A sweet, chirping grey jungle tree;
Stirring up bloodied doses within me,
I hath been abducted by morose darkness;
And its fetal, yet obnoxious messes,
For t'is flowered cave smelling just like death!
And to me, death is more like an obsession
In a glaze this phony, and dripping wet
Cold that I hath met about, in person.
One that hath fascinated me; with wronged tears
A single soul is not yet there to hear;
And lurking pools of fears, all blended
Into the versatile skin of the unfriended
Moon, being the beige universe, and evil—
Although he knows not how I should feel.

I, had been enslaved by the worst sun;
And tied to the post of unwanted salvation.
I, not being the privilege of Life now;
I shall go tonight, and not return tomorrow.
I had enough love, but with no love to be,
I shall not halt to see this side of me.
And hark! By the solitary lights of the moon;
The Earth was once my saluted destination;
But who could fight for a savage battle
In an attempt to experience rebirth,
Born with no contempt for the world;
But with Remorse bludgeoned, and hurt,
As though I had committed but treason;
And living was just to hold a vain reason.

For such reasons would be censured venom;
To them, who raved not at my longest poems,
And my guilt’s blood would be their songs,
They had committed justice, and no wrong;
Which a dour soul could adore at a lonely night,
Whilst being mute towards the shifting trees,
Torture and denial were the nail of Sunlight,
Waking me up to the enchantment of ragged bliss.
Had I, another day, woken up to another peril;
I acknowledged my embedded fate as an Evil,
To recite the spells that had infuriated me,
An indolent vice that had but been meant to be.
An insult, that such straggled **** may hate;
But so, forgiveness is far a threat too late.

Such fortuities, I hath not cornered to embrace;
And I shall not be back to sing conned waste,
And by being gratuitous and to *******,
I want to be the handsome rebellion to my fate;
Had I found myself trapped on the defunct floors;
I could not escape marked death at Midnight's door,
And at that sick moment I had been flawed,
Frightened, slackened to my rawest flesh,
By the metal edge of a cut sword, and then;
I was but Death at the rotten night, my friend!
Such fiends, such rage—were far in their summer bliss,
And yet I but grew as a faint shadow in peace;
I watched their flaked nostrils from inside my tomb,
My tomb, and its scraped walls—my quiet home,
I could not breathe now, nor bend towards a kiss;
I was the soul the Earth had forgot, had missed;

I, roused again now as a darling apparition;
I wear a black mask and utter repetitions,
No soul shall want to collapse in my steps—and bolt!
I hath entrapped many daydreaming in sloth,
Those with looser complacency, and breath
In their nostrils lives such straggly wrath;
And in such hair so ricocheted and unkempt,
How canst one but find a stranded scarf, a lamp?
With the odour of blood I can taste, and yet
Makes my hungered mouth groaning wet,
I hath drunk from too many souls, and I
That shan’t live any more, nor shall I die;
Ah! Now I shall ****, and begin with the dirt—
Cleansing such Earth off of malignant worlds!

What a disgrace, a scraggly—yet resilient disgrace!
A bend in the road had I been, and was I mean
To the world but sought not to know me?
And at times of need, their race but leaned to me;
And their fair promises, and royals, had not been true—
Unlike the verity of the justice I had found, and knew.
Unlike my bosoms, that had faced too much sorrow,
These ghastly sighs and temptations shall know now;
I hath found the world to lay my head silently,
With no love to be, and cut my love reverently;
That the stars should watch us meanly, but sure
They would not be a stale aura to my picture.
But to die, to cease demurely without a certain name
Shall be one that feels not my pool of shame;
And t’is crime is no exception, o my lover—
I am exempt now, from the insolent love, forever!

What an imbecile, that we embraced to softly!
What a butterfly that cannot fly in me;
Not a life that holds my chest, nor my blossom
Not a purity that holds clear my poem, o thee!
An ink on the page, but yet ‘tis my story
That I want freedom to writ my fierce destiny.
What a blurred visage to my vision such is,
What a menacing world to want a kneeling kiss!
With no love to see, and with no called name,
They hath no trifling tales nor misspelled shame;
That I had perhaps been too morally confused,
That Death was ethereal, but coldly infused;
Ah, thou, so to thee Death is no exception—
Having not thought of my hurt, my inflammation!

