When things are as they seem to be
they seem not to be to me
and that's almost Shakespeare, but
he isn't here and
so it's not.

I have a lot of time for
dead poets
they speak to me in words
they have written
in books that I borrow,
words
filled with love, with horror,
with sorrow
with pathos
with yearning
almost as if their
'lights'
are still burning

('lights') courtesy
of the pirate within me.

She,
as you may know
watches over me
as I grow

I think maturity's
approaching me
so
I'll wait and see
what happens.