To be here, to be there, and not to be;
   Thou hath the whole rivers inside of me,
Thou art a night, a lonely sunny day;
   That hath melted my souls away.
To be thy blood, thy lover, thy asylum;
   To dwell within thee, to become thy poems.
Thou hath carried all my dried wounds away;
   Thou art meant for me, and I shall stay.

Their peaceful songs, too much noise;
   Titled feuds, crowned falsehoods,
My homeland, unknown to my youth;
   Stealing my sanity, my warmed voice.
Their music too, from a broken home;
   Telling me they would ne’er come;
My hometown, yet foreign to me;
   Adrift in bulk, losing my poetry.

To be here, to live, but not to see;
   Yet to be unchained, and break free,
Thou art a yard, a bush, a pear tree;
   Thou yield the whole love inside of me,
Thou stirred the birth of my presence;
   Thou breathed love to my concerns.
Thou art my reverence, my faith;
   Thou revoked my disgrace, my hate.

Their masterpiece, vainly serene;
   When they could sing, I was not seen;
Too common, like the youth about us
   Not knowing when life could go past.
Today shall end, but merely so
   They could not smell yesterday, no;
Nor shall their hard grieves glance further,
   Now, everlastingly, forever.

I long to be in tales faraway;
   That they shall not see me in today;
Not in winter, nor the heat of June;
   Not in daylight, nor under the moon.
Not in water, nor stark frost;
   They could not see me under their rose;
Then I could break free, I could see you
   To tell you about the truth, to give you—my love.

One island is too grey to me;
   To the southern edge of Earth;
If I said I could sail for thee;
   Would thou be my tree, my hearth?
But not to be here, ever and again;
    To clear my soul of their sold pain,
To be alone, but I could be fine;
    To head to the North with my mind.

One soil thought she was too charming;
    Nor that I knew them, that morning,
And in spring, their snarky heirs
    Bowed down to *** and stark roses;
None of what I did look fair,
    Nor the clean spruce of my prose.
Everywhere I went, just the ground
    Grinning kindly at my crusted sounds.

One land was too high, and glamour
    Encapped the heights of its odour;
Encompassing the love I had, and here
    This is the land of birth, but hear—
Love is felt nowhere close to me, so
    I shall be bound to the other I know;
I shall launch my sails, and my voyage
    Departs at time’s coming of age.

One ground became too proud, and he
    Lifted himself off the myriads of me;
The rebel, the judge, the jubilant
    The only consolation I wanted;
He could not catch in me, my sanctity
    And all love putrefied, and died.
To whom, that I became, still a mystery
    A waste, a wailing, a soiled story.

To run free, to breathe away from here
   To become the whole calls I hear;
Being the roads with stars and sunlight
   By the rosebuds of the Northern Light.
To be the prominent in me, and to thee
   That I come home, every day and night;
To be free to love, and blindly sing
    Until dawn comes to force, on chaste mornings.

To come closer, to be with you
    To drift away from wrong to true;
And call my love back again, from the woods
    Planted wild in mists and dreamful shadows.
To call you home, by the green fields
    With careened paths and gravel shields;
To be the poet again, the one I have—
    To embrace all that I once left.

To be thy finger, thy wrist, thy face;
   To be sole white and pure of lace;
To be the accessories of thy dreams;
   To be the wife of thy white nights.
When thou heard the frost, and screamed;
   My nights went more fearful then they seemed,
Too much fate and moist, poorly blended;
   My nightmares then ne’er ended.

To be the living, the door, the house;
   To drench the desires thou aroused,
To be the winter, the lilac to behold;
   To be felt as my love goes too bold,
And not ignored as I go beyond;
   Not to be halted, be scorned, be torn,
I have loved every day, every night—
   Then I have dreamt of your bluest sight.
  
To cherish my breath, my air, my chest;
   The living power of all our flesh,
The hungriness, but knowledge of my heart
   Not to take our exchanged poems apart;
For I have played my part, and kept my love
   For you, and as here ‘tis not enough;
I have loved, and unloved again
   My heart hath been a scorching pain.

To swim in this image of thine, and see
    Which memory I shall keep to me;
In which my arts shall come to presence
    From noon to night, and prevalent;
In which t’ere is only omnipresence
    With luminous pages, and their scent;
Too ambiguous too deny, clear to hate
    They shall admire it, though ‘tis late.

