1764

The saddest noise, the sweetest noise,
  The maddest noise that grows,—
The birds, they make it in the spring,
  At night’s delicious close.

Between the March and April line—
  That magical frontier
Beyond which summer hesitates,
  Almost too heavenly near.

It makes us think of all the dead
  That sauntered with us here,
By separation’s sorcery
  Made cruelly more dear.

It makes us think of what we had,
  And what we now deplore.
We almost wish those siren throats
  Would go and sing no more.

An ear can break a human heart
  As quickly as a spear,
We wish the ear had not a heart
  So dangerously near.

Why must you write,
& why must you sing,
Why must the bird
advent on her wing?

The anatomy tells
of grandeur, of things
you were made for
and long for,

were destined to bring.

I am a fortress of solitude, Lord of the misty peak,
I grant sweet breeze, visitors of my lofty perch,
Terror to prisoners of my hollow crypt,
My troubled throne remains still,
Sought by the noble and tyrant in a struggle that never seems to quell,
But I am yours to command as you see fit,

A keep, yours to keep

Too surprised to find
aglow,
pictures of you fallen
long faded and broke
I believe the fractured memories
hide better tastes underneath
abuse, and neglect
Forget
for one moment,
the two lives split open,
the two eating entrails,
stitched eyes, pretending
they were not human beings
Now my tongue pretends that
the juices have turned bitter,
when I long for love
I'd drink you all day,
suppressing hate that
imperfect ink fade
has left a burning stain.

I’d like to get to know you again
From your blushed freckles down to your pale toe
Or just be lost in eternity with the sound of your
Chest bound metronome

I’ll have you know, my red absinthe
That this soberness is killing me
Each moment without a sip from you
Is havoc unleashed

His love,
was something she wasn't used to.

She was always busy
carrying out her role on the movie set,
eyes shiny with flecks of gold,
natural dimples like sugar across her face
soft curls and velvety skin,

while life was vibrant on the outside,
it seemed to be dead within.

One day he strolled in,
she turned her head, caught his gaze, and beamed
his heart suddenly went patter--patter
my god... she's the one
he rushed back to his studio
and watched the paint strokes form her figure each time
seated beside the window, underneath the starry night sky,
so... this is what love feels like.

But when he handed her the rose
she pricked her fingers and bled,

when he embraced her with his warmth
she was as cold as icy jewelry,

when he gazed at her with longing
she continued to smile at the camera.

And so, he painted the last masterpiece
signed it with his love, and vanished

She thought:
*I'm cold within
and everything is colorless,
I laugh although I cry inside

I saw him come along
and I thought he might have been the one,
with the gold through his hair
the warmth in his smile,
the paint on his fingertips

but in the masterpieces painted,
he fell in love with
someone who doesn't exist
and thought it was me...

and I can only so much
pretend to be something that I'm not.

So now he's gone, gone to pursue someone
like the one in his painting
for a man, a painting of a woman
can never be enough....


well then, I guess I might as well
just be a painting.