Can you even capture the brevity of this moment in that space between your ears?
Do you know what this is, what it was, and how you came to be here?
Foolish child, do not ever think that what you've dreamed is true.
For you, yourself, has never had an inkling, the smallest clue.
None have, for we all have all been deceived.
But He, who is patient, has hatched the plan that He conceived.
And now all can have faith in what we once could not perceive.
For now, we can quite simply...believe.

That day I did happen upon
A mountain that I thought to there climb.
This mount was tall, greatly peaked
And crowned, as the wise splendor, with snow.
Daunting, the task calls me forth
Eyes agleam with fierce joy, I test my worth.

Young and brash, so did I run,
Zeal yet unripened on wisdom's vine,
Until strengths end I had reached
And then my foolishness I did know.
As I sat to catch my breath
Shame now would surely bring about my death.

Yet as I sat, risen, the Sun
With gentle beams, lit a path now mine.
Slow steps I take; Caution I heed.
Steadily now to that peak I go,
Each step holds its own great cause
I stride onward, forward, no more to pause.

There is a Raven
Perched upon my window sill,
Its talons tearing into the paint.
The tick-tock
Of a grandfather clock
Resounds throughout the walls,
Matching the scritching-scratching
Of the ravens claws.
I sit in the corner,
As I have for night after night,
Not sleeping,
Never sleeping,
Simply sitting and waiting.
The Raven begins
To tap-tap-tap
At the window pane.

And I sit

And wait.


How long now has it been?
Since my Sun,
So beautiful at its Dawn,
Had left its Noon-time heights
For an untimely Setting?
Sadly grieveous as it had been,
My Sunset had been darkly beautiful,
Asplash with deep reds and purple,
Crowned in gold.

Oh that I had been Pyramus and she Thisbe.
Star-crossed and Tragic,
A love made eternal by mutual deaths.
Alas, it was not to be,
For I am no Pyramus and she no Thisbe.
She went ahead of me
And not by choice of her own,
By my blade yet not her hand.
And after her I would chase,
Pleaing forgiveness on bended knee
In that next dream.

Yet I am afraid,
Of the knife,
Her scorn,
Her embrace.

And so I sit

And wait.

The Raven is at my window,
Talons scratching divots in the sill.
The resounding of the clock
Still surrounds me,

As I sit

And wait.

I write to find myself,
Having lost something along the way.
I yearn to find it.
Am I whole?
I cannot say...

My heart cries out, "Perhaps she is the one!"
Sending me into a roller-coaster ride
Of emotions I must strive to hide,
Knowing this battle may never be won.
It burns me, it does, this beautiful Sun,
Her beams, Eros' arrows, they pierce my side
Her beams, her smiles, the tears that I've cried,
My heart, it cries out, "She must be the one!"
I hope beyond Hope, for Hope's lost before,
That someday, somehow, I'll hear you say "I do."
Until then though, only dreams I'll dream of you,
And into these words, my heart, I will pour,
But no more than that, till my dreams come true.

T'was darkest day will ever be
When the Lord hung upon that tree.
Yet through the darkness, even so,
Was the greatest day ever known.

Oh, sweet Dianne, Huntress,
How ****** steps do bless
These very woods through which you give your chase.
Wearied now, so wish to lave
In your spring off the way.
To there she did repair, her holy place.

Actaeon, hunter too,
Left his friends, oft did do,
To run with his dogs, his skill was unmatched.
The same it was that day,
With his friends back a way
The beginnings of Actaeon's doom hatched.

So it was that noble
Actaeon did stumble
Upon fair Dianne attended within
Guarded by handmaidens
But her face un-hidden
The sight of which, Actaeon's final sin.

"Go and tell, if you can,
That you have seen Dianne
Unapparelled!" she added as water,
So potently bless-ed,
In his face was dash-ed.
Actaeon a stag, form she did alter.

"Ah! So wretched is me!"
No escape did he see
As the great hunter became the hunted.
And his dogs now gave chase
Knowing not his new face,
Run, Actaeon! Your life yet stunted!

The chase gave for three days,
Greatest, worthy of praise,
Till Actaeon's poor heart did finally
Break, now unto his fall
To the dogs he did call.
Actaeon's death, as a stag he did see.

You are truly lovely
Yet like a rose can be
With veiled thorns, fingers, that are hearts, you *****.
Blood is drawn when rashly
A hand is ****** in quickly,
So slowly, surely, do you a rose pick.