She bared my heart, that I did not know I owned,
and led me to the light. To redemption? Back to Hell?
To some in between twilight...

He saved my life, but ****** my soul,
confusing me my way. To Love?! To Hate?!
To find a hole and hide away...

I scream her name...
But I am alone, and only unrepentant ghosts can hear.

He can never know...
That much- Thank God- I know that much is clear.

I cry, and Demons are not moved;
To them, seeing a man in pain- even their king- is a sight not so queer.

I cry, and Angels do not care;
The only waters shed in heaven are joyful, pious tears.

When I left, my soul came again unlatched;
and my heart closed, left again to cruelty's treason.

When I returned, my wings were intact;
but my heart burned for the reason.

Though you thought I hid
my face from shame;
All the rage and pain... for you? All I did,
I would do it all again.

When you left, to my shame,
my heart followed you to Hell.
Though you wear such rage and pain...
I confess you wear it well.

But he can never know my shame
But you do not care to hear my pain.

I took the path less travelled by,
and found to my chagrin
that the path I walked was paved in good intentions
and devoid of friend and kin.

Though in walking those trails, I only meant well,
The herd is the entity that most oft prevails;
The lion devours the lone gazelle,
who of the well worn path did not avail.

On your pilgrimage to Earth, you learnt of cruelty and of man.
They ripped your wings from out your back, and left you in the dirt.
Now you try to dull the hurt, but jealous of beauty, they come again.
You try to sing but voices crack, in time with hearts that house their hurt.

On my pilgrimage from Hell, I learn of love and its mistakes.
I saw their abuse, and I attacked;
thought my rage could shield you from your pain.
and I learnt far more of pain coming back
than Hell could ever teach; I learnt of love in vain.

Though I meant to save you, I merely left you afraid
of the violence I used to deliver you from their wretched grasp.
I knew near at once the price I'd paid
when those blue eyes gave tears; when those red lips gasped
at the monster whose face by horns was framed.
I broke your heart when I broke their backs;
You heard only my roar when I whispered your name.

I longed to be the chorus in your Angelic song,
                                                    or even a single, lovely note.
Not this phantom dissonance in your sad refrain....
                                                    T­his lonely shadow in the smoke.

I don't know what you think of the word "wicked";
but where I come from it's a funny thing. It doesn't mean evil or sad.
We say "That's wicked cool." It's meaning rings the same as, "That's the ticket!"
Wicked means more; and more hope can't be all that bad.

I guess what I'm saying is, you're "Wicked" nice.
Despite your talent, your wall is full of other people's "Hope".
Vanity is certainly not your choicest vice.
Empathy, perhaps, would better fit the scope.

Your story's still being written down; I'm not sure where that path will stray.
I don't know if it will end in fire or ice- or if either would suffice-
but were Robert Frost here, (and from my home town) he'd say
"I've heard the name. That chick's wicked dope."
Thanks for being Wicked Cool, Wicked Hope

....              Growing up,
I                     thought I was the hero in our family. You never whipped out hate                 in the form of a belt; You never left a mark. But it didn't hurt your                case any less; It didn't hurt us any less. I offered my bruised
face                for you to vent your rage on; I took hard words and hard shoves
so...            the rest of them didn't have to. (You had too many kids by the way.)


"Go              for broke" doesn't apply when it comes to kids. With Mom
away"          you never had a chance, and I get that, but seven punching bags?
"Stop              at two in the next life, don't go for seven. You couldn't handle
it."                  You didn't deserve us, I don't care if you do now. Do
"You               even deserve us now? You've changed, you're stronger. You
are                 not the man you used to be, and I get that. But that man was fine
hurting          me whenever he didn't get his way, or work went bad. You left
me."                alone in the dark to rot into this hateful, bitter man I am today.

You                are a good father, now. You're raising the youngest with so much
care.              But I don't know if that's enough for me. God help me, but
I                     can't forgive you, even now. Even after all the effort I
know             you're putting in, because it's not for my sake. It's for his, and
that                isn't good enough. It's too little too late. I'd sign "I love you" but...

