Today,it rained.
I sat down at my piano,
And composed her an apology.

The patter of rain.

I looked outside,
And saw a tempestuous spillage of emotions,
And an unambiguous uttering of poetic truth;
That I never could discover on my own–
I saw the trees tell me explicitly.
God has His ways.
It was one.

I never would have guided,
My ever-so-guarded heart–
To yield with all honor retained,
And accept this silent insatiable feeling–
Love.
It always had been love;
That defeated time,
In the want of immortality,
In the pursuit of eternity;
That was abundant in scarcity,
And that sat like one timid angel,
In the abyss of my heart,
And lit it up.

Today, it rained.
I sat down at my paino,
And felt eternal in the silence between the notes.

Tomorrow, it will rain.
I will sit down at my piano,
And sing a song to the moments of eternity,
That God makes us experience,
Wearing this mortal suit;
In the name of love.

Lover's Hymn:

Notes of music,
Written on a scarlet parchment,
Left unsigned, sound like her;
The sweetest of God's tunes.
Alas, of such a token, vanity be the consummation?

Oh, but then how the Summer Sun,
That the Bard measured his beloved against,
Dissolves into the heavenly ether;
And how the Moon, looks but so marred!
Fie, Mortals, who be no kin to her, whose unwithering grace evades all reason.

By poor sonnets, and by humble songs,
Love's pursuit, that one might consider vain,
Gives eternal joy, for a moment's pain,

Sage's Sermon:

Never, never a lover's discretion believe,
For never a lover's eye does poise fair,
And never does his ear justly measure.
For so is the grasp of unhinged affection;
That a moment's joy seems to last forever,
And a lifetime's misery seems meaningless.

I've put you to sleep with a song,
And you sleep like a rarity,
Lying deep in a treasure chest,
Veiled by the lure of ample gold.

And my lullaby continues,
Yes, much like a prayer it does,
In a mellow light pouring in,
From the stained glass that your church boasts.

But as my voice grows fragile,
This lullaby might go quiet;
Insnity might condemn me,
To deem you dead, to deem love gone.

And thus, I must wait and see,
If you'd remember what I said,
"Lest I should ever think love dead,
Wake up and say, 'It's not, it's not'."

Hark, while the wasteland breathes out silent whims,
And see, as night's aura cloaks distant trees;
A sinister echo of ancient hymns,
Floats up, in a creeping midsummer breeze.

As the miles sum up - an anxious bearing,
Rushes a vague fright up the fragile spine;
But with the city lights on watch, nearing,
This unsettling fear slides down the incline.

The unattended anxiety does go,
Which this travel in the dark did arise;
City lights torch a new fret although,
But far less weary, it, in question, lies.

Wearisome measures of the restless nights,
Merit resistance by the city lights.

A hundred well-metered verses written,
In praise, fall too short, in numbers too few;
And with the lengthened thoughtless hours smitten,
I stay charmed with her eye's impatient hue.


Blind will I go and believe all your lies,
A death will I die for each of your eyes.

Let you be the first thing I behold
On days, the morning sun feels worthless,
On days, the ***** sky seems dusty gray,
On days, the summer wind makes the trees look pale.

And on days, the bags under my eyes mourn life itself,
And on days, the screaming kid next door wakes me,
And on days, the things that I ******* up make me regret.

But I earnestly wish that you be the first thing I behold,
On beautiful sunless noons, when the clouds sing as a choir,
So I could tell you that you look lovely;

And on mid-winter mornings, when gusty wind stops to see the silent grass-blades holding timid dewdrops,
So I could tell you that you look lovely;

And on nights when the drowsy sky stands embroidered with the cosmic jewelry,
So I could tell you that you look lovely.

Let you be the first thing I behold,
So I could tell you that you look lovely,
Each and every day, 'Till death do us part'.

A lean plain-faced insignificant figure,
With a green ribbon around his neck holding a card,
Dressed in the same khaki clothes everyday,
Walks the walk of an old ghost that knows,
Where it has come from,
But has just been denied redemption.
Rather, he has been cursed,
With an object-less stare,
An ear deaf to the world around - and,
Long pointless hours, forcing him to give in,
To a world, he merely dared to live in.