When the days splinter into hours, and the minutes fly like seconds,
the sharp shards of thought impale like a stake in a heart,
clouding vision and clipping wings, those mighty dull drums
that beat with wishing winds by broken twigs, again and again.

Not glue nor nail would mend this sail, set upon ship rotten and frail,
the passage of time its only course, and the ocean floor its haunting source.
Up come the waves to dance and play in such a way to give it stay;
Against this force its bark, so porous, pulls up stark and thus turns tail.

Why does this tree, so dutifully, stay afloat with such little hope?
Already uprooted, drifting, secluded, towards cliffs of stone
why does it not drown and dry its branches with seaweed romances?
Oh confounded wood, you dead desperate will, relinquish your stances

If hope ever climbed up a ***** so steep,
atop a peak that no man would dare go,
there it would find a sight certain to keep
the drive for life alive, however slow.

The hills below would roll and stroll, lazy
upon the lines of sky, puffed up with pride.
Their ridges, like bridges to heights hazy,
cut swaths in time, but at sunrise run, hide.

Light, pale light, of mother moon brings to light
on deep green grass, dust covered specs unloved.
Shadows cast weave in wind the weaklings plight,
to sit and stare at cliffs adrift above.

They sit affixed to ground and drown betwixt
the sounds below, night lights above, perplexed.

On the ground, burning brightly, sits a heart shaped box,
the flames licking out over the sides torment the concrete beneath,
its resistance to the chemical reaction an absurd defiance,
the eternal heat trying to equalize itself, but the gray stands firm.

Insects crawl in and out of the fire, lightning themselves up
with the purity of a break down, a catastrophic reluctance
finally left to its own devices, they wander away from the heart,
the beat of their wings throwing ash and embers into the air.

When the torrent finally subsides, there now resides a charred and black spot,
burned into the resistant concrete, a heart shaped center the most prominent,
amongst the amorphous shape of the rest, an incredible indecision,
when it comes to what corner to take, what rounded edge to make.

There is no art here, there is no soul here, there is no heart here,
there is only a darkened, erratic, and tread upon indistinct outline
left to remind the passers by how lucky they are,
to know what love is.

Roses are red, violets are blue,
love left unsaid, is much more true,
than lies lips lay, on yearning ears,
for words delay, love's yonder years,
from taking place, upon our plates,
in feast of grace, and Tantric traits.

The center piece, of table tall,
a red rose wreath, that blooms in fall,
for in summer, amidst sun's tryst,
vintage vesture, would be amiss.
Amongst fed flames, and wilting wax,
its beauty tames, the burned boar's racks,
from stretching thin, the table's cloth,
placating then, what wrath has wrought.

Round the setting, span bands of birch,
guitars fretting, torn tunes in search,
of feathered feet, to wield their quills,
unite the beat, weld weary wills.
So listen wide, ***** up your eyes,
and take my pride, my petty sighs,
into your prance; I'll be in tow,
and we shall dance, 'til candles blow.