For a living fate can be unassuming, and uncertain;
For humans can die, and be nauseous;
For such lives are a demerit; and for a friend;
For a destiny that can be true, but tedious.
From a love that I am already free,
From a love so ubiquitous; and in unison,
I am obliged to no merits, nor tragic beauty;
I shall seek and give no compassion, nor reason.
And in a vain attempt had I hastily tried;
And in a vain triumph had I sullenly dried;
And in bewitching the silky skies had I died;
So shan’t I return to the boisterous Heavens,
The Lord bitterly misplaced me, and lied
To me behind the graves, and rained gardens.

For in the days that followed my death, hath I sworn
To kidnap back the life that had been blown;
And be the Black Spirit they would find pertinent
To hear the trespassing of death, and their moments
To crunch the life of the ones before me;
Amicable as they were in their apposite defence,
But not as the lush presentation of their beauty;
That I should entrance and ****** them, hence.
Who couldst defend my murdered youth but me;
Who couldst strongly step on my bursts of anger;
Who couldst restore my prone poetry but ******;
Who couldst live but I, who lives forever;
Who couldst separate my from my agony;
Who couldst live but with ill fate, and be?

For the age that I hath lost, and thoughtless’ burnt
And of being grace, and kind hath I not heard;
And with delight, shan’t I stop and turn;
For no obvious reason, for no maddened alert.
I am stronger in my rebirth, and with sharp, strident
Steps, hath I grown more braced and confident;
For no reason, for no further light hath I doubted;
For no marks, nor discourse hath I faulted;
For such apologies, and humility are obsolete,
For my imagination of such is clear, and yet;
I hath no more obligations so, to be met—
And with such unwavering strength crystal clear,
And everlasting sleep to me so near,
I am to grow out of the vines of my grave;
And descend carefully on the midnight’s cape.
And yet, who is sleeping sweetly in his wife’s bed;
I shall soon send him into delicious death.

For the life that had been obediently drawn;
For the miraculous night that turned to dawn,
For the life that had belonged to me, and so
I am to be above the stars, and ever in the know
All my victims so sternly, thoughtfully, and deeply
I am to **** reverently, and by sweetness, vigilantly:
“I am to drink the redness, and be the Sun’s equal”
My voice singing through the forest’s damp halls.
And now yet, with the futile man dead in my arm,
I fling myself into another chained woman’s charms!
With her blood so capricious dripping down my throat;
I can feel myself furiously sweat, and sweetly float;
I am to rouse in transparency through the roof;
And be the midnight, no more aloof!

And to be the Spear of the universe, and hell;
I would like to wish every fault and demerit well;
Soon, there shan’t be the raucous singing of jingle bells,
Death is in everyone—eating off of their shells.
Ah! My lover’s flesh, that I am devouring eagerly;
Now is but a piece of provision so sweet to me;
In which I canst indulge in but a locked pain;
Feeding off of his blood and its red rain;
Ah, I am so hungry, and those eyes are for me!
He gasps, and I am free now, as the flannel sky;
I am free to haunt and grasp all about me,
I can feel their smell descend about so nigh.
My lover, and his vain woman of the scorched past
Are now in death, far from their sly voices and hearts!

And to be the Sword of the Space, and devils;
I feel honoured to be part of the evils;
And be the taunt and haunting to all men,
To all this Earth’s visions, emblazoned fiends!
To me, all of their deaths hath been inscribed;
Ever since I was grown from dead, and my lungs
Hath been imbibed with more pronounced vibes,
And choruses more awesomely sung;
I am to assimilate those humans, now, ha-ha!—
And be a creature of the night, the Hailed One,
They shall bow to me in flash, and in my old Stanza;
All murders are to be spoken, to be done!
My enemy, and his once powerful screeching speech;
Gunned down into his last breath, the gospel’s ditch!

And the vitriolic dream, now, that is too high;
I shall not stop until all petrified souls shall die,
There, above me, the afterlife writing in agony,
Justified in every sense, and be the last poem
That I shall write in my dated prose of destiny;
I hath become the Satan to destroy, and numb
All the rhymed births and breaths of life, ah!
I hath been ****** into this fate, of my own;
And be I never a praised, nor a soft wife—
Yet I am impressed already, by closed immortality;
And my youth forever, with its endless passion
And latest bursts that happen in eternity,
I am to counter and cure all my halted questions;
I shall go and return, I hath all the time in me!

And Ruthlessness, then, that is too holy;
I hath admired thee with all the blood in me,
And to restore the humanity in me prominently;
I shall **** all, and make their deaths permanently!
For all deaths are idyll to me, and my abode,
An abundance as I roam, and float about!
What hath happened to my human, and bold songs,
For they hath not been a sky to me, all along;
What a condescending spirit a human is,
For they think what a fierce not is;
Whilst all that is thin is bold, and a rose;
What a singing displeasure to my prose!
Ah, to **** all, and cherish all their dyings,
I shall cut and devour with my heart singing!

