When tears have filled and dried the bluest eyes
and warnings cast a shadow made of stone
no sun nor moon can peel away disguise
that leaves me standing in this crowd alone.

Whose hands are these which dare to cross that line,
you know the line, between the pure and slaves
where man is boy and boy does long for fine
as memories become the blackened caves?

I set myself to write a sonnet now
a style which gives me headaches, starts and fits
and turns my thinning hair more scant and gray
I might as well try growing perky tits

Bare brow now furrows on my old head
to join the other wrinkles living there
and eyes now squint with queasy sense of dread
this page remains, yet, pristine white and bare

I think and count and count and think some more
I pick up a Webster's worn and torn
my temple throbs just like it has before
in darkness on this rainy winter morn

My heart did thump in such a coldish breast
As once she passed my sight, then I am dumb
I heard no sound, my brain was dark and numb
They went, my ears, my friend said “This, the test"

With nothing signaling she'd noticed me
I'd not abandon hope, I'd never doubt
My love, she was, I would so often shout
I tried so hard, I worked to make her see

I live and die by my integrity
as much by stirring shit for fun alone
awaiting better things, imperfectly
and so my work is never nearly done
The arrogance is clear to all who see
To make a change in other's work belies
a heartless sod who cares too much to be
yet who could blame my care for more than lies?
I blame and shame and censure all of you
would you do less? I care for prosody
no stronger art in all the world that's true
less than truth is less by far than parody

some say we’re just a freak of nature’s growth
that sentience is solely due to this
and rational, scientific brains are loath
to even contemplate a future bliss

they say that when we die we’re finished, past
from dust we come and so to dust return
there’s nothing in this world that’s made to last
and truth beyond, we simply can't discern

although, it’s true, from here has gone his spark
while sat in tranquil introspective thought
his love has borne me down that tunnel dark
and peaceful, blest illumination brought

What lies beneath an angel's smile and grace?
A devil hides to plant his seed of greed,
deceiving you with words and gentle face,
the mental games he plays to make you bleed

A charlatan, the crook disguised as friend
A mastermind who'll break and crush your heart.
He plays you like a toy until the end
before he dumps you like a broken art.

He has no peace of mind like you and me,
devoid of guilt and shame that makes a man
The imp in mortal flesh he likes to be
he hides, he runs, no hope for better plan

your light’s no longer part of Earthly play
since many years, you woke beyond the cloak
my inmost centre misses every day
a smile from you, a hug, a wink, a joke

if only life could be reversed in time
I’d somehow, someway, journey back to then
to where, my son, your cosmos merged with mine
your smile, your voice and touch enjoy again

but cheating seconds, minutes, even hours
a parting yet once more would be our fate
the pain to bear anew... the moment sours
at thought of that, it does my hunger sate

A ghast|ly win|ter bug |now has| me cross
I wish| this drip| py nose| to end| its race
To ease| this brok|en tooth| and swol|len face
My fleet|ing week|end plans| derailed| is lost

A tooth| thus far| havocked| inside| my mouth
My pa|rotid| glands is swol|len eat|ing candy| that's tart
Before| I be|gin throw|ing ver|bal darts
To stop| the pain| and swell|ing ra|veging| my life

I write, my fingers bleed, I write some more.
A strange chartreusian charm it blends and spills.
The marks are mad as if I fuck a whore
and soon I break another lifeless quill.

But what it is I write, there lay the rub,
for I am clueless as to all this fuss.
My fingers, hand with which I write I stub
and tear the quills and drain the ink and cuss.

Blessed, what I write is in my teeming mind
if not upon the black, blood stainéd page:
of love and need beyond this life to find
and how I reek of illness and of age.

what trickster great this phony season fall
Demeter’s soul allures as Autumn nears
disguising, well, herself to one and all
appears and walks and sings lamenting tears

adorning young Persephone’s silk song
betraying virtues innocent to bloom
with feign’ed prophesy that’s false and wrong
deserting them, to fade and die too soon

and yet to judge her beauty I am loath
until the cold wet winds descend discord
and bring the long soft slumbering of growth
the sweet deceiver’s gifts are all adored