that girl with blue eyes
ice-cold rays of rising flames
how gentle they seemed

those darkened clouds cried
and im a fool
for thinking the tears were real

The point I try to make
Is that there is no point at all
When you are gone from this world
You are gone and that is all
You may be remembered
But that will not be for long
So I repeat
The point I try to make
Is that there is no point at all

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert… Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

I want to give you something beautiful
a hand touches the hair tenderly behind your ear
caressing warmth down to the skin of your neck
it is your hand or is it my hand or is it this line
sliding downwards from your hair
onto the skin along the nape of your neck
reversing the chill of this nights air
with soft warm skin that feels for
just the right taste
that you arch against