The perfection of texture and hue,
seeming so clear and true
with delicate patterns enticing
the calmness of enchanted blue.
In life and death it stands alone
this timeless vase on ivory keep,
gazing tall and bright at those below
where out of view its cracks grow deep.
They spring in time and expose with zeal
the vanity, lust and hate inside;
And the lesser evils that I conceal.

Did they not see it
last night? Or did
I dream up that
dim-red sight?

And the bright old
sun that roused my
soul? Rising alone,
had no friend but me;

So let's be honest
for now, and ask:
How exciting could
my company be?

Did I not walk this way in summer sun?
In spring's bouquet I must have come
to breathe and see and chat away with
friends and "friends" of those in sway.

I did. I did. I surely did.
I've seen this place in many suns.
Its fizzy coat and grassy *****
too green and grey for in-between.

On lonely days I've passed this way,
with eyes cast down on darkened path
I stole my time in these here parts
with coat and hat and white in eye.

And yet I've missed this moment's sight,
a pause, a smile and grasp to heart.
Last night's forgot. Its glum has
gone and brought again another sun.

They stood at his door,
both of them, on tiles red.
On the wet floor,
two, six, four were
the eyes of the truth,
but the eyes of his lies
were many more.

Did I not walk this way in summer sun?
In spring's bouquet I must have come
to breathe and see and chat away with
friends and "friends" of those in sway.

I did. I did. I surely did.
I've seen this place in many suns.
Its fizzy coat and grassy *****
too green and grey for in-between.

On lonely days I've passed this way,
with eyes cast down on darkened path
I stole my time in these here parts
with coat and hat and white in eye.

And yet I've missed this moment's sight,
a pause, a smile and grasp to heart.
Last night's forgot. Its glum has
gone and brought again another sun.

Like a drumming crowd
who scream and spit
and shove and curse
they force on through.
Clutching with craze
a stolen view of the
street brawl ahead,
the ****** confusion
that all have said
is the life of my life,
the death of my death,
and the end of my faith.

Did it change of late,
or was it as such
since pre-time arose?
Me a bad actor,
my life a bad show?
The tickets are sold
but all can see that
no story's been told.
And still I roam
with rhymes that
wither and fade
under eyes of scorn.

And in good times,
no eye at all.