Light cloud pavilion light rain
Dark yard day weary open
Sit look green moss colour
About to on person clothes come

There's light cloud, and drizzle round the pavilion,
In the dark yard, I wearily open a gate.
I sit and look at the colour of green moss,
Ready for people's clothing to pick up.

We stood together
As the first leaf fell,
Spiralling towards the earth,
Carried on a wind beyond it's control.
We held hands
As the first leaf fell,
Clinging to each other in silence,
A sense of desperate hope in the air.
We fought for each other
As the first leaf fell.
No sorrow for a season past,
But the anticipation born of a new beginning.
And the determination
That when the new leaves grow,
We will stand together.
Still.

I have lied my way
Through life
And spilled my truth
Upon these pages.
A persona presented
Face to face
Is lost within the ink
Of the pen.
Created by insecurities,
Derived from expectations
Unjudged by blank sheets.
Only those who read me
Truly know me.

the lanky mortician with wryly looking fingers, oh the poor boy.
The hospital asked me how the body should be cast.
Such a funny thought to wrap you up in white linens,
your favorite colour.
Before I say goodbye my dear Eugene,
"Do you find it all right, my dragonfly?"

I can hear you asking, "James why do you cry?,
Make the most of your life, while it is rife;
While it is light."
Before I watch your flesh go,
Shall we look at the moon, one last try?

Under the arch of Life, where love and death,
Terror and mystery, guard her shrine, I saw
Beauty enthroned; and though her gaze struck awe,
I drew it in as simply as my breath.
Hers are the eyes which, over and beneath,
The sky and sea bend on thee,—which can draw,
By sea or sky or woman, to one law,
The allotted bondman of her palm and wreath.

This is that Lady Beauty, in whose praise
Thy voice and hand shake still,—long known to thee
By flying hair and fluttering hem,—the beat
Following her daily of thy heart and feet,
How passionately and irretrievably,
In what fond flight, how many ways and days!

Do you still perform autopsies on our old conversations?

Or do you let their existence decay,

just like you did with your love for me?