I would hate climbing, standing here
Straining myself that you would hear;
Amongst the blanks across the banks;
Atop timber, roofs, wooden planks,
About the soreness of green grass;
About their love, about their hearts.

I would loathe the spine of the bridge;
Nearing the bumpy, soapy ridge;
I might let hold of my life, now;
By the screeching teas and willows;
To part my way, to say goodbye;
The meaning of love was, to die.

Look at the flies across the night;
Alight by shadows of mights;
She might tease you, and dream of you,
Her love may pierce your sorted truths.
What am I though, to your romance;
Am I a secret to your stance?

Look at the rain, the Northern Lights;
The hopes I had long held, upright;
For your unknowing heart, my sweet,
I had loved you in one heartbeat;
Watch! The bronze gardens of my love,
For you here; for yourself, enough.

The humming moon, the skirted breeze;
Twinkling like melancholy bliss;
Heaved into me when I saw you,
At that moist night, before I knew
You were entrenched in her, in she
I would love; but you were not free.

I greeted the rose, “The brief night runs
In rubble and tosses and rain.”
The rose replied, “Then go and shun
Those who have left thee in their gain.”
She would stay awake to the sun,
And I would sleep, and love in vain.

I cried to the moors, “Your air smells just
The fine ground water of the pool.”
The green grass hummed, “Your heart must
Be breaking; your voice is fretful.”
The little waves said this would pass
But my mind was far too hateful.

He was coming, my dove, my dear;
Never had charms been about here;
And yet he came late, though was near,
He was late to my youth and tears,
The larkspur, and the eagle learned
You were only a truth, to her.

He was panting, my sick, my ill;
Wandering the grounds that I could feel,
And beads of sweat separating him
From the health of mortals and dreams;
But on a night of jewels and pearls;
He pranced with drinks and other girls.

But he might not die, he might soon;
He might be idle to the moon,
That the universe must distract;
Forgiving what he shall yet take;
To be the joy of another—
This world is too unfair, ever;

But he might not seek, he might then;
He has not learned my shriveled song;
Like I have not been singing along;
Like I have been a music in vain,
Knowing your promise to her, sane;
I might just not have lived, by then;

There have been shredded, splendid tears
That were made dead, at times of night;
For years now, that they have been slain
I have strikingly shrieked in pain;
Shrinking into eternal rest;
I shan’t know the last days of West.

There have been shrugged, dusted fears
That were made mere, in ruins of love;
I cut my veins, and blood claimed clear
Striking my bones, bursting both halves.
I peered last at the weeping birds—
‘Till my last breath, I remained unheard.