I just
don't
any more.

I failed to save another soul today.
On my high patrol, I heard their last gasps leave their lips,
and I let their salvation get away
slipping through my super-powered fingertips.

If I can write assurance to a thousand souls lost, humorous and witty
"If I muster all the words that I know," I thought, "Surely I can save this city."
But life can't be measured by honeyed words, and it's agony to see
the souls' salvations that I'm missing beneath my red-caped nobility.

Even if I flew higher still, with my cape waving proud and free,
no great power I could bring to bear could match my responsibility.
For every orphan girl I save, there's another not too far afield.
For every chain broken, for every freed slave, there are chains that will not yield.

I'd fly around the world and turn back time, but I know t'would be in vain.
What's a single Superman to do, when the whole world cries to be saved?

From sunlit towers pale sunflower petals fall.
    Heaven watches falling flowers, her blue eyes widen, her red lips part.
        In the gardens of men, a young man catches the falling showers,
              and with those petals in hand, captures her heart.

              Bare feet take halting steps, and frantic hands fail to halt her sure advance.
      What stopping power has God's legions in the face of such a thing?
             She takes a step from the safety of the clouds;
                 Heaven opens arms out wide, and closes tight her eyes and wings.

             Ashes rise up from behind as her wings burn away into the welcome dark.
Bodies tangle, intertwined, as the young man returns her stray, angelic heart.

There's a catch in my breath like
the catch in your step from
the wound. "Where'd you get it?" I
asked you when I was five.

There's a hole in my chest like
the hole in your leg from
the wound. "It was a gift." I
didn't understand when you said it. I was five.

There's cold marble planted in the grass like
the countertops you bought from
Ikea. "Not really what it says on the box, is it?" you said. I
understand now. I was five,
but now at twenty I understand
the wound. And the box. And the gift.
The one I didn't appreciate nearly enough when I was five.

"Ain't it the way!" Your catchphrase, engraved. Delivered with a grin.
It would read so much better coming from your lips.
Those lips, on that contented smile, on that face,
in that box, now cold like that granite it's closed now within.

You.

Today
I am...                                                                                            I am but
                                                                                                       a shadow,
of who I was. A broken, grey thing.
                                                                                                     a voiceless
thing, miming lyric and ****** rhyme,
A broken watch that's keeping time
and the watch has hands, but it's
                                                                                                     faceless
and in the broken wiry strands, I'm
                                                                                                    hidden,
waiting to stop time, and rewind
back to the moment when you shared my misery.
But you broke free,
and now you mock me.
Your laughing life mocks me, leaves me
                                                                                                    raging,
and vainly                                                                                  hunting
How dare you be a beautiful something,
and leave me behind to be this ugly
                                                                                                    nothing.

Last year I ****** it all up, and I injected our shared dreams with sickness,
but I promise if you stay for a minute, you'll realize now I'm different.
See, I'm like your new pair of jeans: No ripped seams or lingering stiffness.
New Jeans, New Year, New Me, I promise.
I'm baring my soul, bear with me and bear witness.
This year's resolution isn't life choices or fitness.
Last year, I ****** it all up. This year, I'm going to fix this.

Stay by my side for just a while longer;
say you'll offer me your forgiveness.
Give me a chance to earn back your trust... to be better... stronger.
Give us another try. That's all I want this Christmas.

She walked away, and I shouted back, "I'm not asking for forever!"
She stops. She turns in the aisle and sadly smiles.
"That's why I'm leaving." My own smile drops.
And that's the end of that endeavour. Because time never really stops.
Forever is all some people want, and they won't settle for just a while.
Even if a while is all that I've got.

There is a Frantic Masquerade, I've heard it said,
where masquers revel in moonlight in the dark city streets.
Their iron shoes burn a smouldering red
and compels them never end the song they sing with their feet.

