Poorly holding up to the harsh assault
Mal reggendo all’aspro assalto
well, if that's so, aight,
and this is the test, we took  it,

what would ya thank for that, eh?

Heavy metal, anvils are the archetype,
before Iron Horses and world tying steel
industrial spirit to try like hell
to move a mountain told to move,
ai, we had a form of free press, indeed

and steam, bound in cylinders ground
and smoothed to specs a micron or two
from perfectly round, squared center to edge,
by pi, the idea, we need
to make compassion,
compass me round about, and think me mad,
with deep and sensitive gentle assurance,
ai, we made the crossing, we're on
the other side.

I'm not, I am a little drunk.
Rare state, feels familiar, kind of rejuvenating.

Wisdom smiles on those who try,
and try again.

Remember all this is after we won heaven,
by being invincibly ignorant as to why not.

In the garden, we drank cherry wine—  
it was summer, but already the world was burning
You said love could outlast history,  
could outlast the soil we buried our dead in
But even then, your hand trembled in mine,  
as if holding on was a kind of politics  

You, my lover, spoke of revolution  
like it was a season that would never end
And yet, beneath the vines, beneath the sun,  
I could see the rot setting in—  
even sweetness grows bitter in time,  
even love turns sour with too much hope

What remains is the taste of fruit on my tongue,  
as the world smolders, as you fade  
into the distance of what we cannot save

I grew up as the bed grew bigger than me, underneath there were the roots of a dream that I used to forget; I lost in the card game and you still have a lot of tricks under your sleeve.

And I will yearn if I was still the one in your anticipation; you wear it like a Sunday best and wear it out when you don't feel like yourself.

And I'll follow the traces of your footsteps crawling as vines. What all my words worth if they are a noose entangling my limbs? honey, the roses scented faintly of blood, too.

And I will carry the weight of this spineless home.

The rose of love withered on the vine
In lifeless disposition she'd remain
Her syrupy nectar slowly did decline
A bewailing sorrow in ending twain
No recapture of a past happiness
The petals perished browning to dark
Disappearing elation's gleefulness
A flower's heart minus her loving spark
Without the touch of fondness on the bloom
Her brilliant brightness faded well away
Those wondrous days were replaced by gloom
Sombre melancholy of saddest pall's shay
As dusk's hour turns to the dying closeness
Reflect on the rose's mood of dimness

Two hearts bound,
Twining round
A thorny vine.
It's yours and mine.

Two hearts bleed.
My guilt, your greed.
You took away
My yesterday.

Two hearts kiss.
You longed for this.
I stood my ground.
Now we are bound.

Fruit goes off.
It gets mushy and smelly,
losing its colour and beauty - losing its taste,
eventually drying out,
losing all resemblance of what it once was,
only good for waste.

But fruit nurtured by a master grower,
a seasoned gardener,
fruit watched and watered til ripe and at its peak,
this fruit is harvested, fermented,
blended til building to a fuller physique,
brought to full maturity til ready for the table
and the banquet where no one's poor
and no-one is able to maintain a semblance of meek.

- where the gardener and the wine maker,
sit at the top seats smiling their blessing.
And the table branches out
giving room enough for the whole family gathering.

And the feast to end all feasts begins.

Grape vine held out her soft hands
Red pine bow down and hold hands
Will they care not my shy look?
Love in dark woods that thrive lands.