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Locked away
Hidden from the light
Of day

The heart
Of the goddess of the sun
Whimpers alone

Beautifully
She carries on without
Her precious heart

But here
I stand before you
Roses in hand

Binding shackles
Fall to the cold, bland floor
Freedom

Only one
Locked iron door
Is left

Even you
The most beautiful of all
Needs help

My hand
Is extended towards you
Take it

I am without
The key to your precious heart
But I can try

Have faith
In the mortal that stands before you
He will leave your heart
*uncaged
And when I touched her
A fiery blaze burned through me
Now aching for more
I no longer cared at all
If tomorrow came or not
Peering into the great abyss
I see,
Past the glare of the blinding sun,
A loneliness so deep
No one can fathom it.
A sadness so complete
No one wants near it.
A vulnerability
Susceptible
To the worst of pollutions.
There’s a fire down there
That could set the world ablaze
And keep it burning
For eons.
And way down deep
Towards the bottom
Of the bottomless pool
Is a light of hope
That something good
Might be found
In this dark, dark world.
The fire brought me in,
****** me down
Into the blue-gray water.
But it’s the hope that kept me swimming,
Kept me searching,
Kept me digging.
The light is why I’m still around.
You wonder why I cover my heart
With a shawl so heavy and thick.
You don’t even understand how impenetrable
It is.

You wish I’d take off this mask
So you could see my soul.
See the pain
The hurt
The anger
The shame.

If I removed my veil
What would you do with what you saw?
Would you laugh?
Would you sigh?
Would you try to help?
I didn’t want to find out
What reaction you would have.
I held everything in.
You thought you knew how to bottle things up.
Honey I invented the cork.
You thought you knew how to hide.
Sorry to break it to you dearest,
But blackout shades?
That idea was mine.
You weren’t about to get in.
I had it all on lock.
Held tight like Fort Knox.

Until

I didn’t.

The windshield cracked
There was a slit in my shades.
A leak in the cork.
The mask
It fell.

I broke down.
You broke in.

And now I no longer wonder
What you would say if I spilled.

And I know for sure,
Thanks to you,
That I’ll never slip up again.
Are you struck with her figure and face?
    How lucky you happened to meet
With none of the gossiping race,
    Who dwell in this horrible street!
They of slanderous hints never tire;
    I love to approve and commend,
And the lady you so much admire,
    Is my very particular friend!

How charming she looks — her dark curls
    Really float with a natural air;
And the beads might be taken for pearls,
    That arc twined in that beautiful hair:
Then what tints her fair features o'erspread -
    That she uses white paint some pretend;
But, believe me, she only wears red
    She's my very particular friend!

Then her voice, how divine it appears
    While carolling: "Rise gentle moon;"
Lord Crotchet lastnight stopped his ears,
    And declared that she sung out of tune;
For my part, I think that her lay
    Might to Malibran's sweetness pretend;
But people won't mind what I say —
    I'm her very particular friend!

Then her writings — her exquisite rhyme
    To posterity surely must reach;
(I wonder she finds so much time
    With four little sisters to teach!)
A critic in Blackwood, indeed.
    Abused the last poem she penned;
The article made my heart bleed —
    She's my very particular friend!

Her brother dispatched with a sword,
    His friend in a duel, last June;
And her cousin eloped from her lord,
    With a handsome and whiskered dragoon:
Her father with duns is beset,
    Yet continues to dash and to spend —
She's too good for so worthless a set —
    She's my very particular friend!

All her chance of a portion is lost,
    And I fear she'll be single for life;
Wise people will count up the cost
    Of a gay and extravagant wife:
But tis odious to marry for pelf,
    (Though the times are not likely to mend,)
She's a fortune besides in herself —
    She's my very particular friend!

That she's somewhat sarcastic and pert,
    It were useless and vain to deny;
She's a little too much of a flirt,
    And a slattern when no one is by:
From her servants she constantly parts,
    Before they have reached the year's end;
But her heart is the kindest of hearts —
    She's my very particular friend!

Oh! never have pencil or pen,
    A creature more exquisite traced;
That her style does not take with the men,
    Proves a sad want of judgment and taste;
And if to the sketch I give now,
    Some flattering touches I lend;
Do for partial affection allow —
    She's my very particular friend!
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