Our love could be poetic,
full of imagery.
Picture us together,
you and me

Can you imagine the light?
The lights, the sparks, the flames
But where there is fire
There’s bound to be pain

So what happens to us?
We burn into ash,
and all of a sudden,
We’re a thing of the past.


(a.f.c)

The desires drifting at the edge of one's mind,
The vibrant colours of possibility,
That flash behind fluttering eyes.

Where one can reside in the tranquility,
Of their own imagination;
Free of deprivation and distress.

An inviting resort for images,
And lightning-like flashes of inspiration,
To mold into creative bliss.

Where sparks of enlightenment,
Are set free,
And may conquer the doubt of the unworthy.

The solid confines of an otherwise open mind,
Inaccessible consciously,
Safe from the nightmares of reality.

All must learn to pursue dreams,
Persuade destiny,
And crave the capability of our minds.

I feel the caress of my own fingers
on my own neck as I place my collar
and think pityingly
of the kind women I have known.

Woman,
Why do you visit so seldom, and plant things
In my fallen over garden, lavender and thyme,
Only to leave, but not
To tend?

Woman,
Take my sorrow and turn down the moon,
Plaster the sun in golden dress and spill
The ground with buttons
Of flower.

Woman,
Why does your face haunt me in dreams,
Your voice, play as in the spirit well that sings,
Drops forth, the moving waters
Into being?

Woman,
Take my open hands and travel with me,
Beyond the ninth wave, to the lost island
Of Hy-Brasil, and we will long live,
Wondrous as poetry.

I stood on the bridge at midnight,
  As the clocks were striking the hour,
And the moon rose o’er the city,
  Behind the dark church-tower.

I saw her bright reflection
  In the watrers under me,
Like a golden goblet falling
  And sinking into the sea.

And far in the hazy distance
  Of that lovely night in June,
The blaze of the gleaming furnace
  Gleamed redder than the moon.

Among the long, black rafters
  The wavering shadows lay,
And the current that came from the ocean
  Seemed to lift and bear them away.

As, sweeping and eddying through them
  Rose the belated tide,
And, streaming into the moonlight,
  The seaweed floated wide.

And like those waters rushing
  Among the wooden piers,
A flood of thoughts came o’er me
  That filled my eyes with tears.

How often, oh how often,
  In the days that had gone by,
I had stood on that bridge at midnight
  And gazed on that wave and sky!

How often oh how often,
  I had wished that the ebbing tide
Would bear me away on its *****
  O’er the ocean wild and wide!

For my heart was hot and restless,
  And my life was full of care,
And the burden laid upon me
  Seemed greater than I could bear.

But now it has fallen from me,
  It is buried in the sea;
And only the sorrow of others
  Throws its shadow over me.

Yet whenever I cross the river
  On its bridge with wooden piers,
Like the odor of brine from the ocean
  Comes the thought of other years.

And I think how many thousands
  Of care-encumbered men,
Each bearing his burden of sorrow,
  Have crossed the bridge since then.

I see the long procession
  Still passing to and fro,
The young heart hot and restless,
  And the old subdued and slow!

And forever and forever,
  As long as the river flows,
As long as the heart has passions,
  As long as life has woes;

The moon and its broken reflection
  Aand its shadows shall appear,
As the symbol of love in heaven,
  And its wavering image here.

Searching my heart for its true sorrow,
  This is the thing I find to be:
That I am weary of words and people,
  Sick of the city, wanting the sea;

Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness
  Of the strong wind and shattered spray;
Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound
  Of the big surf that breaks all day.

Always before about my dooryard,
  Marking the reach of the winter sea,
Rooted in sand and dragging drift-wood,
  Straggled the purple wild sweet-pea;

Always I climbed the wave at morning,
  Shook the sand from my shoes at night,
That now am caught beneath great buildings,
  Stricken with noise, confused with light.

If I could hear the green piles groaning
  Under the windy wooden piers,
See once again the bobbing barrels,
  And the black sticks that fence the weirs,

If I could see the weedy mussels
  Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls,
Hear once again the hungry crying
  Overhead, of the wheeling gulls,

Feel once again the shanty straining
  Under the turning of the tide,
Fear once again the rising freshet,
  Dread the bell in the fog outside,—

I should be happy,—that was happy
  All day long on the coast of Maine!
I have a need to hold and handle
  Shells and anchors and ships again!

I should be happy, that am happy
  Never at all since I came here.
I am too long away from water.
  I have a need of water near.

I refuse to continue
  silently creeping
   through this empty forest
    with the only company being my darkest demons.

      I look down and see only a pathway,
       nothing but a never-ending grey haze

        I reach a dilemma
         as the pathway concludes.
          It dawns on me that I must change direction
           into a golden meadow of many opportunities
            or a black tunnel of nothingness,
             where I would no longer feel a thing.

I remain indecisive

even when i change, everything is the same