The temperamental sea caresses,
Along the defenseless shore,
As gentle as a maiden undresses,
Or as hard as the hammer of Thor,
Likewise her moods they vary,
The helpless shore is me,
And as the comparison confesses,
My girls the wild sea.

My heart held captive,
Within a betrayal,
And to no avail,
My soul endures.
Love corrupts innocence,
And her tainted smile,
That so beguiles,
Holds no cure.

Once a believer,
Who caressed and sighed,
And lived a lie,
Of sweet embrace.
Now a prisoner,
Who can never escape,
Her poetic shape,
Her pretty face.

She gives the gift of love,
From where all poetry springs,
And of life,
The joy and the dispair,
That it brings.

The eternal essence of her,
This beautiful paradox,
Pretty flower,
That on a whim,
Could either crush or empower,
The fragile essence,
Of him.

Equidistant of heaven and earth,
And against the azure canvas of sky,
Like the fabled Phoenix rebirth,
He ascends the eternal realm on high.

Helios beckons him ever higher,
Poseidons's bounty awaits below,
Barren belly but wings of fire,
He has to choose which way go

Life awaits him near the ground,
And in the upper sphere it burns,
But he is never likely to be found,
Because to the light,
He turns.

Unknown to each other, in this life,
Now buried just feet apart,
She died of a fatal overdose,
He of a broken heart.

Strangers though they might of been,
Their paths one day did cross,
A fleeting glance while passing by,
Then a curious sence of loss.

Now neighbours till the end of time,
They share a bed of clay,
Her tombstone is white marble,
His a mottled grey.

With sunrise the threat of oppression,
As the first rays filter through,
They saturate the garden,
And drink the morning dew.

The chitter chatter of birdsong,
Floats gently through the air,
And I marvel at creation,
Contented without a care.

But just as the warmth of the morning sun,
Belighs the true strength of its beams,
As in this tranquil setting,
All is not as it seems.

A mantis eats the head of her lover,
Ants tear away at flesh,
Everything scatters and ducks for cover,
For the hawks talons equal certain death.

My once contented mind is shaken,
A cruel dose of reality,
For life is just a constant test,
Of survivability.

The sweetest of tears,
Golden girl cries,
As poems and songs,
Cascade from her eye's,
To honeycomb seas,
And coppertone skies.

Should I love this world before I die?
The sun,wind,earth and sky,
And embrace these gifts of poetic devotion,
With appreciation, and warm emotion.

Or  should I view the world more cynically ?
Because of my mortality,
And see it all with a colder notion,
As nothing more, than matter in motion.

Hear the voices from the mountain,
Hark the whispers from the sea,
Come ye all drink from the fountain,
And quench the thirst of destiny.

Fear not the tombs eternal darkness,
Only that within your soul,
Take a grip and strive to harness,
The unflinching spirit of the bold.

I stood before a boundless field,
Bleak and stark under under a brooding sky,
The shifting clouds sometimes revealed,
A crow, circling on high.

A gentle breeze whispered there,
Only heard by hearts that grieve,
Agitating the acrid air,
Stirring the fallen leaves.

A drowsy numbness pervaded my soul,
An emptiness from deep within,
The time is nigh to pay the toll,
For every mortal sin.

Then at once I felt a chill,
As I crossed the threshold of the field,
The beating of my heart went still,
Every scar unheald.

A final memory flashed through my mind,
As I passed over to the other side,
Of everything I left behind,
In the time before I died,
The time before I died.

The clock ticks the world turns,
One second to go of my last hour,
"He's gone" a voice I thought I heard,
A taste of flesh , a scent thats sour.

My soul departs this life with scorn,
And leaves no tears or hearts that mourn,
Just a clock that ticks and a world that turns,
And a bell that's struck atop the tower.

Long before she rides the herse,
Kronos gifts his cruelest curse,
All maidens lose their subtle power,
Their  sweetness will in time turn sour.

Flowers bloom a bright array,
Of colors on a summers day,
But seasons change the light to shade,
And winter makes the colors fade.

A maiden holds a blooming flower,
Both prisoners within an hour,
For time will take away their crown,
And beauty lost is never found.

They gathered beneath an opaque sky,
And braced against a frigid breeze,
That flurried and stired the fallen leaves,
The sun was pallid and about to die.

I caught the scent of broken ground,
And looked up into their hollow hearts,
Their faces wore a solemn mask,
That conveyed a love unfound.

Your vacant eyes held no tears,
And saw straight through my forsaken soul,
Your beating heart could not console,
The lost lamented years.

For a moment across your mind there flies,
The flash of a life that might of been,
Lost within the swirling leaves,
And a pallid sun,about to die.

The hearts of all men arise,
Her grace so soft so elegant,
Upon a meeting with her eye's,

A spell thats cast with innocence.

Springtime play and winters lament,
Reflect within her counternance,
Memories of the seasons spent,

A spell thats cast with innocence.

A maiden of the purest heart,
She domminates my conciosnes,
A beauty thats described as art,

A spell thats cast with innocence.

The power of her sweet allure,
Justifies my reverence,
Though all I require is a cure,

From her spell thats cast with innocence.

My hand breaks through,
Suddenly exposed to the chill,
From the very living air,
Of the cemetery on the hill.
Fingers caress the cold damp headstone,
And feel like braille the name,
Mine still,
And then retract back through earth,
To join me confused,
For i cannot recall how i was killed.

Within a universe of a trillion suns,
Through the emptiness and dispair,
She demands all love, with a bark that comes,
From the bottom of the stairs.

Two hearts respond, to the call,
Then heave a collective sigh,
For memories echo, lingers on,
For the little dog that died.

With a heavy heart the vicar,
Looks upon the cemetery lawn,
Then arrives the old grave digger,
A cold and overcast morn.

Callused  hands then grip the shovel,
Thus begins the old mans toil,
A bed for the no longer living,
Through hard but familiar soil.

There is thunder in the distance,
As the rain begins to fall,
But he keeps right on working,
And ignores the vicars call.

For the rain is masking tears,
Cried for the first time in his life,
Must make this last hole special,
The one to hold his wife.

A grave of perfect proportions,
A mixture of mud and ****** tears,
Is all that he can give her,
A wife of forty years.

His friend the vicar approaches,
Two men silent in the rain,
Callused hands release the shovel,
Never to be gripped again.