Then, into the skies, as I ascend I hear
All flowered flesh is but towering so near;
They hath heartbeats and clueless rainbow;
They are not to fight me with violence,
They hath no tyranny, nor are above my shadow;
They hath no abode—but my impertinence!
Ah, and blessed am I, so meekly blessed;
This is but the best day I hath ever had,
For so anger and betrayal are not unwise at all;
And so holy are miseries, and miseries are ******.
I am to **** more, and bring my joys to Fall,
I am to eat, and devour more in summer.
I am to drink more, and bleed in winter;
To celebrate deaths, and merry more in my walls!

Then, into the Earth, as I descend I see
That I descend with a later moon, and be
For all who loved me, there shall still be death;
For I shall arise amidst these unhearing walls,
For the many teardrops that were shed,
For the shrieking pains I shared, and their toll;
For the world, that hath not been too exquisite,
For the crowds, that hath all along lacked such wit,
For the Sun, that hath ne’er been a soul sweet;
For a love that ne’er had a single beat!
For a love that I hath fragrantly cursed,
For a love I hath determined to make worst.
I am to eat, as though I am the Sun, the West;
I shall put its whole black pit to sleep, to eternal rest!

With all good cheer hath I spoken, and thus I turned
To see further stomachs and chests lying down, churned
And eating off of them is a swarm of butterflies
That were stirred to life by my own puke of frights;
And I, spitting out but flames and fires from within me
And my mouth that hath burnt thousands of thee,
I am not afraid to claim my rights, as I please;
And to destruct far more indeed, as I wish—
Which I celebrate as an ordinary gift, and yet
Hath made and shall render all conscious souls mad!
And all about me hath gone to precious sleep
In their admiration of my prominence, and weep;
And all about me hath turned to obstinate death;
Ripped down of breath, and any traces of life, of late.

With sainted grand glory hath I writ, and rejoiced
The merry and cordial pleasures of deathly bliss;
For such splendour, are not lovingly present every day,
And the vanished worlds have become dear to me today;
That now, as I devour another’s wrist, and arms
I am absorbed within death’s knocking charms;
And his limbs offer farther delicacy than the stars,
And his soul be a playful drink two worlds apart;
Another one, that tastes like those fine vines,
And grapes, and the fruits smelling like Truths.
Ah! I sit there, leaning softly against the Cedar Mine;
Sipping his blood by the humming Eolian lute;
His veins dry and graze me, sickly, too fast;
I hath not had a drink and feast too vast!

And with deadening love hath I lived, and existed
In the world into which Faith hath not fitted;
Like the ode in me, trying to tie the Moon
Whilst such dimmed favours laid in the Sun;
I had been crafted only, but in vain
I had been transmitted also, but in pain
And all despaired, with my talents, to death
To be woken again in renewed hate;
What a fault of thine, o thee, and perhaps mine;
At times a rustic stupor to me, and yet is fine!
I am the Evil to be, and Satan so free,
At peaceful hours shall I come to thee;
Finding my ecstasy in Death and ******;
My civilian songs to the Earth, forever.

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.

Ah! Your shadow was nice to me
In such a lunatic summer bliss;
But who is going to be in love again,
For love is dead, my friend?

And yet, in the wind, I can still see
That you once longed to be with me;
And who can say, and to be free
I am not to love, nor cherish today.

What is the feel of summer sunshine
You are not here, you are not mine;
And you are not to be near tonight,
All the fates in this world have been mean.

Who is to be my summer sunshine
And the gentle merit of the night;
To help make righteous the broken light,
Descend it upon colourful hues.

Who is to be my pale loneliness
And light up my soundless *****;
What is this painful, and thin bloom
Born to such weird brokenness?

Who is to comprehend my soul
And taint me with scorching cold;
I can no longer stand the summer heat
Too much to feel, too weak to need.

Who is to seal himself against such tears
And the bittersweet mouth of the Night;
Who sleeps behind the fluorescent light,
Beyond his amber sight, to embrace.

Who shall rain himself with my love, and be
The celtic rainbow I shall live to see,
And who hath lived, who wants more
To feel in love like never before?

Who shall be my poisoned delight;
And such delight can cause sickness,
To be kissed by me, the temptress;
In white senseless, sensous caresses.

Who shall be my white star, and moon
To be the gate to my afternoon;
And to begin as my lover
Into the lulled dream of forever.

Who shall be my curse, and fate
To be light and well just in death,
And tempt me more with regal breath
To live more, and not be dead?

