You were in my dream last night
of course you were
because my dreams are the only place where you're mine.
A smile and a touch is all it takes,
and I'm head over heals in love again.
A playful shove and laugh,
and we're alone in the world, and I'm not scared.
A pair of fluttering eyelids and a harsh alarm
and I'm back to reality
back to war
back to winter
back to a world without *I'm sorry.

I ponder, perhaps too much, of how I've lost my touch. I wonder if, in my delusion, it was just a dreamed haven. Somewhere in the hours of meditation, someway I've lost my salvation. My thoughts are trapped and closed like a man-lake is cement opposed, like soaring eagles discover they are just gifted wren actors, or the chlorine stinging your eyes is the spray of ocean waves crying. I feel like a snuffed candle trying to burn, a cloud wisp trying to rain, a parched rose trying to flourish, a winter breeze trying to warm your fingers. Suddenly I feel a kith with the discarded plastic bottles littering my beach, for, like them, I am searching for a purpose out of reach: the woes of a cursed wordsmith.

One road splits two trees
The leaves will forever reach -
Cursed with desire

What are you supposed to do when you return to a ghost town?
Do you walk among the dead, pretending to belong,
breathing from a straw as you watch the shallow water rush over your senses:
filling your ears with the same white noise you tried so hard to run away from,
bombarding your mouth and consuming the space your voice would perch before it decided to fly,
making your gaze so blurred you're never sure exactly how shallow you've become or how far you've sunk,
wrinkling your fingerprints and numbing everything but the constant rushing of a thin layer of blue silk,
you cling to the memory of the tulips you paused to smell as it's replaced with the eerie aroma of copper…
but that straw, those frantic shallow breaths, is all that keeps you from floating along the stream of sleepwalkers that litter this town.
This valley is a cage and every tunnel you see makes your heart whisper
"You're almost there."
In a city where nothing stretches for the ever-clear postcard sky
except the fumes of the local factory,
the people crawl between city blocks whose red lights
cast a net crafted for salmons at narcissistic sardines.
The suburbs are quiet on school nights, at weekend's dusk, in holiday's dawn.
Teenagers who have lost interest in the quiet are up late either coughing up ****** or SAT scores,
all searching for a heartbeat they forgot how to feel,
straws protruding from their lips like unlit cigarettes.
Their eyes are cloudy, pupils expanded, the whites bulging with pulsing red rivers, delving deep into a landscape the world forgot.
They shuffle next to you, faces purple from the lack of oxygen, but they'll never say so because
haven't you heard?
the walking dead tend to eat the living.

I am the snowflake that hovers
caught between two winds.
Unsure where to go -
I go up.
Higher and higher
until I am above the clouds.
And it is only then
that I fall without wind's grace
and am buried in the cold grave below.

Slow and paced, like the waves of a lulling beach;
helplessly at the whim of chance. Nothing but
anticipation to tell when the crest will come or
when the water will draw back, revealing the
soulless ocean's raw skin like the soft belly of
an exterior peony petal. The collision of water
and rock, a spray that deliciously cools my
forehead, the back of my neck, the space under
my arms... a single bead that runs from my
hairline to run effortlessly over my temple and
over the rolling hills of my cheek. It whispers to
me in the recesses of my head, pulsing with the
increased beating of my heart like a child's
first drum now pounded upon like a war call.
The crest comes as expected, rushing the silent
sand and coating my eyelids in salty kisses as
I lay awake in this bed so far from the sea.

Start with me back at the beginning. Watch the Earth come to be,
see the stars dance in the music that has become the twilight.
Watch mountains rise high and valleys sink low.
See the Earth's blue river veins fill and flow,
and its vast sea soul... listen to it move.

Start with me back at the beginning. Watch a life come to pass,
see a child's first laugh, forget the tears that started it all.
Feel them hold their mother's finger like hell.
Listen to their heartbreak, their wedding bells,
and the soft hymn of their eternal sleep.

Start with me back at the beginning. Watch for that one moment,
see the first two creatures fall fast and effortlessly in love.
Watch where it starts, and pin it like a map.
I know how love ends: a chest with a gap,
but the first step's a cruel teaser to me.

The greatest temptation of a trapped body is freedom.
A freedom of the soul that leaves the body behind,
in its prison,
and releases the soul
into the autumn wind.
The body is left with the dying green;
buried in browns, burgundies, and blacks;
decorated with red ribbons, purple and blue flowers,
and a rope -- around the neck.

