The fire's burning higher, fulfilling all of my desires
Men kneel before me, asking for my commands
They stand before me now as soldiers, seizing the neighboring lands
As I sit upon my throne, gazing upon the world
Everything in my sight is mine
All I had to do was leave my old life behind
For the trade was simple: a soul for a soul
Little did he know, I had already made a deal
Earth is mine for a certain amount of time, like water in a bowl
Upstairs they gave me a coin called the doulip
Enchanted with enough power to perform a soul steal
My purpose unknown but my life's work has just begun

Untradeable. Pain is silver,
Sterling. Serrated, dual-faced coin.
Its flip side, a mirror.

In the water
Our spinning coins join to
reflect a halo round the moon,

Beautifully glowing in place before the inevitable fall.

there is a well
in the middle of the road i walk on the way home
everytime
everyday
every chance i get, i toss a coin inside
it's an endless cycle, a routine of stopping in the middle of the road,
tossing a coin,
and whispering your name
over and over again under my breath
the well is old and aged, its walls beginning to grow moss
but everytime i throw a coin inside
those mossy walls turn into a portal,
a gate into space
my coin lands into the nightsky, 
taking its place as one of the stars;

i have thrown many, many coins
and i am reminded each time
when i look up at night
that you take the form of a wish fit neatly into a coin,
and my wish lies among the stars.

Ones worth is not the coin,
            

                              but the actions


that lead us to a better understanding
                                   of what it means to be human.

Morality is the birth of togetherness,
                      we are one but separately unique.

Fall to me, all you streets of Rome,
With your embrowned oils from torched walls and breccia of shadows,
The pizzicato of stairways and afternoon slowly closed
Like the thick, leathery-echo from this book of all roads.

Fallen, smoldering empire of storefronts and back-shop heirlooms,
Your lupine hills unbound with milk of cur in the wind and woods,
To your fallow fields rowed deep by a conquest of oars,
To the deepest silence and soot-muted oneness of Pompeii,
And a sky that is an ancient coin, without worth,
But still rubbed smooth at the edges by overfond lovers.