There is a leather Curtain, made up of silence and shame.
They place upon each dancer's face as they waltz through the night.
They never share a longing gaze, never whisper a lover's name,
and as their souls lose their lustre, their iron shoes burn ever bright.

There is a lonely Ballroom of sad rain and cold concrete,
where masquers revel in terror at the symphony in their heads.
Their steps move ever faster, but their empty eyes never meet.
Hearts cold, they dance with hot feet, ere they're dead.

     There is a Frantic Masquerade, I've heard it said.
     Their icy hearts stave off passion's heat.
              They'll dance that way till the shoes burn through their head,
and only when the ice melts might their heart's dance be complete.

For my morning run, it rains again.
I run into town every morning anyway.
Some day they'll be flooding, I think, when
the rain realizes it won't stop my foray.
Oddly, no one in this town would blame me then.
I think that's what keeps me on my merry way.

It's hard to step out of my sunny shell, and let the rain soak my hide.
Yet I'll keep smiling when it rains; that means once again I made it outside.

When all moisture is gone from this world,
all that is left of our tears will be salt, sand, and sadness.
The universe greys, plasma decays, and oceans rust...
twinkling motes crumble into stardust,
mirroring the sand that's hurled from your eyes...
I mirror your reaction, for seeing you cry such stars
brings dust to mine...

F**k butterflies, my stomach has birds in it.
My body's shaking, my heart is racing, my pulse is high.
You're gorgeous, and I woke up this morning with a zit.
How'd a girl like you settle for a "me" kind of guy?

I'm usually witty, but my words don't work well for this.
It's just that you're so pretty, you make my knees weak!
At the end of the date, my pulse hit five-fifty.
I realize it's lame that I asked for permission before we kissed...
I was just trying to take the time to aim for your lips.
See, the funny part is...

                                       I was afraid I might miss.

I'm not "Religious".
I believe in sin (Wink wink- If you know what I mean)
but I don't believe in religion when it cajoles or demeans.
Yet there is a ray of light in the windows of my dreams.
And it calls to me in a voice at once radiant and dim.

I call it the universe, but were I Religious, I'd call it "Him".

I am not loud, nor do I preach.
I believe in soft voices, and hymns sung only in one's head.
I believe in the reach of silence, broad and inky and welcoming.
I believe in my own inner thoughts and their peace (and too, their dread)
Yet there is a voice that tells me, in words softly said
that sometimes only the loudest sermons truly can teach.

I am non-religious, and I have been for a while.
I believe in dulcet whispers, and the sweet touch of sin.
I believe in Metal Music, and the musical devil within.
Then why, whenever I see someone capitalize "Him"
does my mouth turn up at the corners,
and grant me an unasked, yet welcome smile?

Whisper fierce and hungry, say you'll forever stay my angry muse.
Bite my lip and and scream my name, make your voice my claim to fame.
He offered you such cruel disdain, so come to me. I'll ease the pain.
Shower me with your abuse. A broken heart's a good excuse.

He caged your beast, now set it loose.
Forget the past, what's left to miss?
Take me with you; Let us fuse; rest his name in your tattoos.
Shower me with your abuse. Say you'll stay my angry muse.
Rebound with me in one night's bliss;
His heart is something you can't have,
but my body's here for you to use.

I will fall down upon the mat, my breathing coming in ragged gasps.
I will fail to reach the peak, and I will lay me down in drained defeat.
Yet what a clamorous, shouting climb it was that heralded my fall.
Tomorrow my voice will rise a second time in another raucous, screaming call.

I will fail once more today, just as I did yesterday.
My muscles will contort and strain, yet my sigh but reports the first refrain.
Greater is the joy of having fought, far more so than losing's sorrow.
Isn't it a beautiful failure I've wrought that lets me get up again tomorrow?

She doesn't own a mirror.

Confirmation of her beauty comes from those around her at all times.
Fawning fools adore,
jealous sisters abhor,
but all notice the shine of her hair, the tilt of her lips.

She does not dance.