A rope sent by the Devil in the mind's weakest state.
It coiled itself around the neck and hissed in the ears.
It sang:
So long as the body is snared, so is the soul and mind.
Yet, the mind wonders through deserts and swims in oceans.
But the rope sank its fangs deep into the mind,
releasing a poison that brought it to the prison of the body.
It became a mind craving the same release as the soul.
That is when the Devil wins; when temptation is taken,
and the soul has died,
alone,
lost in the autumn wind.

The construction of the human face,
is the way it is for a reason.
He gave us eyes to see,
a nose to smell,
ears to listen,
a mouth to speak,
a tongue to taste.
He gave her ears,
yet she refuses to use them properly
He gave me a mouth,
but I don't know why I talk half the time,
because she refuses to listen.
Her body language indicates that she is aware,
but her eyes,
they glaze over in a way that makes my soul thrash about.
My words,
like pollen in the spring wind,
float to her,
goes in one ear,
and straight out the other.
Like acid,
my tears scar my skin and
Like a shower,
it never seems to end.
I am not your mask,
you can not parade around through me.
You say that
"Some people don't realize it,
until someone else tells them."
I've told you,
yet you cover your ears like in your youth.
You tell me to fly,
but when I try to jump,
you pinch my wings?
How can I learn
if you won't let me tumble?
I am not you,
so stop comparing us.
We may share a similar face,
but this body and mind is not yours.
I am no puppet,
you can not control me.
You're deft not because you can't hear,
but because you refuse to understand.
You are not empathetic.
You refuse to see me through my eyes.
God gave you ears for a reason,
It's about time you learned to use them --
correctly.

I am a caged bird.
                                                           ­            Sing and sing all day,
                                                            ­       smile and smile all eve.
                                                            ­   If one person in particular --
                                                           you know who you are --
                                                       no longer deserves my attention
                                                    I will choose not to perform to you,
                                                but all I can do is turn my back.
                                            These walls constructed of steeled bars,
                                        do not protect me.
                                    They leave me vulnerable to your ******* --
                                 eyes that I can never truly escape.
                             Stretch my wings and convince myself I'm flying,
                         but I'll only ever be caught in your web --
                      your cage.
                   This battle of wits and accusations has to end.
               Why can't you see that I yearn for flight?
           You're just as caught as me, Cage Keeper,
        it's time to let me go --
    come to terms with the fact:
I am gone.

I was no more than a small girl,
When a cat wondered to my front porch step.
A cat with jet black fur and
eyes like melted chocolate --
He was mystifying, interieging,
and I wanted him for my own.

I saved enough money so that:
Everyday, I put food out for him.
Everyday, I brought him toys to play with.
Everyday, we could talk for hours --
All on my front porch step.

One day, my dark eyed beauty spotted another.
She gave him better food.
She gave him fancy toys.
She offered more attention.
One day, he didn't come to my front porch step.

He was not mine to keep, so
I could not demand him back.
That day my mother taught me something:
"If you love something, let it go.
If it comes back, it was meant to be."

But he never came back.
He left me alone,
Alone on my front porch step.

I learned that day that love is selfish.
It demanded that I exclude myself to all but one.
I learned that love is cruel.
It's a drug that we're all addicted to.
I cried, all alone on my front porch step.

Suffocated by a web of a world that does not understand:
Words in my throat, caught like little flies struggling against the weave,
Emotions suppressed deep, encased in the widow's cocoon --
I am silenced, hidden under the surface.

Like a star, hope trickles down soft as a weak creak stream.
Light but dull, a beacon in an entire world of darkness;
Little ones walking will be the ones to watch it grow strong,
But I, a little fly, will die waiting for a light that is not for me.

This web is a cold and lonely prison,
I pray that, in this blackness, I am not alone
As I wait for more hearts to light the spark
That might burn away this web of a cage.

Pray tell, where be the sun that kept me warm,
And where be your body when comes the storm?
If I, asleep and drowning in the well,
Could see the stars, I’d dream of tales they’d tell:
Of you, of me, of what we used to be.
Luna watches me sleep on currency,
On tears of the dewy eyed wish-makers.
Bed of bargains, blanket of still waters,
Drowning in you, yet desert with needing.
They see me as a drought’d man bleeding
And you a cool glass of tricky poison:
Still I came to sell my soul or my sun.
          How fitting it was you who pushed me down,
          Took your heart from me, so in this well I’ll drown.

