What metaphor could meet a love-lost pain?
A dove cry only; has the breeze which hears,
and broken shards of wine could merely stain
tho' love-break shades the red off Merlot's peers.

A scarring heart has love enclosed in seal
to live a scab within the sorely chest
but challenge those; who can produce such zeal
as to remand the flow of Cupid's pest.

A winter's rose; has love's same-stem alive
tho' dormant, doubt the same love-limbs regrow
perhaps there's none that meet, that grief revive
may take them all and have ones love in woe.

No glass could break the same, no single tone
could have one's sorrowed heart, as tho' to own.

O' blind the sun, and send the blackness far
as I do wither, old like summer leaves
in warm uncertain winds, the wrinkles scar
of seasons gone, as from my youth it thieves.

The night denies the golden mirror's vim
I see all better with my future's sight
that soon my sun will cloak, and rays will dim
I wonder if the stars are souls a-bright?

I eye a starry four, alike my own
and chose a space; the youngest would, above
ah! Take me there, sweet angels to my throne!
That shine I may, unlike my lifeless love.

A spectre in the night, a hopeful end
for here I lost, but there will I ascend!

My love is tone-deaf, I can't hear the pitch
the sweetly nothings, all are nothing songs
and should the heated notes and lyrics switch
I'd be in dated tunes that none belongs.

Now when its time to play, or when to pray
or spice be added too, I tie in knots
love tangled strings that missed the rosy way
like sheets of music bare of noted dots.

Ah! Love of mine still echoes, ringing truth
abundant mess, yet has it's worth in wealth
to sound my gold then listen for my youth
for hearts that sing, meet not a lover's stealth.


So if romantic pleasures sing to meet
try meet in simple terms, and then repeat.

Describe my life? In pain, within a pain
and that in turn has demons beating walls
with tap and thump that echoes heart's refrain
that mine own beat made minor, when it calls.

It calls deformed; like dying breaths of birds
a croaking wish that end will duty so
and take me to a place of painless words
or nothing, better dust than lifetime woe.

But one I keep, it's all I have with praise
Ah! Jewels none to this in shining worth
my last recourse to shield the somber days;
my poems pen, that each my thoughts rebirth!

I'm gone already, sorrow has me won
but portion here I give some back, or none.

My mind is restless, you are blamed for this
infesting logic with the bluest eyes
and tearing scepters with your flawless kiss
from stems that lift mind's wealth unto your guise.

So feeble me, who gives all thoughts to you
with even those that'll have me leap and run
they stay with you, and leave behind the rue,
that portion starves and you in me have won.

Ah! Now your toning calms the waves of doubt
to think of you is as to sail the day
to think of love, cannot have thought without,
it's you, and all that mastered mine to sway.

So know my love that thoughts have bred this truth
you have in me, so conquered all untruth.

Depression is; a desert well of sand
no water drops are left to tear the pain
and buries hearts as granules hold remand
for there alone and in; despondent shame.

A grief within a world that none can hear
nor venture near enough to sense one's dry,
the inner voices scream but choke on fear
to speak; is churning neath the weighted sigh.

To walk with feet that sink, in winds that burn
and forms the tallest dunes that grows to tame
then render one like lifeless dust to urn
and better then to be in death than maim.

Depression is; that plain that sorrow bore
and that is just an hour, the hell has more.

The cyclic seasons give a cause in soul
to view the mortal realm in seasons gone
for winter was our start and is our end
yet ice will always melt with Spring to dawn.

So sweet the Lillie's scent when sun rays win
buds fissure out and eyes of Spring to see
that if undone, the birds of love would sin
as oaks with none a leaf, could call a tree.

Auroral orb sustains and mirrors youth
so raised with graceful red and set to dark
that autumn wings atone and age with truth
so brought by winds to ice and left their mark.

We are mere tourists; in a season's change
so forge and live this well, for none exchange.