Here is what I do know now,
A few things learned from you,
Fairy tales do not exist;
Though our love is so true.
There will not be a rider
On a steed so very white
No kiss to resurrect me
Even though this feels so right.
No prince to make me royalty
No savior when I fall
No one surrenders anymore
No. No one, not at all.
Practicality now says
Two can not just become one
We must now sign a contract
Before any merger's done.
So true love now is jaded
While reason wins yet again
No exchange of any vows
Save for paper and a pen.

Y'know the way music Bands like to look cool and dark and mysterious
  on their album covers
Well I had an idea for an album cover for an
  imaginary music group/band
It'd be set in a toilet factory (of all places)
So there'd be all these toilets fresh off the
  production line
And the lead singer would be sitting on one toilet at the front with a grumpy
  frustrated look on his face
As if he was really constipated (now it'd be all done quite decorously i.e.
  they wouldn't have their pants down)
Beside him sitting on another toilet would be another Band member with a
  big broad grin on his face as if he'd just done a nice healthy ****
Behind them would be another Band member standing up looking down into
  one of the toilets as if he's just seen  something weird
And lastly there'd be another Band member and he'd have one of his legs and
  foot actually stuck in one of the toilet bowls of one of the toilets.

It'd be a debut album named after the Band itself
And the Band's name would be

                  "The Undecided"

She sits in
the truck, quietly
waiting for her
husband.
Spring's broken
promise.
25 degrees.
She thinks about the
robins, and their sweet
song.
She can almost see
the daffodils,
butter yellow.
She thinks of pancakes,
breakfast with the
family,
and all those caged
animals at the zoo,
with their poor,
tired, glazed eyes.

I hear the deep soft clanging windchimes
and catch their movement in the wind
a sad flute sings an elegy
the green plants gently strain for rays
the sound of the heater
its warmth on my left leg and thigh
the wide body of the hawk
gracefully swoops down beyond the windows.

These seconds abiding
in the intense present
make long hours and ennui days
worth any minor miseries.

I'm lonely as a
dancing ghost in
empty Halls,
waltzing through
memories of a
Banquet set for
many, yet no one arrived.

I long for
her on winter nights
when Christmas is a lie.