I wither. I fail. I scream
I will not wake. Not ever from what awaits.
Silver abode and dark tusks.
No room for me. No room for mourning.

Sharp tongue and jolly seeming eyes
not aware of the deception
not wary of the sun that sets.
Because dentures and all, silver abodes
with dark tusks.

They come and find me. Not gold. Silver
Nor a gleam of a crown.
A gleam of parchment and sharp ink
for that is my silver and my home.

An evening full of bliss
Dreams and infatuation blooming
Laughter and confidence radiating
Such an evening only results in a morning full of sorrow
As you mourn the loss of feeling alive
A feeling which only sparks but once every season

we think we know
what love should be
and that
is why reality
is so painful.

a man's word
is all he has,
a poet's word
may just be
a pipe dream.