I shiver with a nervous chill
As I stand incredibly still.
Dressed in black of silk, twice-pressed,
A rose of red upon my breast.

High King Alasdair lies at rest,
Pickled corpse dressed in solemn best.
Stone-faced priests in ritual vests
Offer up incense cakes to guests.

Silent is the Hall of Passing,
False the tears of those in mourning.
Every sigh a shrilling laugh,
Grief and pain all pre-choreographed.

Seven spiders and fourteen lice,
Coven of liars, lords of vice:
Every one enseated here,
Scheme and plot whilst stewing in fear.

Cosmic thread of lies enweaved,
******* sons and daughters conceived:
Fighting for the Starry Throne–
The sounds of war give pleasured moans.

As a Requiem starts to play,
All who are present bow to pray.
Great and grand Galactic Mass,
Liturgy for a blessed farce.

Past the ghastly Introitus,
"Kyrie Eleison!"–Have mercy on us.
Ships and drones now lie in wait,
Pistols, disablers, knives and fate.

I get up and say my prayers.
Leave this hall of **** betrayers.
As I close the door behind,
Shots now click and fire in kind.

I breathe a sigh: it's coming soon.
Power shifts like the waning moon.
Death and Hades at our door:
Seven-way galactic war.

Her body was acoustic
Her skin a melody
My mind hung on every note
As she sung her life to me

Her passion was a crescendo
Although her tone was soft
With a cadence of bounding horses
She threw my rhythm off

I felt all of my heart strings
Pop, break and go out of tune
Her voice cracked -  All I heard was feedback
As she measured me up from across the room

I walked to her in 3/4 time
I struck up a chord - she told me a rhyme

She was well versed in French poetry
A deep bodied bass with fine copper strings

I was her rosin
I was her trill
Together we sang
We're singing still

Her body acoustic
Her skin a melody
Her mind on different wavelengths
She's the song I sing

I looked over the frame and upward to
Meet your eyes when you passed by
A sidewalk beggar
A kenneled hound would
Present this posture to any passing uncertainty
Doning fangs or long coats and a predatory aura

What's your star sign? Let me guess a Leo?
I felt it. You're strong.
And charming.
Proud even, like a lion.

I'm a Pisces, a romantic...
Oh, you are too? Ok!
You like a challenge as well,
yeah, me too.

And you're an adventurer.
An artist as well. Smart and Free.
I like your soul. Your face. Your body.
I love, your mind.

I barely get lost. I know my way around the world.
I know how to protect myself against monsters.
Even my own. But your eyes;
I'm lost. I know the exit, yet not where they lead to.

Don't give me the map. Its ok.
I can handle it. Let the green light be the guide.
You're fragile and sensitive.
You're bare, unfiltered.

I like that a lot. And you like me too?
I'm...in awe. Wow. You? Really?
I...thank you, beautiful lady.
I appreciate you.

What can you teach me?
Lets exchange lessons.
A give and take.
You seem wise. Enlighten me.

Chuck your documents and bills, your old love letters in
For I am your container, your waste paper bin
I’ll take whatever you give, and I won’t tell a sole
You can count on me, secrecy is my role

I come in all shapes and sizes, with lids and without
You can dispose of whatever you wish, of that there’s no doubt
What goes in the bin stays in the bin, shredded or not
Under a desk, in the corner, your garbage, I’ll take the lot

But should somebody come just to rummage around
I can’t be held responsible for what it is they’ve found
I only hold your papers and don’t know what is contained within
It is not my duty to judge if the papers reveal any sins

Every so often you empty me and the history for you I keep
But you have plenty to refill me, in fact more and more each week
To you I’m just a container, a vessel of no repute
But I’m a hoarder of your *******, of that there’s no dispute

If only I understood all that you lob
That would for me make a very interesting job
Perhaps I could figure out what is fact, fiction or sin
But I know my place I am just a trusty old waste paper bin

Let me ask--
what is worthy of being untitled?

What is the poem or story with so much meaning that it cannot be labeled?

Is my work worthy of being without a title?

Is this poem that meaningful?

Will a title spoil the emotion?

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When we see something untitled, there always seems to be a reoccurring sense of intrigue surrounding it.

I wonder if you'll be intrigued when you read this.

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If I filled this page up with hyphens and forward slashes, would it still be intriguing?

You could say yes, since there could be a secret meaning or code within the longer and shorter lines.

But what if I told you there was no meaning to any of this?

What if everything you're reading in this poem is nonsense?

Would there be any way to know?

You might argue that you could ask me.

But what if there is no answer?

--------------------------------------------------------­-------------------------------------

Now I wonder why you're still interpreting these words.

I hold nothing against you...

I just don't see the point.