You are the enrapturing, encapturing, sunset I wish I couldn't remember,
the warming, warning, spring rays I wish never freckled my shoulders,
the beaming, beating, summer heat I wish hadn't seeped red on my entirety.

You are the shunning, stunning, sunrise I wish I couldn't see,
the scarred, sacred, autumn sun I wish didn't make me stronger,
the blight, light, winter sun I wish stayed hidden behind grey clouds.

My dear, you are the most bewitching chapter of my life,
the tear-soaked pillows and the bar-coded mascara face:
another heartbreak ready for the card-catalog among masses.

2B or not 2B -- that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to trust
The estranged memory of my parked car,
Or to take arms against the flight of stairs
And, by ascending, remember. 1A, one floor --
No steps -- and by 1A to say we end
The footache and the thousand natural shocks
That heel is heir to -- ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. 1A, one floor --
One floor, perchance no callis. Ay, there’s the rub,
For in these shoes of death what callis may come,
When we have shuffled off these mortal streets,
The lot must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes calamity of memories.
For who would bear the sores of party shoes,
Th’ endless rows of resting vehicles,
The low ceilings and countless steps,
The insolence of the inebriated, and the spurns
That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes,
When he himself might end the fuddled search
With a local inn? Who would challenge the stairs,
To grunt and sweat under buzzed breath,
But that the dread of someone waiting at home,
The undiscovered disappointment from whose bourn
No party-er returns, shaming the conscience
And makes us rather storm the steps to 2B
Than face anger we wish we knew not of?
Thus a spouse’s fury does make heroes of us all,
And thus the reality of ten more steps
Is boiled in the evening’s song and merriment
With little regard whether the car is parked in 1A
Or perhaps upstairs in 2B. -- Harsh you now,
The ground that catches me. -- Cushion, concrete bed,
I think I shall rest here.

You don't know what you do to me.
Your crooked smile rips me apart as
the sound of my name on your lips
lites a fire in every vain under my pale skin.
Your gentle eyes hold my heart firmly
as I watch the dark blood pool
and start to drown me slowly.
What really throws me--
no--
makes me dive off the cliff:
your eyebrows.
Quirk them and tell me you care.
Raise them and tell me you're listening.
Twitch them and tell me you're interested.
Furl them and tell me you fell for me.
You don't know what you do to me--
this pain feels so good
so long as I'm the one your eyes want.

Every other girl dons her heels
but me.
I come in my dancing shoes.

Every other girl holds her skirts
but me.
I'll cartwheel in my jeans, please.

Every other girl accepts his hand
but me.
I reached for his first.

Every other girl follows a step behind
but me.
I lead the parade.

Every other girl lives to become beautiful
but me.
I know beauty lives to be me.

Every other girl displays skin
but me.
I'm all pearly whites.

Every other girl chokes in a corset
but me.
I'd rather sing of freedom.

I walked out into the woods,
on a clear Autumn morning,
and used Daddy's hunting knife
to cut you out.

As if I were a surgeon,
cutting away with purpose,
no blood was lost as you fell
away from me.

You dropp'd to the forest floors,
drifting away with the wind,
I thought you were gone for good
that I was free.

You're anything but benign,
a creature from the dark woods,
following me as a wolf
out for the ****.

Helpless to spend the Winter,
cold and alone and empty,
waiting for your sure return
back to my heart.

Spring comes as you slither near,
hidden and slowly warming,
crawling and clawing upon
my cold body.

You've made your home by Summer,
nested in my hollow heart,
soaking in passionate love
that will not last.

I walked out into the woods,
on a clear Autumn morning,
and used Daddy's hunting knife
to cut you out.

