Take me to the cemetery
where souls go to die
may just find
the catcher in the rye,
some pass with
ashes in the sky,
while the others leave
their anatomy blind.
A saint and a muse
none of them
deserved to die,
then why
the untimely goodbye?
The saint will lie
far from resurrection,
the muse will lie
blinded by misconception,
we may never find
the catcher in the rye.

I've returned to find,
she as I knew her,
had all perished,
who is she now?
What is she now?
A state of mind?
The smell of rain
to the blind?
Or to the deaf
night stars alligned?
Her concluding embodiment
is out there somewhere,
do I look for her in it?
Who will I find?
besides a stranger,
will she still be there
enshrined?

Closure is a hoax,
it'll take lifetimes to forget you
or perhaps just the one
if I tried,
no matter what it is I do
there you are,
my subconscious bride,
closure is a hoax,
it'll take lifetimes to forget you.

Endless voyages
but this one you go alone,
I did too
then I couldn't come home,
neither will you.
My exile won't go vain,
for it was your liberation
from unjust pain.

Pages be poured out,
be torn out books,
they all append with
you getting her looks,
how alluring she is
and will always be,
reborn each time
with no memory,
the seed once was
or the fruit it could be.
Thieving a mere sight
here and there
is worth every bit of
the herd's pity.

An outlander gone astray,
a mile for each day
is now the distance
we're away,
in her mind,
on the map's line.

Morrow's dawn
when I'm reborn,
the well known lad
will be long gone,
there aren't many
who'll mourn,
those who will
shouldn't for one,
the metamorph
will be who they
all should've known.
Blessing or a curse
I'll take it with
in all my lives,
the eternal longing
will be one of my wives
except even death
won't do us part.