A ewe once wandered freely to the slaughter
And feared no evil in the farmer's glare,
The wolves that pounced upon her noble daughters
Were sated not by chastity laid bare

Her fleece succumbed to ravaged fingers clawing,
Her eyes were drowning in her childrens' fear,
Her heart became a stone, her knees were sprawling
Through blood and mud, her gaze was held austere

She raised herself and looked up to the night sky
And shouted to the gods to hear her name,
With vengeance in her heart she raised herself high
And vowed revenge on those who brought her shame

She led her flock to trample through Colchester,
She led them on to trample London town,
The wolves arrived in battle to ****** her,
They won the day and put her vengeance down

to my darling who feels she's not:
our separation is mere illusion.
truly, your pain strikes me as i write this;
your sensations of abandonment,
and the decisiveness they have caused,
bleed from my skin into the fibers of my clothes.
i am no longer clean.
i do not feel pure.

to my severed arm and shortened tendons:
destruction is merely another side of life.
out of disappearance comes all things-
without space, there would be nothing to contain us,
nothing to allow and enfold our beings' spirits,
and they would sputter and cease like my love's flame.
i am no longer yours.
i do not feel full.

to the farthest star that my eyes can see:
your light reaches me- i glimpse you!
in the perceived emptiness between us
there is no distance to be found;
around us exists the infinite potential for
further connection and deeper growth in closeness.
i am no longer alone.
i do not feel sorrow.

Dark summer days
            when woe is full in bloom, when men of mettle
            bend beneath the load of doleful doubts, backs
            broken by the gloom, heads drooping low from
            stress and strains untold

Rake up your strife,
            rake troubles in a heap, uplift the rug,
            sweep sweep the grime below, and in a sack,
            stuff all the ills you keep to bursting, till
            the sack must overflow

Trundle your woes
            down to the market square, set out a stall
            and hawk to trade your wares.  Like-minded folk
            are cloistered everywhere, imploring you
            to give your sack for theirs

Well friend, would you
            exchange for the unknown, or else relent
            to take your own sack home?

Looking for lost lover's names
in a sea of make-believe.
Name, what is in a name?
Roses and ******* smell the same
no matter what you call them.
Meaning, memory, response,
or the lack thereof.
I was always one to hope
for things already gone.

Sitting beside you in absolute silence
It finally hits me
The answer that evaded me
All these past months

It is not you I love
It is not your touch I crave
It is not your voice I wish to awake to

It was the idea of you
That I fell in love with
An idea so powerful
It stole your being in an attempt
to manifest into reality
Stole your heart to project itself honestly

And foolish little me fell
Fell deep deep in love
Mistaking an idea for you
*** you were the mask behind which idea hid
You were the soul which idea stole
You an innocent victim to Idea's plans

Though the truth of the matter is,
I love you boy
        Wholeheartedly
Your words have the power to make me smile
In the darkest of days
Your hugs have the power to comfort my trembles
Your actions have the power to amuse me in the silliest of ways

But still,
I love idea far more

Express with me
Breathe less with me
Undress with me
Make a mess of me

Break me
Make me
Take from me
Do anything but ache for me

Leave me
Deceive me
Free me
Do anything but be with me