Hearts to hands do not dwell softly,
Mind to hands could do no harm.

But heart to hands is only something
That those would dare to charm.

Hearts to hands could cut scars deeply,
Mind to hands would heal the scar.

But heart to hands is a good omen,
We think that at the start.

When the young met the old
There was silence involved
A deafening silence, none heard at all.
There once was a child
Who tread no denial
On webs spun with dreams,
The young had built an empire.
And how in graves did they scream,
Those dreams were meant for me
So selfishly were those dreams meant to be.
For when the young met the old
A story was told,
And dreams do not grow
As they so selfishly seemed.

The discovery of hypocrisy
Became the paradigm of life
I am not but I am
Was the great ordeal

Don told me
Casanova
That I was one in a million
And I scoffed, saying
                                                What's the deal with him
I liked it
The attention and
Egocentrism
Compliments that
Made me shiver
Warm when I refused 'em
Begging for more
More looks of ***** poetry
But he did not read those lines
Like me
Trembling knees
With the appearance of being weak
Those pick-up lines humorous
Slithery
Romanticism of the century
Casanova with his cheese,
Different platters, but you can't find
Me.

The sorrowful jungle of weeping foes
Lived like a macabre cabaret
Dancing on the fervent green
And singing to their enemies.
Oh woes! they cried with apathy
Not knowing that they could not breathe
In spores and dust, those underlings,
Who sought for death and misery.
Upon the strike of midnight's glare,
They watched the tiger feast,
Eating on the hearts of old,
The ones who battled for his soul,
And left his scars cut jaggedly.

If love is selfless, I do not know love,
Nor do I reap its benefits.

I eat upon it sordidly
Waiting to see what is to become of me.

And true, it is, that love may be,
Selfless, pure, in all it's dignity

For I not know the love that is
In all entirety, a selfless bid.

But wash upon me the shores of gold,
The wanderings of the new and old.

I want love as what it is,
To reap its plenty benefits.

To find the urge of knowing when,
Dying is better than losing a friend.

The outcry of the pasts gone by
Screamed softly in my head
A paradox I can't deny
For sense had gone to bed.

And still I sleep upon my shoulder
Nothing to lay at rest
Searching for the hills, I wander
To find what I detest.

The detested burned the souls down under
Reaping love, life, cheers and breath
Everything had gone asunder,
With nothing but a single epithet

*Death