Her steps lead, and dancers follow with no reasons nor rhymes. They cry:
"Lead me not into temptation",
but in her ministrations,
they ache and beg for her glance, their hearts in her grips.

She does not care for suitors.

Her heart was long ago dulled by the fencing blades of admirers. And yet I
if honest, must admit
that it is a careless abandon, devoid of wit
that begs me join her jousters in mock combat for the privilege of her kiss.

What a porcelain fool, she, to inspire such a heartfelt, bloodtaxed roust.
What sorrier the fool, me, to join in such a sure dealt, unasked joust.

Like all others, I hated high school.
It was a scrawny waif that I remember seated at the front of the class.
I raised my hand at every question to endless ridicule,
and people whispered I was weak for trying to be "such a smart-***".

Now people think I lack brains because I own a barbell and bench.
What they don't know is that it's all an extension of my first love: Science.

Every morning, I don my hooded polyester lab coat.
I write theorems in drops of sweat on a rubber padded mat.
I experiment with the practicality of the theorems I wrote;
I know my hypothesis is correct when veins bulge and muscles catch.

Breathing shallow, in ragged determined gasps of air,
I put my theory to the test. Veins bulge, muscles strain.
There is no joy like the joy I know when I find my theory correct. I call it
The Warrior Poet Principle: One can in fact have brawn as well as brain.

I've accomplished the task I set myself in high school's lonely halls,
I vowed that I'd never be that weak waif again.
Hiding bruises from pimple faced tyrants who had me by my *****,
I persevered, and I grew my thews and thesis in twain.

**Now by neither tyrant nor textbook will I ever be chained.

I wrote a beautiful poem today,
and then I frowned when I saw it again.
Someone had stopped by in the comments to say
their own sonnet; they put their own poetry in my margins.

I'll be brief, and I'll be nice, and I'll attempt patience at least.
Clear and concise: I want your poetry, but not on my lawn.
I don't want it in graffiti in the margins of my piece.
Leave your words in your "New Poem" section where they belong.

I promise I'll look at them if you ask, and if I have the time.
If you want to reach more people, don't use me as a conduit.
I realize I said I'd try to be nice, but it would be a crime
if I didn't put it as blunt as possible, and honestly?
          If you need to plug your work that badly,
                                                         it's probably sh*t.

          If I inspire you with my words, then respect that inspiration;
          Please cease. Hawking your wares on my turf reeks of desperation.

Roll the dice and watch them fall.
Whisper words to those waiting, wanting.
Twirl away across the dance floor, taunting
me with those eyes and with that carefree sprawl.

Embrace the lights and let the music flow,
my hands on your hips, your hands on my chest.
The tempo slows and time runs into arrest.
Hold me in your arms, and don't let go.

Sing with me to our favorite song,
the melody of the laughing chase
that ends in an honest, ardent embrace.
Sing with me, dance with me, all night long.

Join with me in the gambler's dance,
You don't need to join with me at the lips,
nor certainly need we join at the hips.
(Though if we did, it wouldn't be remiss)
Just share with me an airborne kiss;
take my hand, take my heart, take a chance.

Once he ran the river, feet kissing the surf
as it rushed against the bank. His feet
moved in a blur, never landing on the earth;
They touched the waters, then flew free.

Now he runs a walker, heels dragging the dirt,
every step coming with more effort than he ever used to need.
He longs for the days before his soles hurt,
before Time broke his pride and capped both his knees.

When he was young, there was no force he couldn't exert,
now his feet touch the ground more than his pride can accede.
Fondly, he remembers the days before his soul hurt.
These days, kids call him "Old Man Allen";
         But back then...
                     his name was...
                                        *Speed.

I remember when we were friends and
we could just sit and listen to music in your room.
The Beatles want to hold your hand,
but I thought Not nearly so much as I do.

When we weren't dancing to old grooves,
or laughing about the newest fad,
I'd see a glimpse in your eyes of the true
sadness that you had; Those eyes were so **** sad.

