One day I bought a fish and fell in love with it.
Its lovely gills, its solemn face, and shiny flesh.
For two long years my faithful companion was,
Until one day to another life it chose to pass.
For weeks i grieved the loss of this great fish.
Until one day, when my grief was at its peak,
I went down to a pet shop and bought another fish.

A lame table barely stands in a darkened room.
Upon it sits a candelabra tainted with scarlet rust,
Holding like a pedestal two forgotten candles.

One, with its cardinal design, flamboyantly lit
This room a brilliant red and gold,
And illuminated guests
While eating lamb from porcelain plates.

The other, with its pale hue, pitifully lit
Its master's chamber a dreadful orange,
And guided his sleep
To the land of Devilish dreams.

Their melting paraffin forms pools of elegant simplicity,
While the candles slowly get consumed,
No more to sit upon a lame table in a darkened room.

Her name is Lucybell,
The object of my Temptation.
Her hands are shackles that keep me in place.
Her arms, the chains that tell me not to astray.
Her *****, catacombs of happiness and sorrow,
Where from my elation and troubles i can burrow.
Her eyes, dangling prisons for my soul,
Where Angel winged daemons parade it,
For all of life's creations to observe it.

I sit on this wooden bench,
from here i can see the trees,
Green and big, some dead.
Perhaps because the others,
Luscious as they are,
Took away all of their food.

The grass grows in patches.
Some big, others small.
Brown, green, yellow patches.
Some patches are not even grass,
Others try too hard.

Right, her dress had patches.
Purple, blue, black, red patches.

I see people running, skating, biking.
How she loved to run, skate, and bike.
She used to enjoy skating more than life,
Well, skating was her life.
People here are so nice,
not a minute goes by without someone saying 'good morning.'

I met her one morning,
In this same park actually
She was one of those skaters i now see.
Oh man he failed on the 360,
Oh well maybe next time.

She's gone notw though,
I don't see her skate any more.
She moved to New York i think.
She hated it here.

Enough!

The flowers are in full bloom,
Red ones, white ones, even multicolored ones.
We used to smell the flowers,
We still smell the flowers.

She's with me all the time,
In memory at least.
How nice it would be
If she were physically here

She would sit beside me holding my hand.
Smile, we would go and smell the flowers.
Perhaps go out for tea, she hates coffee.
I would pay of course.
She would get mad because i never let her pay.

That squirrel has a fussy tail,
And that dog has a funny smell.

It is time for me to go,
The day is growing old.
I would love to bring her
To the coffee house near my apartment.
They serve the best cinnamon cake.

We would sit there, eyes upon each other.
Coffee please.
Our faces would meet and create a wonderful sight,
and we would never be apart.

We would live in this small apartment,
even if it only has four walls,
and lined with foam.

The body's Atman falls to sorrow.
Its path to the higher being is stalled by chance.
Its gleaming red jewel reverts to coal
And its beat sings an anguish filled aria.

Its head filled with thoughts of death,
Its hand holds a chalice filled with bane.
Day after day the body withers like flowers
That have endure countless, rainless summers.

It seeks salvation from its afflictions
And looks to faith for spiritual relief,
But the lone syllable gives no shelter
From the fear of self inflicted ill.

Years he spends in wonder,
In search of that he cannot answer.
On top the highest mountain he stands
Meditating on what the Thunder said.

The hunter's moon, its reddish glow
Replaced the golden gleam of the forgiving sun.
The hunted sits on his rocking chair,
Pensive, dreaming, remembering.
The darkness of his study is disturbed
When a ray of the scarlet moon,
Playfully enters through the battered window
And rests, mockingly, upon his collection of Goethe's.
The smell of incense from a spectral source
Fills the room with dreams and nightmares.
He sees the image of someone he has long known.
Her visage dim but fair; his face, scared and pale.
Her shadow slides along the walls until it stands behind him.
She leans forward and whispers into his ear.
The playful ray of crimson glow passes by,
Leaving the room again in apathetic darkness.

Memories of a forgetful mind,
Images passing by
Reveal a fear within his heart.
Fright of the forward moving hands
That embrace all only to destroy.

An octogenarian sitting in a porch,
The struggles of his fight,
Clearly visible on his trench filled face.
His body, flimsy and tire,
Waiting for the Visitor he does not desire.