An opinion of one or a few is not the earth's population's opinion of you.

Near morning
by the sea
where I tangle
with the shadows
like a cage of sad tigers
by a grave I find a rope ladder
left by a thief
as the tide steals my eyes,
prisoners of time
without a hammer
trying to drive a stake
in the ground
and this is my crime
living and dreaming.

I said I love you in the field of honor
and she was like a colt, her name
like the moon caught in my throat,
she was water I held in my hands
like the canoe I worked through the river,
and she was a flash at two-thirty
in the morning of the suicidal knife,
and she was a fire of pine cones,
a butterfly that lit on the float of my pole,
and she was like the night herself.

Her hair was burning flames, you reached your hand across and continued to braid.
She left a trail of your blood behind her, you cleaned it up as you followed behind.
She took a blade and removed your heart from your rib cage, she still felt it beat in her palms. She left you to die laying on the hard ground and you still watched in awe as she walked away as you closed your eyes forever.