That's where it began, I think.
The sadness is what made you beautiful to me.
I tried to hold your hand, that night,
but you pulled it in horror away from me.

Though the way you recoiled from my touch alarmed my soul,
I wasn't surprised to know. Still, it hurt, I'll admit,
it hurt more than words could describe for me to know
you for you: a beautiful puzzle piece for which I was not the right fit.

I remember the days, though they seem so long ago.
I remember when we were such fast friends.
When we weren't, (I wasn't surprised to know)
that's where our story dies bitter; So it ends.

Te gustaria acostarte a mi lado, y quedate la noche, tal vez?
Como amigos, y nada mas, obviamente.
Mi corazon es mi propio, pero...
puedo prestartelo por una noche, si lo deceas.

Quieres acostarte a mi lado?
Me gustaria mas de lo que puedas saber...
Puedo prestarte mis labios, y yo reciprocaria.
Nuestros latiodos sincronizados, y nuestras pieles relucientes.
Tu me bésarias apasionadamente,

Y quedate la noche, tal vez?
Como amigos, y nada mas, obviamente...

"Found you!" she squeals,
My laugh assaults her senses as I bend my legs out of the tree.
Jerry thinks she's talking to him, and swings out from his own branch.
His feet hit the leafy floor, and she smirks. The smirk is all she needs.
"Found you too, I suppose, Jerry," her voice is the melody of youth,
it rings with games of hide and seek, and the freedom that only children know.

"Found you..." I whisper sadly.
Her tears assault my senses, and I realize that Mike broke up with her.
Jerry thinks Mike is a decent guy, but her makeup tells me otherwise.
Her tears hit the bathroom floor, and she sobs into my shoulder.
My shoulder is all she needs right now, and I give it gladly.
"I just need a moment." She pleads. Her tears will ruin my tuxedo. I realize I don't care. I nod.

Found you, I think. The speech is in ten minutes, but here she is in the park.
I suppose that's what love does to a person. Time becomes meaningless.
Jerry whispers something in her ear, and she giggles, and kisses him.
She thinks her speech is at ten, I realize. Not in ten.
What would she do without me?
I break about fifty traffic laws getting her to the audition.

"Found you!" She scolds. Her veil muffles the reprimand, and she grins.
Her beauty assaults my senses, and I clear my thoughts.
Jerry thinks it's odd that a dude was picked as the Maid of Honor, but...
Her tears mar the lace of her veil, and now it's my turn to scold.
"Tears aren't what you need right now" I joke. "Today isn't the day for that."
"I'm just so happy..." She whispers. I nod, and I smile, and I take my place.
They say their vows, and she turns to him.

"Found you." she whispers, and I know my job is done.
I suppose that's what love does to a person.

Today I put on my most expensive suit,
then sat on the floor and watched Netflix.

She laughed out a challenge and pulled
capturing his heart with her hand and lifting it
like a marionette with aorta strings out of his chair.
Her golden hair, his mud brown hair, their skin bare
as the day they were born.

He brushed against her, and she pulled
his heartstrings again, dancing away, still laughing,
her voice the wind-chimes on his porch; the summer sun
could not shine so bright as her eyes... or was that the marionette
talking? His strings were sore from the movement.

She brushed against him, and he pulled her close
and they felt the strings snap and shivered
in the wintry chill from the bedroom window.
He closed the shades, and he pulled her close,
and she let the strings fall from her hands.
The summer sun could not outshine
the fiery lust in both their eyes.
Their passionate cries cried out in time
with the gentle cadence of a loving rhyme.

I know it sounds cliche', but I'm waiting for You.
I'm not waiting for who you could be,
for the concept of you, or the idea
and I don't hold out hope for the feeling of you.
I don't hold out hope for the taste of your lips,
or the feel of your skin,
or the feel of your tongue wrapped around mine as we kiss,
passion melding with passion until it
can't be contained on a page...
until it sits as an empty stanza, because words can't explain it.
Like this:



(Insert Passion here)



It doesn't matter, because now, here,
I'm still waiting,
knowing that somewhere, destiny is also waiting
and destiny will have to keep waiting for a while yet,
but when I find her, I want so badly
for her to whisper in my ear
"Hey, lover. Cool it with the angst.
There's no need to be lonely any more.
I found you. I'm here."