To be the vine, and grapes of thy yard
    To be the fine fruits of toil, so hard;
To be the last one to read the sky, that
    I shall still embrace, to the last.
Not to be here, in that life again;
    Only the sorrows and dramas of pain,
I shall soar for a greater gain;
    Feeding off clouds, drinking the rain.

To be the tales, rhythms of my heart;
    To admire from far away,
And unite back again when ‘tis time;
    All those cascades of madness and solitude;
Now, all smaller poesies shall rise and rhyme;
   Calling the same hymns and magnitude;
I shall be there, and not long now—
    I’ll stand still, and not flinch somehow.

To be the dress, the fashion of my love;
    My feelings now imitate the skies,
All emotions are moderate, and enough
    My heartbeat shall tell no lies;
Then, all torn sonnets cross my mind;
    At that time though, thou shall be mine;
I shall be there soon, tomorrow—
   Wait for me there, as thou shall know.

To be the kind, the temperate of my heart
   To be the pen and the poem, the bard;
All notions are justified, and seen
    It shall be autumn that I arrive in;
When, all stanzas clearly written
    And all workings exotic and firmed;
At that time though, thou shall see—
   All the loving and excitement in me.

To be the warmth, the sustained cold
    And the reason my sight still beholds;
All thoughts are visible, and bearable
    All daydreamed paths grow’n feasible;
That, all visions notably bound
    Thou shall embrace my tones and sounds;
With graceful moves, lithe and sleek
    I cometh to love thee, every day of the week.

To be the charm, the one in thy arms
    I shall surrender to Midnight’s swarms;
And be the one for thee, for the night
   Over all brief and lengthy sights;
There, holding thee all winter and summer
   A destination that lasts forever;
At that time soon, thou shall love me
   And my presence of eternity.

To be the destiny, on carpeted nights
   That magic works through our frights;
Making fears but a buoyant gift,
   And the beauty of the night so deep.
Holding me, lulling thyself to sleep
   A slumber to remember, too keep.
Thy florid hair falling into my face;
   Thy locks flirting with my embrace.

To be the envisioned, the right
   To be thy illusion, thy envied night;
And be the one who shall not fail
   I shall crumble out of my wooden shell;
To throw myself into that golden mark
   That becomes thee, oft’ by fall’n sparks;
To come with boughs of joy, and laugh;
   To fulfill thee with all my love.

I felt your touch, I felt you here;
None was clearer than your presence;
With so much clarity, I dreamt;
Feeling your grasp, hearing your name.

No sound is lost, I am still sane;
Your rain, your steps, all in my pain;
The sparkling storms you cast;
The love we had, that did not last.

Within my arms, you are still cold;
Your frozen pictures remain bold;
And your puzzles have haunted me;
Teasing my frazzled fantasies.

Within my heart, you are still tears;
That you remain as pallid fears;
You said none to my lonely nights;
Silent to faint signs of delights.

Within my health, you smell like death;
I loved you once, hence now too late;
That even poetics may not see;
The reason for me, to love thee.

Within the winds, you grow like rage;
Not assembled for youth and age;
A toxic to living beings;
A disease to wondrous mornings;

Within fate, you are the fault;
There stays no reason to behold;
To bear these silenced tears for thee
All have no more reasons for me.

Within love, you are the sin;
Gliding away, not to be seen;
And overnight, you were then gone
Leaving my unread poems, alone.

Too much noise, too much misery;
    Fake beauty, false flattery;
Feigned tears, faint hearts;
    Mock presents, dainty pasts.
Too much singing, too much song;
    Far too empty, too wrong.

Too regular, too feminine;
    Too much constancy seen.
Too insincere, too blind;
    Too raucous to one’s mind.
Unhearing, unloving;
    Unknowing, unseeing.

Inconsistent, ravaged, savage;
    Not aware of youth and age.
Not knowing sins are fatal;
    Not knowing worlds call chaos.
Not seeing lives are mortal;
    Not seeing value, nor loss.

Too defined, too thin, too fair;
    No curious touch nor flair;
Not jubilant, nor merciful;
    Not knowing arts are plentiful.
Not voice, nor titles, nor vice;
    Not pictures, nor pride, nor lies.