Who is the temptuous wave, and craze
To make my life a swirling maze;
And in haze dab kisses at my lips
Living love at my fingertips.

Who is the choir, and violent chorus;
That I shall have forgotten rivalry,
And I, at that midnight, shyly blush,
Who can fight the handsome destiny?

Who is the strongest storm, and why
All the midnight earth is so dubious;
And love has had me curious,
In my daylight fantasy about the sky.

Who is the virtuous Rain, and then
I hath to run away, and begin again
To be born again like this, anew
Knowing thou hath been real, and true

Who is the vigilant Thunder, yet
The best of me is still in my head;
And not many theories hath been in poetry
I hath not excited all the joys in me.

Who is the vile Cloud, and thus
I miss winters still, and must
I shall love then, much as in a poem
And entrap love, as in words.

Who is the vicious dance, and hence
I shall not again be the sole *****
My heart, be home to another then
That he shan't ask why, nor when.

Who is the virile Night, and so
I shall stay about, be in the know
Who is to claim my song, and words
Who shall kidnap me in his worlds?

Who is the violent Light, and again
Who is to be my sarcastic dance?
I am just a faint, untouched *****
That in a sore halt, faded.

Who is to be my tasty Moon, and back
To be the love I hath yet to make
And to give, whilst I shall take
Behind me, by the lake.

Who is the triumphant Touch, and be
Beyond the buoyant Might to the sea
Entranced only by the transparent night,
Too risky to envision, but bright;

Who is the victorious, and he
From the voyage of Destiny
Crossing such seas, just all right
Arriving in the morning and at night;

Who is the colourful love, and me
Behind all the hatred and meanings I see;
I see there a wonderful light, and yet
I am ready not to transgress tonight.

At night! I am not a thought
Over the infamous sunlight;
But rather one with heightened breath,
A creature like all beings,
I hath life and sometimes death.

At night! What a solitary life
That I oft' bathe myself in blood;
It hath a romantic smell to touch
And fantasies on its very own,
Like the world around is torn
When I drink it, when I taste it.

At night! What a succulent sight
And dried livelihood, such might
Who may think of such grandeur
In the afternoon's bad odour?
The night presents to me a lovely light
To hunt and race towards the night.

At night! What a lovely lace
And fierce sigh to embrace;
Unlike those held stiffly in breath
I am at all in no fear of death,
And there, a thousand skies
Shall not watch my shaky lies?

At night! What a cold showdown
As I float in midair in town;
Every piece of flesh is tempting,
Now that my thirst is seeping
Through the dire brass of my lungs,
That I know not between us.

At night! What a sacred taste
Of one's opened flesh;
I am as violent as Desire itself,
And trembling as 'tis troubled night.
What if I cannot love, nor hear myself
That I can see the Light?

At night! What a bare heaven
Up there, that hath opened;
But again, 'tis committed to poor souls
And t'ose alive only, unlike me
I shall not breathe, nor be old;
Nor shall my stale beauty

At night! What a loneliness
A story, and yet a broken sadness
I shall wander to dusk and dust;
And pain myself with roaming lust
Shall I be the human, and again
I cannot flirt with the earth's rain.

At night! What a tasteless breath
The very end that feels like death;
When one ain't ill, and just no;
I cannot be here until tomorrow
I had love then, but 'tis now death
An apparition I hath not had

At night! What a wordless call
And yet I hath no longer words;
My lover, my human lover
Then, he died of my cold hunger
I hath been placed in my own hell;
And cannot fake such tears so well

At night! What a wondrous sight
Sitting in mercy by the rainbow;
Ah, my love, who was once in fright
Old as his human self by the window
And I, was not born to see the light
And he died, I could not know.

At night! What a clueless moon
And a rabid but endless tune;
And the cloud, but cannot speak
Although I wish to ask he sea
Within the reserved, but pretty week
To sail my lover back into me

At night! What a tireless roam
And I cannot stop even by my poem;
To devour such a long life
And hurt that may be tough,
Miseries that may be naive
Tears that may not be enough.

At night! What a severed sight
I hath, that I cannot fly right
Who saith I shall need such wings
That shall not read, nor sing?
I might just turn human by then;
Joining my love in death again.

At night! What a sturdy light
That awaits me behind the grass,
Satisfying me the whole night
And gone as more days pass
What is good, and what is rigid
Who shall come to me again, merry meet?

