Speak to me of the tales long ago,
The tales of the heroes, their misfortunes untold.
Talk of the ones who buried their sorrows,
Ignored all the old,
And lived for the morrow.

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.

Take the minute hand
Move it back to yesterday
Maybe you'll see me

We built cities with shattered glass
Grand scrapers that reached past the clouds
Carpenters of modern day Rome
And warriors of worlds unrenowned

It was an empire of future centuries
A city that grew to the sky
We had taken the land before us
Had taken it in great strides

The world only knew of our legends
They fought to become just like ours
But crumbled were the moral fortitudes
That harrowed our own laws

We are destroyed by the things we create
Greed would demolish us all
The empire comes crashing down
Down from the sky it evolved

Show me where the thoughts collide
The heart, the herald angel lies
And woolen is the very skin
Held taut against your bones
And you had told me once before
These very aching metaphors
Would drift away like dusty spores
Amongst the broken wind

These memories will **** me
Surely in the end.

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.

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.

Do the trees love the leaves,
Their worldly decors hanging so peacefully?
So beautifully do they fall into winter,
That sorrowful trees wail in the wind
Yearning for their beauty back,
Naked until spring.

Or do the leaves love the trees,
That house them in their brambles
And branches so bare when abandoned?
Mere twigs become friends,
Nourishing the green that gives them
Life and purpose among the greater things.

Death projected itself from his mouth,
Silently parting his lips in the form of a cigarette,
And I couldn't tell if it was smoke or desire,
that burned my breathless lungs
with a flame-less fire.

And I thought that if he saw me, he would laugh,
Laugh at me under my own duress.
But he caught my stare, and stared back.
James Dean with eyes like thunder
And a smirk that could **** more than his own cigarette.

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.

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

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

He held my hand and whispered -
So softly in my ear,
That when the night is old,
Youthfulness would reappear.
Youthfulness? I questioned.
He nodded carefully.
Said when the morning light is new
Youth would come for me.
I waited for the dawn to wake,
Waited sullenly;
And watched the moonlight dancing,
As it crept amongst the trees.
The moon had ceased it's shining.
It had hid behind a cloud,
And the man began his sighing
Waiting for the sun to come around.
I looked towards the hills
That wandered in the East
And counted every minute
That I had dared to keep.
He squeezed my hand so tightly
My wrinkles all bunched up,
Said don't you worry darling,
The light will soon erupt.
And so there was the sun,
The hills had hid so long.
They had kept the colors,
Holding back their song.
The youthfulness was here now.
I cried until I knew,
That youthfulness was only
For the morning that woke anew.

These sparks, these enigmas tied down to the strings
Of my sewn together heart, keep me well alive.
And if I could but paint the color of kiss on your lips,
This insurmountable feeling of being,
I would.

Yet you have unwound the thread.
The blood pulsed once, but now aches for ignition,
And I wait for the return, for the ambulance,
That exists somewhere in the world of
Broken hearts, chained and silent memories.

This feeling of being lost, for what seems eternity,
Aches the muscles in a most unforeseeable,
Detaching and persistent, morbid way.
For the thoughts precede when unspoken,
In triggers of the smallest things.

In a song, a melancholy remedy,
And in the sky, the stars that burn with deathly fire,
As do I - yearning for what has past.
If time could change, I would wish it all back.
But time shall steal away.

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.

To walk in the path of those footsteps before me,
Those that led to gilded gateways of valiant hope and glory,
Where freedom manumits fierce hands chained to death
And heroes' tales are written in martyred blood, stolen breath.
These stories shall follow me where'er I go.

Their basilic faces would make kings of us all
And shed away the wrongdoings of supreme,privileged blood.
Yet what makes us privileged than our deeds and our thoughts,
And the labors that brought us to what we have naught.
These stories shall haunt me where'er I go.

This certain romance that exists between future and past,
The tales of the old coincide with grieved souls that have left.
Those who were soldiers and battalions of fearless digress,
Have etched into memory the words we shall never dispossess.
These stories shall guide me where'er I go.

These stories, the ones that spur the emotions,
And tug at the heart, with all the dead's devotion,
Have reminded  us of wrongs that remain and are kept,
Locked away in the deepest part of the cage evils profusely *****.
These stories are remembered where'er I go.