Too soothing, too tedious;
    Too apparent, too obvious;
Too gracious, too grainless;
    Not an emblem of happiness;
Not distinctive, nor charming;
    Not distinguished, nor loving.

Too engaged, too dim, too forgetful;
    Too separate, too disgraceful;
Too priceless, too sensuous;
    No realness is to them, wondrous;
Too unbecoming, too wishful;
    Too known, too gay, too sinful.

Too delighted, but evil to me;
    Those boasting beauties of thee;
I am not part, nor flesh of thine;
    I live with the voice in my mind;
I love in silence, in seclusion;
    Only mirth salves my delusion;

Too sparkling, but mean still;
   Unknowing towards those I feel;
I cannot be, nor shall I be;
   I shall not place my soul in thee;
Thy voice remaineth loved still;
   But to love thee, I never will.

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.

To call you my past, my present
To embrace you as times last;
To drown in your recent moments
To drink in the love of your past.

To be the mist of your sunrise;
To be the dew of your music,
To be poetic, and not to be poetic;
To be the avant-garde of thy skies.

To delight you, to call you home;
To make you my Northern Light,
To hold you through my day and night;
To sail through you with my poems.

To be your lullaby in mind;
To call you my own, just mine,
To be your moon, my Toronto;
To be your winter, your snow.

I saw you among realms of light;
In everlasting radiance gleaming,
With those twinkling seraphs at night;
And pink sonnets in the morning.

I loved you at the first of sights;
More greatly than all yon loving,
With my desires wrapt in blue sighs;
With aurochs and angels singing.

You held me close with temptation;
And as a first love ne’er drowns,
You are my last destination;
The only one to love, alone.

You startled me with sensation;
You conquered me and my half,
Painting me and my vision;
Dazzling me and my love.

Dear friend, far off, my lost desire,
  So far, so near in woe and weal;
  O loved the most, when most I feel
There is a lower and a higher;

Known and unknown; human, divine;
  Sweet human hand and lips and eye;
  Dear heavenly friend that canst not die,
Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine;

Strange friend, past, present, and to be;
  Loved deeplier, darklier understood;
  Behold, I dream a dream of good,
And mingle all the world with thee.

With smug delight have I loved thee;
With pride, with confidence.
With joy, with finery;
With hope, with a coincidence.

With tears have I wanted;
With feelings have I failed.
I was too young to have a wit;
To fall in love, from my shell.

Thou, strained outside the brook;
With glittery eyes glancing past;
Meeting mine, drawn to look;
Kneeling on the green grass.

Sensing me, my young fabric;
And the perfume of my love,
I was strong, yet too weak;
My love was keen and lunatic.

I grew awake at midnight hours;
But not that my heart ever slept,
Nearing to me, my quiet slumbers;
Thou came by to sit, and wept.

I grew idyllic, and sang;
Then thy voice rang through
The hot night, and sprang
On to my silent summer hue.

I looked at thee, and stumbled
Upon my own lulled, mumbling words;
How couldst a soul be so humbled
Amongst the busied human worlds?

I was the Mermaid; that was all
Nobody came to me but at nightfall;
But how couldst they be charmed by me?
The ivy thought, my name was awry

Inhuman, toxicated, amiss;
Never wouldst I deserve a kiss,
Not even one on my behalf;
I learned to love just behind the walls.

Those of the lake, before thou came;
And the grand of thine appeared in time,
For thee, that I wouldst feel the same;
Thou saw me through, called out my name.

Those of the water, as I had tasted;
With lilies and rosebuds to my right,
Oft’ at night, I swam to the surface
To the hauntingly fierce nights.

Love sounded sordid, that I knew;
I didst not believe it all anew,
Myths had it that thou wouldst not see—
Nor hear, nor hold any faith in me.

Love sounded true, in the heavens;
The human realms I imagined,
Not that of my brethren,
Not the one that I had seen.

Tales had it that thou could see;
For it wouldst be too much disgust,
To watch my deserted land, to be
In a love that wouldst not last.

But thou caught me in that lilac stream;
A stream filled with young lavenders,
And their naked, infatuated dreams,
West to my natural heavens, ever.

