At least! There is no more soul to please
And I canst fly all about, as I wish;
And fantasize that the Night fakes a melody
Instead of a poised scream to me.

At least! There is none else I must be
For thou shalt, again, no listen
For such reasons are but quaint;
They all may think that I am insane.

And so, I am done thinking
Of all these twisted imaginations;
Thinking that roads are destinations,
Whilst they are just singing.

And so, I am done reading
Of the mind and my destinations;
For such pictures are just futile,
With hearts and fetal words dangling.

And who shall still strive through;
Watching over my thorough questions,
Whilst sung chords are no longer a melody,
And a melody leads not to love.

I cannot live meekly, and yet to leave;
I hath many aligned questions yet to give,
And the hardest things that are yet to say,
Although I cannot hear, nor stay;

I am the sickly sweet conundrum;
I hath only the sweetness of a poem,
And yet, not the intelligent I am,
None knows my soul, nor my name!

I am the freshly painted vision;
And yet to be, I am a *****!
None hears to glimpse, nor to listen,
The sweet of plain, poetic movements!

But yet! To be with the Moon to please
And as love remains the hardest Night;
Perhaps I am not the opulent Light,
That they shan't embrace, nor disguise me;

But yet! To be with Life to see
And yet none of these souls want me;
Perhaps all that are alive keep no virtue
Not that they shall sail again, anew.

But yet! To be with Life, and be
The sleep that smoothes all the Snow
And be there with endless time,
Be the one who knows all at once.

But yet! To be from my heart there
is but a constantly perilous fate;
Yet I shall not belong anywhere,
Nor that my ends shall be met.

But yet! To be from my heart apart
None of the banters ahead are virtuous;
And from tomorrow, chaste delights shan't grow
To be pure, to be in the know;

But yet! To be with Love and its Sigh
No wonder is bound to soar so high;
No power shall reach the greatest height
No truth shall be heard, nor bright,

But yet! To be with Fate and its Night
Our loneliness is the faintest friend;
And homelessness is the crude merit,
In the wait for new awesome clouds.

But yet! To be born anew, alight
Beside such fantasious rights, o thee;
For such feelings should be guilt,
And guilts are, normally, tight;

But yet! To glow as this sunlight
By the side of fabulous dreams,
Being the armour of loveless screams;
And such feelings, bold and contrite.

But yet! To sparkle at the bored Night
I might need my destroyed candlelight;
Although none shall attend to me;
Nor caress me in the heart, and be;

But yet! To bend at such glorious sights
And dance in imaginary beams;
Like there spread a thousand circles
With a hundred young poems, and gifts.

But yet! To glance at the sun, and feel
Such waves of poetry arise in me,
That only my words are my cold shield
With no rhymes to speak; nor to love me.