My armies are in full retreat:
the cannons cold,
boots worn down,
muskets jammed and rusted --
Well fought and ready for rest.
My men seek shelter deep,
deep enough that hands cannot reach,
and they shall stay there for, perhaps, ever.
I was always told "no,"
that money ran the world
and a passion for words will not be enough,
that I will fail...
So my army is in retreat,
tired of fighting a constant defense,
using our last resources to build a keep
to lock away every imaginative flutter of golden butterflies,
and hide away any stray flicker of a thoughtful flame.
The oak trees of my mind's forest have been cut down,
nothing but stumps and leaves
and the smell of industrial smoke
from the bark of my oaks.
This time next year,
I hope not to be completely dead inside
that, somehow, deep in the keep of my soul,
a willow will weep beautiful tears
for lost soldiers and fallen oaks.
Perhaps the keep will thrive,
fighting off the countless sieges
and housing pilgrim dreams.
Perhaps the conquerers will be kind,
offering mercy to the innocent
and a quick death to the ones who deny "no."
It breaks my heart to call retreat,
but a small, crumbling, wounded dream
is better than no dream at all.

soon
soon we
shall taste the
crisp air that will
fill our lungs and only
one word will leave our
cracked lips,
freedom.
And we shall
thrive again in
this living hell in
which we must endure!
Freedom I say! Freedom
From the horrors I have seen
And experienced!
Freedom.

I've never been good with spoken words and maybe this is why
because everything just seems to spill out in rambles and tangents
like trying to follow a scribble cloud as if its a map to buried treasure  
locked deep inside with the secrets and I could never quite tell you,      
not straightforward anyway, how I felt when you sat in front of me,         
but that's not an excuse, and maybe I shouldn't tell you that when I           
see you I feel like I'm being drawn and quartered with every emotion        
pulling selfishly at me but maybe that's just me and perhaps I'm over          
exaggerating the momentum in which my heart holds my head but I         
can't say for sure because all I can hear is a constant drumming…         
constant drumming... constant drumming… and it never stops           
even as the sun sets and you, so far away, somehow crawl into my    
head as if its a warm hearth in the middle of a blizzard, but I am the
exact opposite and if my words don't convince you than perhaps a    
cold shoulder will burn the idea into the soft skin of the arms that used    
to hold me when I cried about those stupid little things that I laugh at      
now and you'd laugh with me, oh that laugh, would fill me with a heat   
that could challenge all the stars in the universe and yet it flickered so      
quickly like a single flame suddenly at the will of a breath that has            
become so shallow and shaken by the tears of something deep inside      
shattering at such an immense speed that everything else is slow motion   
in comparison, and maybe my head is right to think that you're no good   
for me, but don't think for a moment that I could possibly keep you out  
of the mind that has become so crowded and yet you sit in the center of
it all like a king, or perhaps a dictator, that knows he belongs there in
that crowded space just under my ribs echoing with that beat, that constant
drumming that runs through my body like a relentless river as it destroys          
everything in its wake and runs along a silent stream of thoughts and words           
that pour out of my mouth when I open it…                                                              ­

and that is why I am no good with spoken words.

I close my eyes when the stars rise
but the sweet darkness does not cradle me.
No -- it is the past that thrashes me about.
The echoing of laughter and pointed fingers
and hiding in the corner as names pierce my heart.
Stupid --
a gun shot for not knowing the right answer.
Slow --
a backstab for not reading fast enough.
Ugly --
a grenade explosion for looking different.
You want to know why I am so chary?
Why I no longer speak out?
It is because she did not stop --
even as my defense crumbled before her.

When the stars rise and I sleep,
She is there-
laughing at my failures and shouting
**"I told y'all she Stupid."

Stark, empty bullet shells scattered, by chance,
At her feet -- bedecking the ablazed brooks
Like young poppies glistening from the rain

Of the hellish hurricanes yet to come.
Man’s fear fans flames stronger than any wind --
Strength that ruins cities, yet keeps her sane

Like the arms of a mother now afflict’d --
Boiled black, bloodshot eyes. He is not her:
Take his hand, your pride has nothing to gain.

This darkness sated with dimly shining stars
Is not the end of your heavy heartbeat
Take his hand and see the red dawn again.

There was a thief in my house
He crept in late in the night
He let his flame run wild
Ate my desk, my chairs
Danced on our bed when
He let his flame run wild

My heart's ablaze
Given from a late night thief
Please! Call 9-1-1!
This flame just brings grief
Bring Firemen!
This smoke pollutes air
He let that flame run wild
Now I'm just ash

Bury me deep but
My heart still burns
Fetch my love, let him see

Let him see his heart burn like mine
Yet he'll walk away, feeling fine
Late night thief, my love, killed me.

I watched God this morning.
I observed all He did.
I sat as the fog lifted.
The great sky that stretch far --
from the rocky beach 'til
my head could stretch back no longer --
was now broken.
One mirror with a single crack
right across the middle.
One barren strip of land --
a single tree.
I watched God
as He lifted away the fog
to reveal the beauty in imperfection.

