There are 10 kinds of people in this world,
and binary accounts for them all.

They're happy and sad.
They're ones and zeros.
Villains and heroes.
Villains, yet not all bad.
Despite everything life decides to hurl;
Despite every brick ball of fear
Through the stained glass windows of their minds,
Through it all, they survive.
They're angry and glad.
They're happy and sad.

And in their duality, they're still smiling there
at your sharp hasty words
at your venomous hurt
that you wish so desperately they, too, shared.

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.

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.

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

I was born with a baseball bat
in hand. I had walk-mans and dreams.
I had "Let's go to college"
I had "Shoot for the moon."
If I could travel back,
and tell that kid what to do.
I'd say
"You wouldn't believe
the revolution coming for you. "
"Run. Get away. You'll never be free."
"There's nowhere to hide from these blinking lights
and these screens."
"Cherish your days of Summer in the grass.
Cherish those boring Monopoly nights."
"Technology is everywhere
And the Kid's Aren't Alright."

Keening high notes mark our eyes
with scattered tears that multiply
with every breath we take in vain
and every longing lover's sigh.

Cellos resonate our hearts.
Timpani drums announce our march,
and when choirs sound like screams of pain
I know what it feels like to remain apart.
                            
                                                     Al Coda
                                                Let's try this again,
                                                ere this depression,
                                                this lonely obsession,
                                                eats away at my brain.

Keening high notes mark my eyes,
because I know what it feels like to remain apart.
It's the requiem of a broken heart.
It's the sound of a Lark Ascending
that falls before the symphony's ending;
The caged lonely bird that dies at the start.

Fingers touch my lips,
run through my hair,
undo my tie, and fits of laughter
cut through the noise and chatter
of an anxious mind.

I leave my worries behind,
pressed against her dress
on the floor with my discarded tie.
An echo. A kiss. A sigh.
What it is to be alive!
What it is to be alive.

And I
want you to realize
what your lashes hide away.

And I
want to be behind those eyes
when you look at me that way.

And I
feel my irises dilate, and my glance falls astray
from those orbs that mesmerize and catastrophize
my love struck brain,

And I
Just wonder, as my heartbeat flies...
As my gaze takes in the flush of your cheeks... (as I flush mine)
Though that gaze won't dare rise
to those laughing stars on your face.
I wonder... Tell me, since I'm suddenly shy.
Do your eyes... does your heart dilate the same?

Is heaven content?
Through pious tears, we see truth.
Demons do not weep.

I*             wasn't born in a hospital like most children are. I
am         made of soft thoughts, but too of hard muscular rivets; steel bars are
not         nearly so malleable as my arms. So far, so good, no need to be
afraid,    no need to be alone. There's no need to cry in the dark, wishing for

home      and a soft bed and warmth and food for my soul. My soul thrives; it
is             the howl of the wind on the mountain top; My soul lives in hardship.
Where     others tremble, I will not walk alone, because My soul lives in pain
The          pretenders; the snakes; the cowards do not sway. Because My soul is
Hard    Like my muscles, like my heart, like the place where I was born. It
is...              funny actually. I wasn't born in a hospital; I was born on the way.

I
Was
Born
Moving
Forward.  and I refuse to move back. Because **I am not afraid.

The red of cigarette ashes contrasts the white upon the snow.
The expanse is unbroken as his gaze wanders lonely plains.
He takes one puff; then another; then another one so
he can forget her face, and remember how it feels to live again.

His parka is unzipped as he breathes in air so cold,
and cigarette cherries reach his palm and burn away cold contemplations.
He smiles at the Arctic gods' cool ministrations; their fervent consolations
for the love he is smoking and forgetting in the snow.

He zips up his jacket, tosses ashes far below.
He turns away, his footsteps marking the white waste.
They are the only remnant of his remembering ablation,
and soon, they too, are absorbed by the plateau.

Squandered years whisper for release
from bitter sweet moments and the lonely now.
A kiss of sorrows gone too long unheeded
planted like a mercy killing upon that brow.
Memory passes coquettish, and I heed them
Skin passes unblemished, and I leave them
Her lips sparkle reddish, and I need them...
But lips must await the fulfilment of my vow.
As memory must abate to lips that disallow
their pain to share her bed;
their whispers in her head;
Lips that bring an end to sweet regrets
and when she wakes, this lonely Capulet
will find from her mind my lonely eyes
from memory are fleeting;
                                   fleeing;
                                            fled.