At night! What a buoyant step
And I may put again my cape;
I may not be late, but too sweetly
I hath to seek more life for me;
I may not die, but to die reverently;
For him, I shall dream for free

At night! What a childish touch
But there is no more time to watch,
I kneel down and sip hungrily
At the heartbeat dying down by me;
T'is time, 'tis of a village *****
Hastily split by her brown bench.

At night! What a cold April
And who knows what summer feels;
I might lay about to seek some idyll,
While the skies but a flamed torch
To read riddles of the far North,
And drink my heap, my Lord.

At night! What a sweet sick dream
To my lost love, my limb
I like to writ all in a poem,
And drink of love in my room
What is better than love, my life?
What is sweeter to kiss, my lips?

At night! What a shuddered rose
And a catchy, stunned prose
But I may not be a true lover;
A truth, that one always hides
After the setting sun, the thin nights
Who shall craft myself an ode?

At night! What a shimmered thought
That I had remembered about you,
About a song I knew was true
And we embraced, while seeing
The night was already looking;
And hark! The sour stars finally cheering.

At night! What a blundering smile
And hastened sweat of love,
A shyness that never leaves me
And my cheeks, my beauty;
I can rest here, and for a while
I think I can leave my everything.

At night! What a blushed cheek,
For love is so soft, so meek;
For my love is held in midair,
Given but treated so unfair,
I am gasping for some fresh air,
But shan't cry, nor care

At night! What a young heartbeat,
But again, 'tis not mine;
For human blood is always a cure,
Although cold, minuscule, and unsure
I hath no care what 'tis all about
My hunger is there, and frets too loud.

At night! What an insane bird,
And so shockingly treacherous;
O my love, should I vouch for thee still,
And be kind, whilst all stands still;
But again, 'tis as chilly for my poetry,
For there is no life for one like me.

At night! What a rigid flute,
That is flamboyantly blown still,
I may not be by the long route,
But I love you, and want you still,
The thought of humans make me sick;
But without such breath I am so weak;

At night! What a lifeless sun,
Celebrated by all inhumans;
I am nobody that one wants,
I neither lighten nor illuminate,
And I do not appear in one's dream,
I am a devil, and not as I seem;

At night! What a poet, and poetry;
A poetry wearing a black veil,
And is read out of the doors,
I hath written strongly across the moors,
I hath been invited by such discourse
And troubled itches, troubled sights.

At night! What a vast suburban,
On the outskirts of my last town;
And I have to move, yet, I do,
Although I am a recent and new,
And to be with the morn, too vague;
I am afraid I shall be too late.

At night! What an edgeless voyage
That has come of life, of age;
A stellar one as I go again
In search of new vinegar and friends,
And who says a vampire has much to make
Whilst 'tis all for their crude sake?

At night! What a holy night;
And sounds ring and sing about me,
Those of bloodied hearts none shall see,
And I coldly devour again before the dawn;
And be asleep in the afternoon,
To wake up to the solitary moon.

At night! What a clouded light;
And voices entrap me in unison,
Throwing about new destinations;
In which my rough food shall satisfy me
And intensify my rugged beauty,
As I have no halos under the sun.

At night! What a trembling sigh;
But to me all skies are not too high,
And heights shall ask me to play,
Basking my life in the glory of those days.
And who is the sun, to seep into me,
I am dead, just like I was meant to be.

At night! What a coloured weep,
Of everyone in their drowned sleep,
But who says a sleep is peaceful,
Alight in hell, and be healed painful;
And be astonished for days after,
Feeling like life in short is forever.

At night! What an adorned heart
Whose one can cheer from afar;
But to humans, love may be distant
So soon as there rises a new moment;
I, who cannot feel tinges of emotion
And its cursed, fatal passions.

At night! What a demure feel
That one may just fall ill,
For neither I nor they have shared passion;
My life is too full of temptations.
And who should soar into the night -
All love to praise the faint daylight.

At night! What a sanguine wish
That one may just cold kiss,
They wish they couldst do in person
With no reason, no concoction;
But what is a wish not so bright
That we canst only witness in daylight?

At night! What a passioned chest
That should be put to rest,
Hath it undergone too many tests,
Between the East and West,
And the fatality of our hunger,
That feels eternal, and lives forever?

At night! What a loving heat
That I feel all in a single beat;
That I am not cold in cold any more,
That I can see now, unlike before;
To attain such quietness, and peace -
To dream and be alight in midnight bliss.

At night! What a loving heart
That I crave for from miles apart;
And I just know that I love you,
And your eyes, being too human
I knew they would be true,
But could I still see you then?