I wanted to tell you that
this cut on my leg
wasn't a shaving accident.
That the beads of rubies
weren't from clumsy fingers,
but from strong trembling hands.
I thought I'd tell you that
I enjoyed the way it felt,
the idea that I was alive --
that string of scarlet pearls
was proof that I had a heart,
that it still beat --
no matter how faint.
I wanted to wear the red jewels
around my neck
as some sort of prize.
No,
as some kind of evidence
that I
          was
                 not
                       hollow --
                 I'm
         still
here.
Try to wipe them away,
but they only become
one of Van Gogh's strokes --
beautiful.
meaningful.
I am alive.

That morning of the 14th, my daddy woke me up.
It was a rushed “Good Morning,”
Because he was going to be late to work.
He made sure I was dressed, with backpack in hand,
And stumbled me to the bus stop.
The bus was late, that Friday morning.
I wished it would hurry,
Daddy is getting angry.
When the bus rolled down the street,
Daddy kissed me hurriedly on the cheek.
I climbed aboard and watched him drive away,
A growing tightness in my chest.
I looked down, red blossoming in my small chest,
And cried.
The pain was nothing like falling from my bike,
Or getting pricked by scissors.
It was like watching my daddy drive away,
Or seeing him cry.
It was like watching him come home without me,
Or seeing him lock my door.
It was like watching him curse himself,
For that rushed “Good Morning.”

A window beside a child's bed
can be so many things.
It can be a killer of dreams,
a waking light in the darkness,
Or a savior from nightmares,
a torch in the dark dungeons of a haunted castle.
That window beside a child's bed
is so much more than it seems.
It's an escape,
a portal from this world to another,
It's the bars of a cage,
a reminder of seclusion.
This thin sheet of glass next to a child's bed
is as strong as bones.
It traps things inside,
dreams, nightmares

smoke

The window is as strong as glass,
letting nightmares rule, and suffocating dreams, hope; life.
A window beside a child's bed,
it was a killer of dreams,
a savior from nightmares,
an escape,
the bars of a cage.
It was a portal that has taken the child elsewhere,
now this child will never be afraid or alone,
This child will be free,
will be loved,
will be missed;
will be mourned.

Beautiful Light,
why do you torture me
with your stunning Essence?

Your small towers
of scarlet,
of apricot,
of violet.

Your movements are a
completely different language to me.

The shadows you cast
flicker in the dimming light of hope.

I come to you
for warmth,
for strength,
for a smile.

The way you shine,
the way you glow,
the way you seem to fade
only to reappear.

Your smiles --
so strange,
so captivating,
so heartbreaking,
pull me closer --
pull me closer to
an unbearable pain.

The way you made me laugh --
so pure,
so innocent,
so lovely.

The way you said goodbye --
so casual,
so naive,
so sure.
Hoping, knowing,
we would meet again soon.

You captivate me,
you endanger me,
I thought you loved me?

My Beautiful Light,
why?
Why do you torture me
with your stunning Essence?

When the sun rises, the shadows come out. They stretch
over the dewed grass and up the brick walls. They hide
from the light that only makes them stronger.
Without light, there would be no shadows.
We think we can destroy them, using our
light. But really, they’re always there,
scattered, stretched, faded, on the
turf of the football field. My
shadow is no different. It
lurks behind me when
I walk to the bus stop.
It stretches over the
uneven sidewalk and
into the tar-spotted street.
Even at school, where the light
shines from the ceiling. It sits quietly
under my desk. Or when I perform, and the light
shine in front of me, it will dance with me, a secret duet.

I thought we could run
where love could save us.
I thought we could hide
where lights wouldn't chase us.
I was wrong.
What a glorious fall we had.
It was a tedious climb to the top,
but a nearly effortless drop.
What a glorious fall we had!
But how suddenly we came to a stop.

I'm breathing you in,
when I want you out.
On me, you're a tear gas --
choking me; unable to shout.
You're with me long after the battle.
What a glorious fall we had.
It was a tedious climb to the top,
but, oh, what a nearly effortless drop.
What a glorious fall we had!
But how suddenly we came to a stop.

