The hours I counted on the clock, until the glass of milk turned cold and sour, then alone did I stop.

Perhaps to sigh, or even to weep, then returned to my vigil, to faithfully keep.

A clock has three hands, a man has two; yet not even a hundred hands may reach you.

So, O Luna, O Moon- be a dear friend and send her my affections, will you. I am waiting, my love, beneath the Midnight's moon... and biting cold winds.

"Tell me," Said the Eagle. "Can you see better than me? For even perched upon my mountain cliff, I can see the sea."

"Oh?" Said the Poet. "You have good eyes indeed. Do tell me now from your mountain cliff, what else can you see?"

"Hmm?" Said the Eagle. "I can see the trees and the many scores of fruits, hidden beneath their leaves."

"Impressive!" Smiled the Poet. "Quite impressive indeed. Do tell me now: Why you hadn't seen those two children, taunting that poor crab by the sea?"

"What?!" Cried the Eagle. "That cannot be." Refocusing his gaze towards the sea.

The Poet pointed. And over there by the trees... you hadn't seen the harvesters busy at work, beneath the leaves.

"How?!" The eagle began to scream. "Your vision poet, it's an eagle's dream."  

"Whatever do you mean? I am a poet, remember, this view belongs to only me."

"We poets have two pair of eyes, that we use to see; one for reality, and the other for dreams."

I miss you, your perfume haunts me in this empty room; though perhaps it's a cruel reminder, that I will see you soon.

Ah, were I to have just one wish, I fear that I might waste it on a kiss; and though lacking wealth, enjoy eternal bliss.

I miss you, truly it is so. So hurry up my love; and come home.

From where should I start to speak, this story's mountain path or its peak? What does it matter, where it be? I pray that these words may be what I wish that I could be: Free.

O Mother dear, O Mother fair, you must know this is not my way; and yet to differ you would say. Your words still ring in my ears: "What are my intentions?" They are clear, my heart cries out but no one ever listens to hear; so I offer up my silent prayer. As a soldier, I will march on; with bleeding scars beneath my spotless battle gear.

And O Father dear, you have no pride, yes, but what of shame? At the thought I could be gay, you suddenly have a son, whom you wish to call and care. I pay no heed with whom you lay, so may this kindness not be repaid? For kindness and compassion you cast blame, those two- those two are humans first, so call them by their names. I will choose my friends, whom I dare, they are not yours to take away.

Now I understand, people talk and talk they may dare. But life is just so much better when you don't care, of people, or what they say. I know what I am at the end of the day.

People smile, while they ask: "Are you okay?" And I smile in kind, then pleasantly reply. "I can't complain or whine." And that is my daily lie; an illusion of happiness for the pain to hide.

I scream out but no one hears, so to You, Father God I offer my silent prayer.  Give me strength for each new day; lest the real me fades away. And please, could you stop these tears, it's kind of hard to type a prayer in the rain.

Those days when you're hardly inspired, we poets have them too. When the pen pressed against the paper, no longer plays its tune.

When you silently reflect, then sighingly regret; whilst eyes are wet. " I should have done this... no I shouldn't have done that!" Pondering why and who. Then wonder no further, cause those moments you see, we poets have them too.

We poets have them too, and arguably more than you. But we poets also live to write, of the sad regrets, the lies and the truth. So, the fight to soldier on, we poets have them too. Each day we write, gripping pen in hand; to start the fight anew.

This is the melancholy of Innocence, so do sit and have a glass. Drink slowly, and savour the taste friends; for innocence shortly lasts. She is as a flower, most beautiful at bloom, but, we must not forget now; that flowers must wither too.

So what is the sadness... the melancholy of Innocence, if all things must pass away? Perhaps it is the longing then, that one's innocence did remain. Yes, the melancholy of Innocence; is that deepest longing, day after day. The longing for something, you know well that you can't regain.