Like truthless dreams, so are my joys expired,
And past return are all my dandled days;
My love misled, and fancy quite retired—
Of all which passed the sorrow only stays.

My lost delights, now clean from sight of land,
Have left me all alone in unknown ways;
My mind to woe, my life in fortune’s hand—
Of all which passed the sorrow only stays.

As in a country strange, without companion,
I only wail the wrong of death’s delays,
Whose sweet spring spent, whose summer well-nigh done—
Of all which passed the sorrow only stays.

Whom care forewarns, ere age and winter cold,
To haste me hence to find my fortune’s fold.

I wake
and I cannot help but
wonder
who you now wake up to
if anyone at all
(the mind is trouble)
(the mind is trouble)
(the mind is trouble)

Sitting along the highway, all alone
I spied a well-worn, beat-up
brown leather shoe.

Pondering its journey,
I questioned whether it, too
mated for life,
as geese tend to do.

What happened to its Other Half--
Could it be far away?
Or did the two shoes have a spat
And decide they should part ways?

...or maybe there's a foot somewhere
Looking for its shoe--
or could Cinderella still be waiting
for her Charming Dream Come True?

I wish I knew the story of this
lonely leather sole;
I hope it finds its way back home
so it won't be alone.

I wanted to thank you
for being everything
to me whenever
I had nothing to
call my own.

You didn't just
get me out of a "rut."

You saved me
from the empty,
soulless shell in which
I was about to
become.

I found myself, once, longing,
To be hated by you.
To feel the burning shame of guilt,

I won't say any more about feelings,
Because that place,
I'd occupy without them,
To see this nonsense through.

So few people seem to really give a ****.
And you actually do.
You really do.
Maybe if I wished too much for you
To love and respect me,
To see me as as a friend,
then maybe I risk the capacity to be hated by you, as well.
but I tend to see you as a force of nature.

If you ever began to love me, as I hope,
Then I have to realize,
Your capacity to hate me would also materialize.
And, like a force of nature, I know,
You would spare me: Nothing.
Help me: Not.
Trust me: Never.
but you would do nothing to me
Out of malice or for ego or for personal gain.
And I would have to trust,
With a child's trust, happily,
even to my death,

That it was better to be loved
    by a force of nature,
Regardless of pleasure or pain,
Beyond reproach or false intent.

Still falls the Rain---
Dark as the world of man, black as our loss---
Blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails
Upon the Cross.

Still falls the Rain
With a sound like the pulse of the heart that is changed to the hammer-beat
In the Potter's Field, and the sound of the impious feet

On the Tomb:
Still falls the Rain

In the Field of Blood where the small hopes breed and the human brain
Nurtures its greed, that worm with the brow of Cain.

Still falls the Rain
At the feet of the Starved Man hung upon the Cross.
Christ that each day, each night, nails there, have mercy on us---
On Dives and on Lazarus:
Under the Rain the sore and the gold are as one.

Still falls the Rain---
Still falls the Blood from the Starved Man's wounded Side:
He bears in His Heart all wounds,---those of the light that died,
The last faint spark
In the self-murdered heart, the wounds of the sad uncomprehending dark,
The wounds of the baited bear---
The blind and weeping bear whom the keepers beat
On his helpless flesh... the tears of the hunted hare.

Still falls the Rain---
Then--- O Ile leape up to my God: who pulles me doune---
See, see where Christ's blood streames in the firmament:
It flows from the Brow we nailed upon the tree

Deep to the dying, to the thirsting heart
That holds the fires of the world,---dark-smirched with pain
As Caesar's laurel crown.

Then sounds the voice of One who like the heart of man
Was once a child who among beasts has lain---
"Still do I love, still shed my innocent light, my Blood, for thee."