I'm trying to erase you, but
you're a drum
that beats loud and clear.
Even with miles to overcome,
I can hear your booming beat.
What a glorious fall we had.
It was a tedious climb to the top,
but, oh, what an effortless drop!
What a glorious fall we had,
but how suddenly we came to a stop.

He told me he could wait
regardless of what he wanted.
promises flew at 60 per minute
from lips and trembling fingers,
falsities billowing out with strain smiles
all because of the clock above his head
a constant ticking, reminding and controlling
as if it were a religion
as if it were his master
Creature of Habit
have you seen your master;
gone to communion today?
remember all you’ve wasted with each breath,
each blink becomes a hash closer to death
but they all claim patience and restraint
pulling against chains not clearly visible
golden lips whispering at 60 per minute
regardless of how they speak, they act;
They claim they could wait

Life is like a river,
ever changing, never stopping.
The river is supposed to take our worries,
our flaws, our mistakes,
and carry them downstream -- far away.
But what of the items that sink?
The worries that get stuck to the rocks?
The flaws that wash up on shore?
Branches fall from nearby trees and
while they sit there, they trap other things --
things that were on their way to being forgotten.
If life's a river,
what are the fish that choose to swim upstream?
Life is like a river.
Some patches are rough with white water,
some sections are smooth and soft,
others are full with piles of stones ---
testing our cunning and flexibility
Memories are painful --
but sometimes we must go back upstream
and remove the things that hold us there.
If not, our journey downstream
will become haunted by ghosts
that should be resting.

What a dark time it's been,
no dreams to fill this void.
I don't need them when I'm with you.
You make me forget the lost hours,
the blank darkness, the cold silence.
I no longer wake because the sun rises,
but merely because I must see you.
          You may never know that
          your laugh makes me smile,
          your smile keeps me warm,
          your touch drives me crazy,
          your eyes hold me tight and
          your arms house me.
               You may never know;
               that's okay --
               I'm the quiet type.

A twisted thing held all my fears:
Midnight hours ask of my tears,
Creatures in corners see me stir
And wonder why I weep no more.

I wish the blue blood wouldn't pool
In the shaking hands deemed so cruel,
This chill burning my blackened bones
Is the same etching my tombstone.

I don't cry for the dark unknown
But for the creature that is shown:
The one that looks me in the eye
And lets the red love we had die.

I walked a long mile
with a Girl long forgotten,
she was loud and personable,
bright red ringlets sitting on the shoulders
of white and pink ruffles
with dark eyes that never cried
yet she tells me
"I'm scared of the dark,"
I could not embrace her,
could not discourage her fears.
instead I looked into those dark eyes --
full of innocence,
brimming with ignorance,
and told her
"I dreamed for your eyes,
and I wished that you might never have mine."

My heart hangs hellaciously,
swinging on sickened strings,
bleeding blackened blood and
singing sad songs to itself.
It's a new creature,
a freshly feathered phoenix,
the hatred hardening the heart
until the blackened blood
drips and dries
to reveal an
opaque obsidian coat --
a thing of great omnipotent and omniscient.

There's a voice on my left,
sweet as syrup and smooth as silk,
it says things I've longed to hear.
But, at the same time,
There's a voice on my right,
painful as a potent poison and raw as rigid razors,
it says things I never wanted to descry.
But is it the angel that whispers
sweet nothings
or is it the devil?
Should I layer myself like a grain of sand in an oyster
or should I dive, head first, into the cold water?

And now, a different voice whispers to me,
sweet and angelic.
It must be an angel, to be so kind and gentle.
This new voice leads me away,
Washing away my layers,
growing closer and closer and closer
to the sand that hides beneath it all.
Are you the devil in disguise
or an angel undercover?
If I reach out, will I be burned?
If I let you hold my heart, will you break it?
So many questions, so many possibilities, so much uncertainty,
surrounding this one voice,
Your voice.

Drop the leaf, and allow yourself relief.
Much like the mysteries of lifeless time,
Much like my cursed gift of endless rhyme,
I can not tell you why comes the nighttime.
From my great wisdom, I can tell you this:
Let thy leaf fall and give mine roots a kiss,
And I can offer what you look for -- bliss.
For your sake I prayed I be false in sight,
Now you breathe and your life must thank thy knight.
Foolish is he to look for death to spite,
Now a price you must pay to make things right.
Oh dear gods, you victim child of fate,
The jealous martyr will demand and wait
For thine toll now that you see death’s black gate.