My mother told me when I was a boy
Son look up, and see it, that grand old sky.
But now I suspect, her meaning was coy.
When I look up, I see that we will die.

This great ordeal will end without a ring.
For I have befallen no matriarch.
Not one coy mistress to dinner I bring.
For life is as passioned as my food's starch.

I don't want a body, merely your heart.
I no longer care, life has lost its art.

24 hours a day for the rest of our time together,
we'll walk with glutton in our shoes
walking with weight on our backs
covering distances only known in novels.

They'll get us you know,
those men selling cigarettes out of
office blocks, down that block there-
it's 62nd street and they never clock off.

What windows see aren't what we see.
Windows hear and feel and
we see and never heal;
we hold wounds like flowers bought
in hospital foyers, late to see a relative.

Buy ones and get some free:
it's a ploy so we spend that little bit more
than we need to.

i have written poems solely about You and i think it is time to write about something else. for a long time, You have been the subject of everybody's interest and it has made me envious of how they could describe You better than i. i write this to celebrate the existence of others because they behold as much beauty as you and should be much appreciated, too. also because some of Them hold much more potential than You but it is only you who get the attention. a bit unfair, is it not? i do wish to be able to write more about Them and minimize the times i write about you.

Treachory of weaponry for over a century
the enemy is gaining energy from all the injuries
mental venture memory without any penalty
trickery of history still causing twisted misery

a whisper delivered by lips of the withered
the disfigured remembers being considered
soon to be severed, the tether is weathered
no endeavor together your life isn't treasured