Lethe, planted gently on her brow,
from rain-soaked lips soft like regret.
Hidden like my eyes are hidden now,
Better to have loved and lost?
Better still, perhaps, to forget.

Violets are purple, and roses are red.
Because romance and the color blue are somehow different tonight.
On this one day of the year, the refractions of light
aren't bent to the left, romance just tends to mess with our heads.
So, what I'm saying is, this year let's just watch Netflix instead.
Because why be blue on Valentines day, amirite?

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.

I wished upon a starry face,
as you fell frantic through that azure ceiling
at a frightful, worrying breakneck pace,
but your face was on my mind that evening.

The blue's your life, in dizzying hues,
It's acid drops and dub-step tunes.
It's the the manic highs and crushing trenches.
It's playful talks on park-side benches,
right before we kiss goodbye. Then I realize
your lipstick is blue too.

It's like a bruise, sitting there on my cheek,
and it's a pain - If I can- I'd like to keep.
Because this evening, you're on my mind.
And the sky is the color of your eyes.

Azure, frantic, and so alive.

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.

Arms are weak and withered,
and the strings won't heed his shaking hands.
Pain's his only feeling, and that can't convey
what his gasping heart hungers to say
About her smile.. about her eyes,..
about her gasping breaths so frail and grey.

The symphony has begun
Playing mellow tunes
Beckoning the arrival of death
At the expense of him.
But his strings won't let him
Change the way the music is going,
His clammy hands trembling,
Shaking,
Breaking.
(He wore his heart on his hands.)
All he can do is watch
And listen
As the music drifts,
Deeper, slower...
Until her heart
Stops.

Arms are weak and withered, holding
cards upon the table. Folding
never was his strong suit anyway.
He waits a while in silence, knowing
her pain is no nearer to slowing.
Growing screams beckon plugs to pull away.
He doesn't know what's left to play,
but his withered fingers seem to know the way.

She listens as the melody starts,
and falters as she closes her eyes.
Arms are withered weary,
as the music slowly dies.

But as the silence comes around,
It revitalizes an old strength.
Calling upon the fundamentals of
An art once forgotten,
But its tremors will now resonate.

Tremors mark his trembling hands,
and the music is April, alive and new.
The monotone flat-line droning on
is in metronome time like when they were young,
and he matches her tempo, like they used to do.
He plays her life, her laugh, her smile...
The music stops, and after a while
the day is through. And he thinks to himself...
*Tonight is over... and there's the dawn...
But it marks the start of a day...
                                                   without you...

Shall we lie upon an aching bed,
and speak of gentler things?
The sheets are rough on calloused hands,
broken from the onus of strangling, stifling rings.
The pillows feel like granite tombstones,
and though your cries are loud and low,
I feel us drifting apart together.
In this bed of dirt, we are alone.

Stars don't break apart like women and men;
They go out in a blaze of glory when it all ends.
And at that end, when their particles scatter into darkened space,
they rejoin to rejoice once again, when they find themselves free.

                      Tonight, I am a star.
Without you, I've never been more me.
I'm everything I was meant to be;
I'm time-less, space-less, *****-less, and waste-less.
               No "Us", no "together", no "we"
             holding me back from my destiny.
It's Me, Myself, I, and most importantly Mine.
Tonight, I am a star. Tomorrow, I am a galaxy.
               Yesterday, we went supernova.
And now there's a universe of possibilities before me.

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?

Tonight there is no moon
and the purple skyline
bleeds the color of my skin.
There is no wind.
There is no time.
There is no sin.
There is no moon.
Only those aching shades of blue,
and the ruptured veins within.

I could sit beside your tombstone for hours,
and reminisce that you are with me there.
I'd fill my hands with purple flowers
and place them into your scarlet hair,
and you'd laugh like a thousand golden church bells
as we whisper promises without giving tomorrow care.

We could talk alone 'til midnight
about the things we were too afraid in life to say.
I could sit beside you bathed in silver starlight,
all the while dreading the yellow day,
when the white hot sun banishes the ghost of you
and takes our sweet whispered words away.