I miss the taste of alcohol mixed with your sweat,
and the feel of your skin on mine as we first touched.
I can't bring myself to mourn the day we first met;
I can't bring myself to forget the way your skin blushed.

Our bodies were like puzzle pieces that badly entwined;
we didn't quite fit unless we forced it, and then the picture was wrong.
Still there was a beauty in the mistakes born of whisky and rhyme.
When we called it quits... There was regret when we both said goodbye.
There was regret when I went to your bed to give "us" one more try.
There was rage when I found that you weren't alone.

From the eyes of God and the minds of men,
Evening began Her gentle fall.
Twirling, a dancer through the midnight glen,
gleaming, a songstress and Her clarion call.

Spinning through motions rehearsed in moonlight,
leaping and landing in a laughing sprawl.
We watched, and He watched too, at the tantalizing sight;
We all watched as She danced, to a man enthralled;

Oh, how we laughed at Her gape, Her gall!
Yet He was not moved by Her frivolous lark.
Within Her laughter, He said, lay the shriveled dark.
A trickster, She was, in Her taunting fall.

I'll teach her, He whispered, the tune She should hark.

We waited in the alley till Evening came;
We stood by and watched in our bitter shame,
as He stole Her laughter and pride, and made Her His thrall.
She cried ****** as He took Her, and spat curse to His name.
We watched Him as His darkness shriveled. God forgive us, we watched,
Yet said nothing at all.

We told ourselves Her beauty drew His gaze; Her gall drew his Hell;
She brought it upon Herself... but the words ring bizarre.
Silent, we watched, as Evening fell;
Broken, we wept for the death of a star.

Am I looking for love in Alderaan places?
Most of my SerenityXEnterprise ship jokes go over her head.
I feel like a John Cusack boombox blaring out nineties-age spaces.
Like a comedy no one's heard of, I'm Better Off Dead
without the love I'm not sure that I can find because then is it
really possible to find The One like Neo? (Haha. Get it?)
Like (p+l)(a+n)=pa+pn+la+ln, (Okay, Deep Breath) the universe is trying
so hard to foil my love PLAN. (That one was ******, but the best I can present)
I know you'll be saying "I told you so" when
I realize the narrow parameters of my search are a little naive,
but don't say I'm the Average because that's just Mean!
My love is like Ash Ketchum; I need it to be the very best.
My love is like Ariel; If I leave you I wanna know I'll be mist!
I just needed to pull a Sasha Grey and get it off (on) my chest,
I've already got my music, rhymes, and make-up. Give me the Kiss.

He stares out into the darkness and the surf, waiting
     on a rocky chair molded from the side of the cliff... just waiting.
          His feet swing back and forth over the expanse, creating
          small showers of pebbles as they fall careening against the ledge.
     Theirs is the only motion to be seen, yet he does not look down, but out.
His eyes don't blink, and his lip is stiff, and his heart does not pound, but whispers a soft staccato beat into his veins, numbing his senses to the cold.
A ship appears on the horizon, and its gull white sails stand sharp
against the contrast of the night blackened sky, and in that moment
               his heartbeat stops...
                                                   but only for a moment;
                           for just that one moment.
Then in anguish it resumes, and its desolate beat plays on.
The sails are white, but they bear no red cross marker.
Flags of the wrong shade fly atop the mast, and the sky grows darker
as his feet swing against the cliffside, and his heart whispers consolation;
His heart beats desolation as he waits for another ship to come to harbor.

Today, I bled a little more.
Tomorrow I'll likely bleed again.
Such is the daily living chore
that life has become.
Such is the cursing crimson roar
of a fear of being done.
But what's to fear, I wonder?
Should I fear what's yet to come?

