Leaves, sticks, and seeds make up this six foot stalk.
Oh, how she blooms before the flashing lights!
Leaving men and women with a stunned gawk.
Oh, you cause the seeds of your kind at night,
to dream of heights they won't reach; how sadly
try the delusional. But in all kin,
is imprinted least a scar on their psyches.
Sacrificial offer in porcelain
is ritually performed by some daily.
If not for fame, glory, or money, then
to mirror fashion people's ideal beauty.
A cyclic mental disease that won't end.
Shhh.. Here she comes! The first, but not the least.
An appetizer for the famine feast!

It is to be on Winter's Eve,
  a holiday for two.
And how the snow will dance for thee,
  with hair matching to boot.

In both its length and in its sway,
  your strands of golden sun
will radiate our merry days
  and blind out lonely ones.

Wine for now to celebrate what
  will only be two weeks.
Wine again to celebrate, but
  these weeks to be the least!

As feast for two will soon be three
  then four, no five or more!
I cannot wait, a father, me?
  Children of ours be born!

Purpose of life, we shall have; share
  our life's meaning we will.
As us to them and they to theirs,
  we will grow old fulfilled.

Not if but when the snow winds storm,
  of me you'll find no sin.
For coat and drink will lack the warmth
  as family's love within.

Idly stationed in the bucolic hills,
sits a stone well; unknown when abandoned.
Though her people foregone, water yet fills
as much as you can want for. In tandem,
are high trees less old than she; occluding
the view from pathless and naive strangers.
As their wish in well is to keep obtuse,
those that siren would otherwise capture.
Her drink, one thinks they'll constantly receive.
In reality, they'll only be taken.
Youth will fade as the heart minutely bleeds.
Their hollow, dried corpse will be forsaken.
And though her hole but a tall dark crevice,
I see my reflection on the surface.

O sea! O tide! What wonderful life! Awaits us in the ocean.
Adore! Implore! What wonderful mores! Awaits us in the open.
We roar! We soar! What wonderful lore! Awaits lost trepidation.
Forsake those blinds which you thought chains, to see through the illusion.
Forsake those lies which you thought truths, so you can have perception
of that which does not hide from us, but we’ve betrayed it still.
Though of both life and death, mortals shall ne’er bend to their wills,
but of sole life, though not thou death, thou just might;
before going into the ever unknown day-night.

In the cusp of closing night, I look into your weary eyes;
once outshining city lights. I see no way to realize
the healing of this blight - I venture to make a phoenix cry.
Remedy of such mythos might, might just prove unjust lies.
Chance restoring your ere vacant sight - fighting soul’s primal guide.
As any chance to restore my bride, binds our fractured lives.

...No words to describe affliction already decided.

O why, O why, O why was I born in this non-laternlit world?
No!
O why, O why, O why was I born in this non-torchlit world.
What woe!
And try, and try, and try I do, to fulfill myself, all others, too!
And try, and try, and try I do, to remind myself, all others, too:

That it is not man's devices that light the darkness,
but the sun's brightness…

As a mortal you will die;
  in exchange, a chance at life.
Though it is not guaranteed,
  moments, are odds to be seized.