At night! What a new love;
That was born from the hunt
That none wishes for, nor wants
But I was there, waiting for thee
Behind the furry fir tree
That one hath died, and another
Is born, to bind me forever

At night! What forbidden love;
For 'tis a human again, and madly
I have fallen in love too badly;
In my flights, my giddy travels
I may have fallen too naively
That I cannot stay behind the wheels.

At night! What a love in profusion
Dead then, but not in union
Ah, but 'tis all a story
Not in life, for I do love to tell
That I shall not feel deep, nor sorry
For love hath always been a hell

At night! What a love blooming
For one cannot stop cheering
In silence, like me, hearing
For another love to come, clearing;
That I can turn human, and to heaven
To a faith I should hasten

At night! What a love searing
All hate, all curses, all bearings
And I, a vampire, shall sing my song;
That I hath waited for love too long
But in my eternal life, o dear
Perhaps thou canst ne'er be here

At night! What a love tempting
And I cannot stop laughing
Until I am full of disgraced tears;
And not of untold fears
For fears are not mine, and not hours
We have no death, nor blurred hours

At night! What a love promise
For us to be wise, and kiss
I hath longed to have wedding bliss;
But again, I am not the first
For vampires 'tis all the worst;
I hath only my rhymes, my words!

At night! What a love story
That I canst only feel within me
And to swallow such gurgling tearsl
Wouldst be crowded, be weird
I hath no life to entertain me
Nor a lover to hear my poetry

At night! What a love tale
That I canst only relish in hell;
Perhaps, I am not like one my own,
In exhaust and fumes, I am alone
Under the stars and moon that know
I shall face every day, and tomorrow

At night! What a love kiss
That I dream of, like a butterfly
But all is indeed a tired lie;
In all eternity, hath I been cursed
And in all worlds, hath I hurt
For whose I hath no more words

At night! What a love wish
That I cannot blame mine, nor his
To all wise, that are not wise;
To all whiteness that is a lie
For love hath but been a thief to me
And a harm to my living sanity

At night! What a love charm
That I hath discarded from my arms;
For I cannot feel, nor see you
In growing anything anew,
I hath seen but too few
I cannot have you in my arms.

At night! What a love war
That I hath removed from my tales;
I hath shut myself off of the door
And be the one no-one tells,
Who shall choose not to be alight;
To love with softness and bright?

At night! What a love heart
And a soreness cast away
I hath not seen the night, nor day
And stayed stiff again, today;
I cannot play in the afternoon,
Nor face the loving, dancing moon.

At night! What a love joy
That I hath not to tease,
Nor to pleasantly annoy;
I hath turned to dust, and dust is me
Pale as the armour of my beauty,
Eternal to life, and I can be
Not to love, not to be free.

All night my finery stirred to life;
And the satire I formerly loathed
I hath not hated again, but in haste
I hath been torn, I hath been faulted.

All night I adored the mystic words;
My love, that I had come to behold,
What is with the pain of this loving thee;
Perhaps no poet is as unsure as I am.

All night the arts were about me;
I saw pearls and jewels in the backyard
And bequeath the stones on the roads
To my startled darling, my dear;

All night the excitement was all here;
As a euphoria I could hear alone,
As a misery that was also delight,
For they could not see my ****** night.

All night my virginity was bare;
And my whole poems were laid here,
All of them sounded too weird,
All being constant madness, and tears.

All night I saw flawless snow grow;
And sadistic winter lasting longer,
I did not hear what the rest said,
My long poetry was all I had.

All night I spoke to my chaotic discourse,
All sounds being an unheard chorus,
And the earth a distorted choir
That I wanted not to peruse, nor hear.

All night I was in my deep delirium;
I heard not the nest, and walls of my room
But I should indeed not have cared,
They were not there, not too fair.

Who art thou, young bud, young star;
T’is melody but sees stars in thy hair,
Being a magnificent heir of the moon,
‘Tis a dream, to fade away too soon.

Who art thou, a malevolent voice;
To invite me into the air and its kiss,
When all in the room is frozen fits,
To be in a lovingly sung winter,

Who art thou, a translucent shadow;
Why am I here, but not in the know,
And t’is insanity is just not part of me,
My vivid fate, the last of thine to see,

Who art thou, a transformed beauty;
That I wish could not barely grow,
T’is insanity, that feeds off of me,
Waiting for thine, craving for thee,

Who art thou, a soundless presence;
I hath not batted away the very moment,
And who is here, to signal my audience,
I hath writ not a stern movement.

Who art thou, a voiceless ghost;
What is with the scout and pouting lips,
But handsome still, like an angel’s
Too handsome that thou amazed me.