The wisps of smoke that were your form, my lasting heart's delight;
I'll bend the wind in my hands and pull them close, if it could make you stay...
But that's for another conversation,
another tombstone,
another day.

And the fire burns cold."

"What?" He whispered, eyes wide.
"It's true," She whispered. She cried. She shivered.
"There's no warmth by the fire's side."

"I'm the fire." He murmurs.
"Yes." She replies.

It comes on
and he laughs and you laugh nervously along.
(This song saved your life.)
The radio blares the **** of the latest joke, but songs
aren't allowed to save lives any more so you keep quiet.
Music isn't a cure, and The Cure have been long out of style and
it happened
before anyone had ever heard of Twenty One Pilots anyway and
since long before Rose killed herself with a twenty pill crash diet.
it happened
but he laughs and you laugh nervously along.
Those chords saved your life
But "can you believe we
ever listened
to this song?"

The sunset looks beautiful with the windows rolled down
and you wonder how you ever survived this long, anyway.

I was thirteen when I broke my wrist for the first time,
Miming Cinderella Man's fists as they jabbed faster than jets through the sky.
He was blue collar, blue jeans, blue bruises and blue eyes;
Waiting for his chance, and then taking it by the blind-side,
He taught me the meaning of a left hook to life and coming back from behind.
I was raised on Cinderella.

She was thirteen when daddy read her the tale that first time,
and she grew up wishing to be Cinderella, miming her words and her stride,
She wore blue dresses, smoked blue crystals, cried blue tears with blue eyes;
Waiting to be saved by a prince with blood bluer than money could buy,
Cinderella taught her to sit back and wait for her princely perfect guy,
She was raised on Cinderella.

We were raised on Cinderella,
We were twenty and change when we locked blue and green eyes,
Mine had darkened to green by that eye-locking time,
Life tends to darken things; It's just how it goes, and when mine
took that hue, things were no longer so blue.
Because even though we were both raised on Cinderella,
Princesses and Paupers don't find love; When they do it isn't "true"
Because no blue crystal smoked could cloak the pain and disguise;
No fairytale magic can hold back real tears from real eyes.
My Cinderella was a prize fighter;
Her Cinderella was the prize,
but the stories are different, and in the end, both are lies.

....              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.

Subtle melody,

Wrack my body. Let me see the Springtime's sunny day.
The wind was once my muse, but now my music's gone away.
Ease the sting of thumbscrews;
cut through weary moods of black and grey.
Where once fingers danced and called the wind,
now those hands can't hold a violin
aloft over my heretic's heart,
and broken fingers cannot play.

The wind will sing no pagan songs upon these broken strings.
Where once I was the prince,
now in sorrow, crown your king!
Fingers once waltzed with the wind,
but through jealous glances
of bitter men,
No song again is ever ushered in.
The sky will never sing
again.

Let these creaking bodies play
the melodies of lust and test
my mettle upon the metal grey
and cold upon this weary chest.
I knew those lips would tear away
that skin, and those eyes my heart infest.
I knew my mind had gone astray
when I realized I knew who knew me best.
And her lips tasted like metal
And she boiled my emotions in a kettle
And she played lines on my chest like treble
and bass notes rose from my throat
and those lips sung slashes for the rest.

I've given up writing December.
I swear I tried, but these lines
don't seem to care; The drugs never work.
The haze of blinking eyes and wasted time
feels like infinity. I want to misremember
those wide eyed faces and your smirk
when you said you were mine. (Words like knives.)
I knew it was fatal as soon as you whispered that lie.
I swear... I've given up this December.
My words can't dig up the dirt
to bury these Winter memories
and these lonely goodbyes...

Rhyme night with light.
Rhyme love with dove.
Rhyme pain with razors,
and when that's not enough
mix in some words about heartbreak and the mock-laughing moon.
Catch some eyes, smoke some starlight.
Dream about raves full of lasers.
Drink till you're on the floor,
then shut the door.
And lie alone in your room.

Smoke.
Drink.
Live.
Die.
Wait for the pain
to make way for the high.

That's the path to the floor where I lie.
The train's in motion.
Its brakes are broken.
I guess that means I'll see you all soon.

(Don't) go to war, my mother begged with wet eyes.
Your (family) country needs you. It will be your destiny (Demise.)

