If a girl has stolen your heart,
try your hardest to steal hers.

You are not what I want,
I wish you'd stop "loving" me.
How am I supposed to know Love?
She eludes me on her angel wings until
  my branches can reach
  what humans ignore above us.
And I can't blame her.
I wish I could hide, too.

You, with your angst and growing needs;
They aren't forefront in my mind
As I am for you
  A swan at her best,
  A cuckoo at her worst,
And if possible, I'd dazzle all
  with my blue-green plumage.

I wish I was ready;
I can't fly just yet.

Beauty is forever parallel to power in this life:
The hungry souls, crying out;
Unfufilled, empty dreams turned sour: I sharpen my knife.

Divide and conquer the spirits the spirits; no given peace in the afterlife.
Give power to the beaten! but mask the drought.
Beauty is forever parallel to power in this life.

Take shame for husband, vanity for wife.
Empty yourselves of such a notion as doubt;
Unfufilled, empty dreams turned sour: I sharpen my knife.


It birthed destruction of a white rose, resentment the midwife.
You and I lost, no surviving the mirrored bout.
Beauty is forever parallel to power in this life.

I try to adhere to your eye with it rife
As ego's pressure on a soul's sacred route;
Unfufilled, empty dreams turned sour: I sharpen my knife.

Under ice and snow my own soul cries, and in strife
It marches against my beauty, of which I am devout.
Beauty is forever parallel to power in this life.
Unfufilled, empty dreams turned sour: I sharpen my knife.

The anger I didn't have has Vulcan's hands;
it forms new bonds, breaks the old
dogma of alienation.
Broke from the shield of the one's who
raised me; love bonds and bands.
  
    It was not quite fear,
   Yet not waiting to take the stage.
   More a self-induced cage
   of denial and artificial bliss.

It was a long time coming, but I'm growing up.
I'm starting to reach the heaven,
Nirvana, true bliss
Olympus, I will sit with the gods  
  born of a vain, mortal mother.
And I'm starting to to realize  that
I am alone, and I will be
happy, whether Time will be by my side.

It is time to deal with the hurts,
and struggles,
and mistakes. This time, they'll be
mine to deal with.

Ignorance is not bliss, not for them,
Not for me,
Anymore.

His flesh and her flesh in a volcanic dance
The rest of them, next in line obviously and aware, become a collective watcher;
Perfection, they cannot be next; her left to chance.

They only watched the now, the yellow fog distancing them; perchance
The girl was just a bit older, or had killed the diseased satyr---
His flesh and her flesh in a volcanic dance.

Do it this way, no that way! I did, I did! We did our fruitless prance.
Everything is calm, but it is never, ever over, and it never will be; I am my own hater.
Perfection, they cannot be next; her left to chance.

Nothing really bad ever happens due to his expert use of the whip against our backs and lance
Against the pustules, except I lost who I could’ve been in my life. Later
His flesh and her flesh in a volcanic dance.

It was a love and hate story of our generation’s history, a true romance.
The victor got to change the meaning, the purpose and we became “innocent” bystander---
Perfection, they cannot be next; her left to chance.

They floated in the fog, the young ones. I watched their self-induced trance,
She wasn’t perfect, so of course they didn’t want to be her.
His flesh and her flesh in a volcanic dance.
Perfection, they cannot be next,; her left to chance.