapped in a box, with his sapphire cloak
and his lovely soft and white fur,
and it was never a cruel joke.

Now, However, Its tale is somewhat sadder,
He sits enthroned on a shelf, ne'er seeing use,
recognition or thanks. It must be a kind of abuse,
to leave this bear sitting on the shelf each day growing sadder.

I would like to make a change,
but unfortunately I had to age.

He's keen, he's ready,
standing to, and eagerly awaiting
codeword: Irene.

What's this?
He's gone all soft and shy,
how can he push into the task?
Why he's of no use,
back to barracks with him.

Yet, he'll try and try again,
brave and upright,
he'll somehow get a fright,
and its off to barracks again.

The mind of this boy, it swelled,
full of 'what-ifs?' and his passion, it shrunk,
the officer in sight,
sent him packing,
all the way back to barracks.

For you see,
at first his courage was great,
but before even the call came,
he was shy and timid,
just at the thought of his duties,
and he grew disheartened,
and was sent back to barracks

When I on our wedding day,
promise and commit myself to you,
I shall say the heartfelt vow,
a worded description of how I shall live
with you, around you and in love with you,
a vow, it won't be flashy,
or excessive,
but heartfelt and a promise,
and then we can pinky-promise,
then touch thumbs,
like we did when we were younger,
"I love you My darling,
I vow to thee my life,
my strength,
My love,
My passion,
my heart,
all that I do,
shall reflect my love of two,
My father God in heaven,
And then my sweetheart,
that is you!
In every season!"
That is my vow to you my darling,
for I love you.

Under the palest moonlight,
the wolf does howl and cry,
“I am alone! I am alone”
to which others far off reply,
“So am I”,
“me too”,
and he wasn’t alone in being alone.