                  I took up my pack, shined my boots, shaved my head.
                                         Two years down the line,
I'll be home
                                                           ­                               I'll be dead.
                              We went into the killing ground,
Got the go ahead.
                                                         ­                        Bunkered down.
Fired away.
                                                          ­                       Hit the ground.
Served the flag.
                                                          ­                       Burned it down.
                    And in the middle of the field, there stood a soldier
                         And my (his) mortar took him  (me) in the shoulder,
and I whispered
                                                       ­                          And I whispered,

See, Mom?
                                                           ­                        I'm sorry, Mom...
I was right.
                                                         ­                          You were right.

                            And in the end, no matter who was right,

I came home.                                                           ­       I Died alone.

                            *There's a dead soldier in the ground,
                                            a grieving mother,
                                              a widowed wife.

She dreams in scarlet, of far away lands;
Of heroes muscled, impeccably dressed.
She dreams of a charming Renaissance's man,
and murmurs sweet nothings into my chest.
Her perfect lips quiver; red as her face.

Fan blades mock me as I stare into space.

She dreams of torn bedposts with shattered frames,
Broken by passion released uncontrolled.
She moans in her sleep and whispers a name.
My lips start to quiver, matching her own.
That name gifts my ears such discordant tones.

Were I its owner, my heart might be whole.

Slowly, my pulse commences to waver.
I ask, fearing what answers might portend..

                         If I were to move, perchance to wake her,
                         would she regret her dulcet dreaming's end?

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...

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

I am a falcon for you, my love.
The wren may sing; The lark may try
his hand at the heavens; The dove
may coo, but for you? I will dive
                                steep, like falling,
                                deep, like what's calling
                    me to
                                L
                            ­      E
                                     A
                                        P through this sky so blue...

                                Weep when we say "I do".

                                          I am a falcon, love,
                                 but I'll D
                                               I
                                                (V)
           ­                                        E
                                                     only for you.
                                                    If you ask me to; But speak fast.
                                                   The sky's forever far away and above.
                                                          ­But before my dive takes me past,
                                                           I can say this to you at least; at last,    
                                                           My dearest,
                                                        ­   My only,
                                                          T­he sky's forever far away and above,
                                                          ­But for me heaven lives in your eyes.
                                                           ­     I saw you and  
                                                           ­                            fell
                                                                ­                            in
__________­____________________­____________________­_______

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?

My caressing hands have stopped trying to tame the strings.
They move now more to harmony than to melodious things.
Brassy bands, drunk sailors and the sound of laughter.
The D string, the rough bar-stool clamp and clatter.
The sound of voices, raucous and hoarse with song.
The sound of voices, laughing as they all yell along.

It's a barstool anthem;
It's great and it's loud.
There're no classics here...
but Bach would be proud.

I'll take a bitter kiss
if it heals the pain in my chest.
Bed-sheets stink of hate and unrest;
My nostrils fill with the smell of blood.
Hers. Mine. Ours. It smells like regret.
   But all is well;
It must be for the best.

Still I'll take a bitter kiss
over a night of hateful, fierce ***
  If it heals the pain in my chest,
  If it's what you think is best,
  If it calms this weary flood.
                                            These sheets stink of blood.
                                             Cut me until I cannot heal;
                                            Steal me until I cannot feel.
           Then I will rest, alone in a field
                                  of scarlet flowers
                              and azure starlight
                                     and no regrets.

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.

Muscles strain.
One breath, two reps.
Push through the pain.
One breath, two steps.

Tears catch; burn.
One breath, two wet lines.
Across my face, blink; return.
One breath, two reps. One breath, two reps.

Her face is on my mind;
One breath, pause.
                  Think about her; what you lost.
                        Break; shoulders shake,                 heave,                 gasp,
build back up; Breathe. Then again, strain. Forget the pain.

Don't think; Refrain.
One breath, no thought.
Don't think about the                pain.
One breath, no thought.
No thoughts, no pain.
One breath,
                too many thoughts,
                                          one breath,
                                                       but in vain...
                                          Muscles catch,
                            heart strains,
              breaks, the pain too much to sustain,
                             the pain of her face; encompassing my brain,

                                                         ­                Her face is on my mind again.

"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.

