Now it’s your turn
To do the hurting
I suppose
To keep keeping it real
What I feel
And compose
Until all is revealed
And the rest
But shadows  
Of the hold you have over my sol-
ar meadows
And I know
It’s cliché
As I love you’s
Red rose
Or its sentiment’s
Silhouette’s
Withering prose
Even wasn’t quite us
Sappy stuff
Or quite you,
You would say that the bloom
Was the wrong shade of blues
For it cost too much green
And left traces of shoes
And just wasn’t my dripping with
True muses hues
You’d refuse
Such a crimson lust  
Power display
For the impotent gray
Thunderstorms
I convey
But then up to Olympus
Command me to climb
See the world,
Be the gods,
Then return to your side