The hour: the hour was grey and heavy laden
The ground was cool and damp when my eye fell upon that fair maiden.
A collared jacket pulled up to her chin
A vague smile stretched across the ashen light as I thought about her uncharted skin.
I knew that we were foreordained to dance.
Her hand would be mine if given the chance.

The taste of bitter wine was on my lips, and someone else's hand was placed upon her hips on that day in what was a
cold
sober
October

A bell: a bell that tolls for lost souls has me (cringe) stone white.
Thirteen strikes move me closer, and I dodge each cavernous hole in my adverse plight.
The name that each leaf whispers is Crisp and Wither.
Her heroine eyes beckon me to come hither for I draw near and nearer, on that cold
sober
October

The misty cold.
The misty cold...
'Twould be a blazing fire within my bones if not for that ****** misty cold.
Warm me now; I take thy hand with thy ring that I place upon thee from the kiss of the sea.
One day I too will greet thy queen and upon her sleeve she will bear my love as we walk down that isle on All Hallows' Eve.
I take thy hand and place upon thee the kiss of my sea.

All is naught or ill forgot; for I stand ***** upon that plot that dear October bought.
Filling my head with sense and thought and hoping my love would soon be sought upon that tomb that I too will rot.
In the misty cold, crisped and withered, toiled and rot; I want her mine but she is not.

So here I am, hungover in that
Bleak
sober
October.

How crazy do I have to be in order to follow you?
I've been thinking about the absurd (those that you have claimed to be your people) and it terrifies me.

I could never **** my son for you...I mean I don't have one.
But if I did...I don't think I could.
Would you be so ludicrous to ask that of me?
I guess I'll have to wait and see.

How could I ever tell people about you speaking to me from shrubbery.
Out of tongues of fire came a discovery of courage and fight, and I don't believe that would have been me on that night.

I don't think my arch could understand that you would need it to march 13 times around a wall, give a shout and watch that cities defenses fall.

You would have a man take his 32,000 down to just 300, so everyone would know that it was God to whom these people were hunted.

I could never be a man with such long hair that would wield an ***** jaw to slay an army while my peers stood in awe.

The fact that you would speak to a boy while he sleeps... to call him into service.
Or have a king shaped like a shepherd, sling a rock that would leave a giants body-less head, peppered.
Even watching your master leave this world in a chariot pinned to a whirlwind of fire...is bonkers!

What of a guy that would rebuild a wall on a pagan kings dollar so that one day men and women gripping palm branches could holler.

Three boys refusing to bow down because they had a faith that was earnest, yet they stood tall when they walked out of that fiery furnace.

You see, all these people have their place (however) there is one that struck a cord...today more than ever.

A man that made his listeners shiver, “prepare ye the way” he would shout from the edge of the river.
“Hairy and howling” was this mans attributes.
Leery and crowding were the peoples contributes.

His fuel was wild honey and mouth full of focus.
What's my prognosis? He was only always ferocious.
On the day of his death he had burning passion for you, until a king took his head because his life was a little askew.

Those that follow are erratic and I'm quickly finding out my life doesn't contain that kind of static.
I can see that in order for me to be sporadic, I need you to do some spring cleaning in my attic.

How crazy do I have to be to follow you?
Easy, crazy enough to believe you can bring me through.
Crazy enough to see that the underlying definition for a believer such as me... is cuckoo.

Sometimes you segregate your cereal.
Sometimes you cringe at meat.
Sometimes you hide you face in your hands when you're embarrassed, sad or see someone's feet.
Sometimes you're so cute I want to put you in my pocket.
Sometimes these picture frames are perfect, I wish I could click a button and lock it.
Sometimes you cry.
Sometimes you dream.
Sometimes we don't talk and it makes me want to scream.
Sometimes you put your feet on my dash and leave little marks of dirt.
Sometimes when you're not here, I look at them and it makes loneliness hurt.
Sometimes you treat me better than you should
Sometimes you make this life seem too good.
Sometimes you hold my hand and we get caught.
Sometimes you fit better in my world than I would have ever thought.
Sometimes the way you smile is my favorite thing.
Sometimes if I weren't a poet, I'd write you a song that we could sing.
Sometimes you go through packs of gum like an addiction.
Sometimes our hearts beat with motions of friction.
Sometimes you take pictures of various birds.
Sometimes I hope you fall in love with my words.
Sometimes you worry and you seem a bit frantic
So I'll always be there to kiss your forehead because sometimes I'm a hopeless romantic.

If I were a cup of black coffee you take me just the way I am.
If this were a thanksgiving dinner you'd be the turkey and I'd be the ham.

I'm the water and you're the sea
I'm the sailor and what I really mean is; you complete me. 

If this were a battery you'd be the positives and I'd be the negatives.
If I were a holiday you'd be the festive's.

If this were space you'd be the stars that form my galaxy.
If I were a driver in New York, you'd be my taxi.
If I a flower and you the bee, then it's clear to see that what I really mean is; you complete me.

One ways, u-turns, dead ends and yields, green lights, left lane merge and a squashed bug on my windshields.

If I were a Bic ballpoint pen then you would write out every sin.
If this were it, it would be the greatest love there has ever been.

Road signs and paper, fantasies and nature cannot help to say in such a little way that all I try to convey that what I really mean is; you complete me.

If I were a song you'd memorize my lyrics 
If this were February 1990 it would be Hold On by Wilson Phillips

If I were a comic book, you'd be my nerd.
If you were a photographer I'd be your bird. 

If I a cold night and you the book by a fire, then I'd be the Hobbit and you'd be my Shire.
If I a cup and you the tea then all there is left to say is...