Winter. Snow falls into my hand... melts in my palm.
A frozen brand. A stinging balm.
These whispered words are far from calm.
These frightened tears are far from gone.

Whispered words cut like the crack of a whip,
hot like the slowly melting snow,
in the wake of furious words below.
Hearts run cold like icy ground beneath shaky feet stepping quick
into the slowly sinking snow. Whispered words in metronome,
fill my head, though I and He are here alone.

I was not prepared for this confrontation.
In desperation, my feet refuse to slow;
Frightened tears and feet like metronomes;
I am running scared, and I fear I do not know
what words tonight might lead me safely home.

I'll keep you in my sight
with this lonely light I hold aloft.
I'll ward away the dark and fright;
I'll safeguard when your soul is lost.

I'll keep you from harm within my arms
that circle round your shaking form.
No need for tears or wide eyed alarm;
My arms will shield you from the storm.

I don't mind sharing this lonely cross,
whose bearer's face looked so forlorn,
Let me safeguard those tearful eyes so lost.
My arms will shield you from the storm.

I'm not in love...                                                    not even a little
  but                 I want                                        to be                       in
love so                    badly.                       My heart                    aches
to feel                                that kiss; that breath                       of life
   that                                 we poets call love in                     an awed
       whisper.                                                         ­                 But...
                Love
                    ­   refuses                                                          ­      The hole
                                to                          ­                                   in              my
                                   show                                                             ­  heart
                                            her face. So my heart                        is
                                 ­                has a hole in it.                              a
                                                                ­                                         Q
                                                               ­                                           u
                    ­                                                                 ­                      e
                                                               ­                                             s
                  ­                                                                 ­                          i
                                                               ­                                              o
                                                               ­                                                               
                                                                ­                                             n.

                                            Where are you, Love?

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.

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.

April blossoms bless my ears,
as she sings of falling leaves and snow.
Summer lives in every utterance;
Every note fulfils my soul.

Fairgrounds on the meadow glade.
Cloudless blue, and the green below...
I see it all behind her eyes; The skies
are Springtime when I hear those notes.

Vivaldi claims that seasons change,
and begin with falling leaves and snow.
When she sings, why then is it Spring?
The leaves fall fast, but the blossoms fall slow
in time with her voice, and my heart so aglow.

Our souls were
        Heavy with

        Silence, on the night we parted.
        At least, they were to our ringing ears.
        Yet everyone could hear it but us, it seems.
        
        That sad melody of our hopes and our fears,
        Heard from miles and years
        Away... of sad romances and softly whispered dreams
        That our hearts told us could never be... They were right, it seems.

        You won't remember my face.
        Only echoes of my skin; like a portrait
        Under a portrait, painted over in every empty space
        ...
        Like so many failed paintings;
        Like so many failed...

        My hands won't even allow me to write.
        Isn't that
        Sick?So... Don't ask me to write any more. I won't ask you to
        Sing

        More. I'll write no further
        Eulogies for our failed sonata. Here's the coda. There's the door.
        ????   Isn't it funny? That we couldn't hear that sound before?
We were singing such beautiful songs, but they were
      Melodies that the singers couldn't hear. Isn't that the definition of ironic?
      And... Though I couldn't hear our last symphony, I would
      Dare say that could my ears have divined that melody...
      Every note had to be perfect. As if the composer of that song had designed it

To be sung in a duet....

I met a man in church today, with hair so grey and eyes so old,
I thought to myself "If heaven had secrets, surely this man would know."
We talked for a while, and he spouted wisdom like a stream,
and I pondered what his cryptic advice might mean,
and we left together, out the gilded double doors of the church.

It was cold that day, but the birds still sang, and he remarked that it was so.
He mumbled to himself what would seem ordinary if I did not know
to look for more within his words, and ponder what I had the fortune to hear.
I thought long and hard, until I saw a sight that made it at once so clear.

I met a holy man in church today, and when we left Heaven for the earth below,
the genius opened the wide and gilded double doors, and ****** into the snow.

Besame, quiereme, porque soy debil.                       For I am weak.
Abrazame fuerte por favor, porque soy cansado,    Tired.
Cantarme, en suave vibrato,
porque siento convertirse a parado.                         Still.

Y quedate conmigo...                                      Stay with me...
Hasta que muera con mi corazon fuera.        **Until I die with my heart outside.