But thou didst, that thou listened;
Within my fears, thy eyes glistened,
And I couldst locate but the scars—
Those remnants pottering thy hearts.

That I wouldst dearly heal, my love;
An injury that had been buried;
The dismembered once enough;
The despaired of a heartbeat.

That I wouldst listen, as thou spoke;
To cure the devils of all shock;
To return thy heart to what should be;
To stir thy love just for me.

What if my hours pierced the night;
And injured me again tonight;
Wouldst thou be my lover still,
Be a danger to what I feel.

What if my lungs felt thy voice;
To send thee to a stern standstill;
From this cursed being, and heal;
To forget me, back in human bliss.

What if I console, and thou refuse;
What if thy world without my poems,
What is my chorus, is it of use?
What is the melody of my doom?

What if I dance to unborn stars,
What if I wished to heal thy scars,
What if we battled in all wars,
What if we loved with all our hearts?

And thou, lamenting there every night;
Listening to me ‘till sunlight;
And flew away on summer mornings;
To retreat more, on beloved evenings.

And thou, being the hymn of all roses;
The moss, the found, the lost;
Thou read to me, on those hot days;
Thou heard my words close, every day.

The stubborn dose of blue eyes;
Bewitching to the counting skies;
Resembling all my lonely nights,
Burning the wrong, turning all right;

That handful of red lips;
Scratching at my beds of tulips;
Like the scorching gloss of sunset;
Red but defined, just mad.

That hand, that flesh, those cheeks;
Mine in my mind and all those weeks;
My human friend, my love
Having him was solitude enough.

That kiss, that warmth, were fluid;
I had plenty of them, my sweet;
He smelled like the moon, my prince—
He was mine, he had been.

The lightning ruined it for me;
On a day of summer sunshine;
Clawing into the pure skyline,
Making all too broken to see.

The sun made its way, and killed
My shielding of all was displaced;
She struck the birch trees on the hill;
“T’is is not over,” she said.

She moved to the lake, and all—
Ran as waters moved on to fall;
Then she startled my lover, lazing
On my lap, flirting and singing.

And I heard his scream, his death
Approaching him from gurgling earth;
The sun prodded his life, his breath
Shrinking him into frosted dirt;

The sun shrieked in jubilance;
Enraging my disgusted stance;
Laying my lover’s tossed head;
I squeezed and whined, hoping for death;

A few hours passed, the sun won
Flocking to welcome dawn again;
The night watched dead, with air torn
Leaving me spread in passing pain.

Five minutes passed; the dawning air
A guiltless foul, but naïve and fair
Carrying her rose in a dead odour;
With a stained presence, emptied colour.

I was wicked, I was angered;
I rose from busted land, and water;
Dragging along my pointed soul
I stood unfazed; perched in the cold.

I clicked my fingers and opened blood;
Then dawn bled from its heart;
The wound, piercing its sonorous veins
Watching her out and about in pain.

I rubbed my palms, and thick streams
Shot at the sun’s paled surface;
I killed in arrays of white dreams,
I destroyed in horror, in haste.

I touched the ground, and strokes of mud
Launch their ways to the skies, out loud;
Washing all brown earth off summers,
And all its threats and sworn powers;

Around my arms were they;
Those humans, having none to say,
But to run, to their human lovers;
They couldst—and wouldst be together.

My immense rage bottled me,
And I ended those lovers to be;
Leaving the cold universe to my own
And my bloodied moors, my lake alone;

And I was there, that death passed by;
A curse that wouldst see me lie—
By the raised legend of the sky,
That I couldst **** then I wouldst die.

And I was there, that he came round;
My dying body that he found;
In a gone soul, a friction;
An oval ghost, an apparition.

And I lay there, with him;
Welcoming death to our dreams;
And our lips, in thrumming kisses;
By our dead hearts, dead impulses.

And I lay there, by his side;
Basking in the life of the night;
Blending our arts, our idyll—
Celebrating what we couldst feel.

And I slept there, with my whole;
I didst not feel all that was cold;
Running my hand through his bronze hair
All of a sudden; all felt fair.

And I lived there, with my love;
He was ever my spirit and laugh,
He was ever my sweet, my loving;
He was to me my everything.