So I say to thee, sing of me to future lovers.
Do not hold words behind teeth in fear of grief.
For they must be freed if life is to breathe seeds.
Whom sow and sprout forth,
in this garden true love grow north
toward bluer skies from open wounds,
dark thoughts and even darker moods.
Passion swoon like most fevers do
soon to pass as wellness looms.

This is not forever.

I know this to be true, sing of me to future lovers.
No matter how off beat or out of tune
Sing the way most old lovers do
full of hate, regret and true dismay.
Make mockery of my poetry
the heart felt things I'd say.
Call me a liar, a ******* and a no good cheat
but remember with each word you speak
remember; to remember it was always me.

He took the stage for a one-man show
A character of a hundred roles
Too many a script but he sure knows
To take a bow when the curtain falls.

A storyteller extraordinaire
In his endless soliloquy
Over a thousand and one affairs
Of all his quixotic reverie.

Two hands he proudly speaks at best
Which work like that of twenty men
From different realms of Sciences
Philosophy and Arts he studied them.

But what wound could cut so deep
That he can fool everyone but himself?
Before he drowns his sorrow to sleep
He hides his monsters behind the shelf.

He took his mask and off a smile
That he wore to get himself a crowd
And asked the mirror for quite a while
Did all the theatrics make him proud?

He was the Jack of all trades
Certainly not an expert in one
And his own game of charades
Made him a master of none.