I don't know where you came from,
or what brought you into my world,
but I must have you.
You shine at night as the moon shines,
and you glisten at midday as the sun glistens,
and I will have you.
From my world of sky
and trees
and feathers,
I will descend upon you and your world of glass
and pavement
and footsteps.
You will be my prize, and I will cherish you.
You will be my life-sustaining treasure
until the day I find another
just
like
you.

Alone, it seems, I travel,
but not alone, I fear.
There are shadowy, staring eyes that pierce
and whispers that scrape my ear.

I need to find my way,
and running takes me nowhere,
as I tread the ceaseless circle path
lost and only just aware

that the darkness ever deepens.
As the daylight begins its end,
my mind casts prescient stones in dirt
with a hope my course propitious wends.

So on I trek untouched,
my eye and mind feel no connection
to the time or to the scenes
that loom and crawl in each new direction.

Tumultuous feelings would that upon my lips a magic seal I could place
that, when touched to yours, would leave a mark upon your heart as much upon your face.

Time and tide cannot an anchor be
for the ship we ride is adrift upon a darkening sea.
Clear sky above, black water below
up is the direction that our aspirations inevitably go.
And yet no wind blows in our sails,
no breath to lend us guidance.
So here we stand, aboard the still and shattered deck,
with nothing but a secret and our feelings left inside us...

Break me open and let my dreams pour out onto the pavement.
A thick, oily mass, tinted the color of failure.
Who would know?
The night sky above is the eternal *** of ink
from which the greatest quills go swimming for ideas,
and to it, let my dreams evaporate and return,
for is that not where they all come from?
Is that not where they go only to return to the earth as acid rain
over the heads of those in need of new perspective?
Though, if it's not,
or if my fat and heavy dreams are too saturated with defeat,
then simply leave me in the street,
and leave the sticky pool to ooze down the nearest gutter
to disappear.

Two paths of blood direct my eyes, seeming worlds apart.
In what way must my life convert and must I force my heart?

Is it better of man to spread false wings
and bring himself to bear
a life that less than freedom brings
and scars upon his soul he'll wear?

Or is it better to drown in white
and stain with every color
a life that blinds itself in light
and a presence that grows smaller?

No path have I on which to set my right and solid course,
doubtless one still I will tread.  But be it with pride or with remorse?