Who art thou, a dizzy thought;
But a melancholy dream of my night,
I cannot see though thy abundance of lights,
Thou hath me wince, thou hath me taught.

Who art thou, a mad apparition;
Shalt thou sing to my new destination,
That the folded flutes hath to perch away,
Leaving us free, distant from today.

Who art thou, a disgraced grass;
For the whole of lone words is in line,
That blood of thine, and heart of mine,
That I cannot hear, nor wander at rest.

For a soliloquy tune is disgrace,
And a haloed shame to the sun;
Who cannot understand my tales,
And the speed within their calls.

For silence is gateless to all,
And them, the souls I care for;
For none like me was theirs before,
They can hear not when I call.

For the one I hath come for;
And to whom the draught is too much,
To whom who cannot see in March,
To whom who cannot see the light.

For the one I hath longed for;
And to whom I cannot belong,
I am too much weirdness for his song,
I am too much worry, too many chords.

For a breeze of morning moves was here;
With the moon gone on another errand,
And my clouded love was not at hand,
I could neither sing to square tunes, nor hear.

For a ray of morningness, that was yet to faint;
And to reminisce about thee, fiend,
Like to behold without my heart,
To drench me, and my weird love in haste.

I said to the sun, “There is but a pen
Whom my heart hath come to cheer,”
But then it left me alone to no friend,
The last echo of winter had dried away.

I said to the rose, “The brief cold goes
As the bloated dawn has caressed me,
But who shall see, and be in the know
I have not seen cold from my window.”

I said to the water, “The river seems cold
But not like the one I hath beheld,
Perhaps what looks cold, is not cold at all
Perhaps ‘tis not a darkling like me.”

I said to the tree, “The trees being shunned
Because I hath had them speak to me,
None is to be startled by my beauty,
Nor be excited by such wan poetry.”

From the black meadow hath risen a fate,
And a tale like me is perhaps too late,
They, at night, are wanting to go to bed
To be enhanced whilst they sleep, not live;

From the black shadow hath risen a twig;
Red in its vanity like streaming blood,
And perhaps I am drawn to such curse,
For in darkness I see, and be my own delight.

From the black moors hath risen a ghost;
Running against me whilst all is quiet,
And the sun is raging, at fierce speed,
My love for literature is not seen, unlit.

From the black grass hath risen snow;
The fantasy only I could know,
And I, startled by the menacing heat,
Untouched by the cold, and its field.

I hath had too much of the sun, and yet;
No promise hath been formed in my head,
I hath longed to leave, but yet
I hath to swim still towards the sunset.

I hath had too much of holes;
That none is too spacious, no more,
I hath had scars and tears to count,
I hath sinned against the foster moon.

For every morningness, hath I had
A doze of morning breeze, hath not met
With such loving eyes of thine;
Those bitter memories I hath in mind,

For every bitterness, hath I heard
A sliver of darklings towards my face,
I am not so sour nor icy as my words,
Still, they shalt see not my haste.

For every sullenness, hath I feared
My books shall adorn just displeased tears,
They are in idyll, yet shalt still not know
They left me then, and live not now.

For every cursed fate, hath I laughed
Misery is just not more a tear enough;
I hath dwelled in sorrows yet to come,
I hath not lived, nor called theirs home.

For every cursed life, hath I felt
With sane words drunk and misplaced,
I hath not been loved, just hated
For my poor insanities, of late.

For every cursed sigh, hath I feared
All such teasing hath hurt so weird
What is there in the cult of a pain;
Is there a consolation, a friend?

For every cursed sight, hath I told
The riddles and threads thou shan’t behold,
I am neither fierce nor too strong,
But who shall listen, or hear my song?

For every cursed light, hath I seen
A fate so awkward and truly mean;
Behind the burns and oaks and trickles,
At my miseries hath they giggled.

For every cursed poem, hath I writ
And left my untold discourse unfit;
And who are they, with insolent merits,
Yet too souls with insolent demerits,

For every cursed word, hath I seemed
Too disobeying and lustful for one,
But what am I without my frantic dreams;
And a page of failed lunatic desires?

For every cursed soul, hath I screamed
‘Tis a world so cloudless and limb,
They hath all words spoken too loud,
And sweetness feels like a nightmare.

For every cursed ink, hath I dreamed
Of wandering my sweet solitary nights
Beyond the crescent shape of my room;
I hath enough insanities to writ my poems.

For every cursed call, hath I writ
That to be in love again is not to meet,
For who am I, a maddened bard;
I hath no charm, I hath no heart,

For every cursed tale, hath I met
Stories of all dryness and wet,
That clutch to my hearts and hands;
Wanting to be my sands again.

