Isn't it weird how fast I've fallen?
I already miss your spirit, sunshine.
To be frank, wherever I'm going
I feel the urge to be back all the time

I miss museums and ancient buildings,
The river, the grass and the trees.
I miss the way I was usually feeling
While I was walking down your streets.

I don't honestly know how it happened,
How quickly you captured my heart,
But I could've never imagined
That I'd miss Roma so hard

When she folds into me and weeps,
The world of empty things falls into me
Like the wetness of July in antiquated Rome,
Mother of tears, Mater Lachrymarum, in Forum stone,
The rain-addled veneers of Octavia’s portico.

Gather up these black sickened bellies of ruins,
Turn them out to make hunger the den of the skies,
Let the cracked whisper of each monument and temple
Breathe as Caesar, in unending stillness like a bare road.

A road is the sadness of seeing our beginning
But knowing love its far-off end is foretold.

Let scarlet feathers go
as love does exiled too
One hundred leagues
One hundred Roman feet
One hundred prosody

For Augustus' dreams
condemns me treacherously
and I cannot breathe
Each gasp for life is death
Each death a new stanza

Let scarlet feathers go
as love does in exile, too
across white cloudy fields
beneath the asphalt sea
Let scarlet feathers go free

I'll dance in the graceful moonlight
I'll sing with the mourning crows..
I'll walk with you at midnight
On routes we seldom go.

We'll walk away to Rome.
I'd love to go with you.
Anywhere is peaceful there
My eyes leak fresh morning dew.

I look into your eyes, waiting
For a response to me.
Hoping you'll smile back down
And use the pronoun 'we'

My heart swoons, creeping
Along at lazy pace
And finally speeding up again
When it's me whom you embrace.

After sitting next to you,
And staring at the stars,
Finding constellations,
And mapping adventures far,

My eyelids close then silently,
And in your arms I fall under.
Now sleeping peacefully,
My dreams pique wonders.

Those that weep,
oh weep ‘neath the shadowy, masked spectre of dreamless sleep,
where time refuses to define the state of the lost divine.
These are feeble sheep whom tragedy is want to reap,
whom when faced with fire turn away from the truth of its healing heat,
it is the Shepard’s of the herd who hurdle false virtues with tenacious leaps.

But why oh why should the best of mankind’s minds all dwell on the tortured side of hell?
They either submit to their anguished musings
or are crowned with the fruits of their immaculate offerings,
there is no compromise.
But who has brought back from the abyss, the truth of it?
and who only offers the seedlings of their sufferings?

Was it Nietche shielding the beaten beast of burden?
Was it Mark Twain is his converse between young and old,
of which motor best foretold mans immortal soul?
Was it Nero playing his fickle fiddle whilst Rome was razed to rubble?
Was it Jim Morrison dying with his wine upon the vine
whilst Indian ghosts crowned his fragile eggshell mind?
Was it Bobby Dylan with his ever changing soul touching his bones via lucrative lexicon?
Was it Julias Ceaser as he crossed with hardened heart across the rubicon?
Was it Buddha sitting ‘neath the quiet of his tree whilst the void whispered to thee?
Was it Jack Kerouac upon that rolling road of soulful life,
embracing with equal measure all love and ceaseless strife?
Was it the nameless brave whom have been lost to the ages
of times endlessly cascading pages?
Will it be You in your pursuit
of what your inner vision holds true?
Will it be me in my turbulent sea of bleeding dreams?
None can say but death itself, for he holds the skeleton keys

Ivory towers only seek to alienate;
The ones who cherish an elephants grace.
For those who build their homes
out of the bones
of a dying world
will proudly play their fiddles
as all of the chaos and riddles
of a burning Rome unfurls

Body clock set to Vienna day trips,
walks atop the white cliffs of Dover,
avoiding sunburn in Roman forums -

only here it's flexed bare chests,
belly buttons pierce snail trail hair,
while tattoos sweat through skin.

Discount ***** hangs on booming breath,
headache-inducing marijuana stench
crawls up nostrils from inside pockets

like a chef advertising to the streets
via an air vent. Craving cartoon fantasy -
empathy in the world, even for humidity,

as we wait for a break in proceedings,
I pray the thunderstorms bring fresh relief.

Running under the three moons
Her world is feral, it's her hunting ground
The moon is full

She sings softly with the children of the night
What music they indeed make
The river moves swiftly

Down in the darkness
She rose to the light
Queen of the woods

She shone brightly
Her porcelain skin radiates like a 1000 diamonds

They bow down to her grace
Slept for seven days & seven nights
Her kingdom growing rapidly

Two twins crying loudly
The world was never ready
All her ways paved
To where they will Rome.