If I died tomorrow, I would go, I think where go all.
I would walk in Heaven's winding hall, or burn in pits below.
It matters little, if one is asked to be the avatar
of all that scriptures blithely claim;
A life well lived is a reward well bought, but what eternity can match a gift
so lovely and profane?

How can I be called a blackguard?
How can I be ****** to Hell?
If mortal sin is so ephemeral as an errant, earnest thought?
Was Faust so very wrong to sell
               something so heavy and cheaply bought?

I met a man on the winding way in the travels of my youth.
I set off from my home in good spirits; it was June. I remember.
My walking stick light in my hand,
I skipped each step as I began,
but there before me stood a man;
Never had I seen such a man; a beard so grey; eyes so green;
Not a man, then, he! He could only be
a soulful spectre dark. Sadly, quietly, he whispered

"Stay...
          Thou art so beautiful..."

His melancholy took my heart in its hands, and squeezed...
Such words... What sad prophetic words are these?
His eyes were glassy, yet far from crazed; so clear
were they in their manic daze. He drew me near
by my collar and whispered to my fearful ears
so close that I could feel his breath
and see in his eyes this looming death
of which he was not afraid. Yet still his words bespoke such fear.

"Stay...
          Thou art so lovely."

I saw it then, he did not speak to me, and at this I shuddered violently,
but his voice was a gift to the world, and given free;
had I but the grace to listen.
I left the man, or he left me, in mist that weaved and glistened.
Green it was, like those eyes that so vainly searched.
Formless, he dispersed and formless still he fled.
No soul rose above my head in search
of Heaven; Limbo; Hell. No spark at all in that tattered shell.
Yet still, my skin crawled with a shiver,
as in a dream I heard me whisper; in mirror with his knowing knell,
"Stay...
Thou art so beautiful."

My lips closed, and so too did my mind.
The skip gone from my step,
I turned and left
that wayward man behind.

But now my time too draws near;
even as I relate the story of that day,
my walking stick digs into the gravel and I suddenly remember
that man I met on the winding way,
and my eyes alight even as my vision sways!
I understand his lament on that long lost day;
his final, faltering cry of

     "Stay.
                            Please stay, Oh pains and joys of life...
                           Thou art so beautiful
                                              in thy own light. No more so than in thy strife.
                           Thou art so lovely
                                              in the dark. Even lit by scarce moonlight.

Take my hand, Mephisto, and walk with me a while!
Take my hand, sinner! Take my hand, you who thinks yourself so vile!
Let us taste a while of life, my friends, and bask in its rich delight.
And Lord! Let me scream such words as Faust,

Should I speak my last regrets tonight.

They                                                             ­                     They
   say  that  the  eyes                                  say  that  the  eyes
    are                the soul                         are                the soul
        windows to                                          windows to

In verses clear and so sublime,
A man once said of what is right
Of his mistress of dark and piercing eyes,
"She walks in Beauty, like the night"
Yet for the splendor of her face,
And all the virtues he may surmise,
I see in her no saving Grace,
No Virtue cool or clear or wise
For behind a lover's back a dagger hides
Gleaming, waiting, cold and bright
And so the sane man shuns his prize
"She walks in Shadow, like the night."

The rain fell hard, spitting
on the hallowed granite wall.
It fell on her too, sitting
in her fatal fetal sprawl.

Her coat was torn, and her head hung low;
the rain stung her knees and eyes.
“What a surprise…” she whispered, slow
in her speech and ashen in her guise.

“I didn’t think I’d find your name…”
Her voice broke, though none can know
whether from pride or from shame.
“I guess you listened, when they told you to go.”

“You idiot! When you’re done, find
me. That’s what I said to-”
Another break; her throat constricted.
She barely breathed, “Why me? Why you?”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“They sent you, but it’s all my fault.”
The rain reaches her lips, then,
yet those drops taste of salt.