For every cursed love, hath I slept
And in a hurled little dream wept,
Who shall want to break me free;
Who shall trace the beauty of me.

For every cursed heart, hath I hoped
And in a quiet little tune I sung,
Who shall see that I am proud;
Who shall read my words out loud.

For every cursed rhyme, hath I said
With written words that are too late,
Who shall be the one in sight;
Who shall retreat to my troubled nights.

For every cursed pen, hath I waited
For a love painstakingly late,
And who shall be my comfort;
Who shall be mine, my lord;

For every cursed page, hath I kissed
Silence by ‘tis own western feast,
And who shall say my remnants of bliss;
Who shall recite my words in threes?

For every cursed line, hath I missed
And since I may never be his
Who shall see me and fallen worlds,
Who shall be kind to my words?

For every cursed touch, hath I been
Hath I been there, and in love
Who shall see me in my thousand skies;
Who shall be mine, and as wise,

For every cursed past, hath I gone
And returned back with my ale alone;
Who shall be here to here me pray,
Who shall be here for what I say,

For every cursed soul, hath I loved
And in a murmuring smile I prayed,
Who shall see me as I am today;
Who shall love me still, every day.

I regret falling in love today;
Love is no grander than rotten skies,
And falls away in bitter rain
Reminding me of disloyal time.

I regret having loved you;
Your fear has disobeyed me late
Enforcing me to remain unseen,
Drying by the cold remnants of you.

I regret having been there;
You, the very gale of southern lies,
You once told me to leave out there
And die at an unpoetic night

I regret having been your pain;
I shall go, and remain about,
For my love has always been silence
Dust and gardens are my solitude.

I regret having been your air;
I shall depart, but yet to live
By your side and lives to breath
Feels like itself an unfair death

I regret having been your soul;
I want to live with the rainfalls
And lay my head by the forest;
To writ whilst life is at rest.

I regret having been your heart;
I have put my pride at your feet
The game is over, merry meet
We are not one, but apart.

I regret having been your love;
You shall hear not, nor ever--
And for a poet too naive like me;
That only written roses can see.

Such is a night, in a thousand days,
Then I love thee in soo many ways
And what lies between here and there
Might I saint thee but anywhere?

Behind the grace which has a curse
I have written just too many words
And this feeling, that a hundred nights
Woke me to, like those random lights

What is more, and what is less
Can such a phantom make love painless
Clutching a youngster spring too brief
But shan't die, and always lives

So long as 'tis pain, and not fate
We may not be together, again
Like a lust to haunt, but that died
Within March's coloured rimmed lights

So long as 'tis late, and not again
I may not seek you in my rogue poems
For it hath long sailed across the winds
With the love songs of redeemed sins

So long as I paint you, and not once
I have loved then, for a hundred months
To kiss thy pretty, but unheard truth
To murmur all these crazes, a few

So long as I writ you, and hold anew
Like the rose that might be new
Aided only by a caterpillar-like sun
Lost in the morn's unguided moon

So long as I draw you, to my arms
Like a sketch with italic charms
I hold your fate, and idol's poems
I keep all your drawings in my room

So long as I hold you, but not mind
'Tis a sanguine reason still, to be one
I have expected wine and a white kiss
To not be wise, to have a little bliss

So long as I hold you, hold you still
To run around with too much to feel
With a love to guard, my soul beholds
Such a desire too strong to hold.

So long as I see you, 'tis untrue
Such summer colds that barely knew
The ties of a right lie, and the spring
I miss you within the tunes they sing.

So long as I miss you, and I love
Sighs and disgrace being far from enough
The furs of a silent truth, and me
I have writ wan poetry thou shan't see.

So long as I have you, and fly free
With plain lithe eyes that are not me
I may have loved for far too long;
Calling out to you in my fourth song.

So long as I think more, of thee
What is the crossed feel of the sky?
That knits at the night, and be
Dark, in its spoilt sight of thee.

So long as I long for you, then why
How shall our meres touch, and gaze
At the southern patch of grass
That oft' not frequent love too fast

So long as I want you, then run;
My feelings have all grown numb
As though 'tis an umbrella under the sun
Underneath the eastern hum

So long as I kiss you, then free me;
But to be free is to love you
And the tales that can never be;
I have no signs, I have no clue

So long as I hear you, and be mine
I have wanted to fall in thy line;
I like you there, beneath the sky
You are there for me so high

So long as I love you, come to me;
To relate to me an awkward song
I may be asleep, but love is no wrong
A thousand suns, all along.