These days lines express,
A meekness of the heart,
With intent to impress,
No longer for the art!

Loss of honest zeal it seems;
Introspection is in style;
But writing yourself in reams,
Loses appeal in passing while.

“Oh, my sorrowful heart does bleed!”
I read it rewritten by all,
But what purpose do you lead,
Beyond pity for your fall?

If nothing provoking you draw,
Your Passion Play will swiftly fade,
Slipshod, despite your emotion raw,
Worth little, and time must be paid.

If love may be thy sweet rose;
If love may be truly sweet,
As the perfect flower grows
In the garden, how may I greet?

As a budding rose yet to unfold,
Would thy love not be true,
If as somehow it will be bold,
And blossom not red, but blue?

I will never gaze thy rose’s shade,
Lest I tend with care for now;
I take care thy rose and wade,
Until her blooming petals show:

I shall greet her with the same affect;
As with budding roses, love I can't detect.

I lost something within you,
Radiant, high-handed sea!
A loss so great and true,
I cannot let it be.

Great heart of mine, stolen,
When I sail first your deep blue,
Winds had pulled my bowline,
And filled my sails anew.

And as the sea winds whipped
The heart you took of mine,
The bow had sharply tipped,
Against horizon line.

I merely skim the surface
Of your lovely darkened deep,
Search without a trace,
For my heart you hide and keep.

Everyday I leave the shore,
Cast off into the sea,
And with the journeys more and more,
You become the heart of me.

Where has the time gone;
Why aren’t the days as long;
Where did all the laughter go;
Why do memories seem sweet from long ago,
Wherewith shorter time passed are not so?

Why did the dreams become so lecherous;
Where are the days that were adventurous;
Why has innocence lost its allure;
Where is the field of flowers so pure,
Why, nothing could give hope an aperture?

Where has the sunshine gone so bright;
Why has the moon forgotten my night;
Where has my innocence been taken;
Why must time left me forsaken,
Where a Dead Boy can never awaken?

Why do we yearn for a silent cry;
Where is the child with the spark his eye;
Why has all the magic died for me;
Where is the awe of curiosity,
Why has the world grown bleak to see?

Where can I find all I miss once more;
Why is it lost, so quickly been forbore;
Where comes that blissful echo;
Why is it so familiar, shall I never know,
Where it comes and the happiness it show?


Once passed, never to return;
Oh, how I wish to relearn,
And I try to see and feel,
I try to keep alive the unreal,
But with every day it slips further away,
As days cross over, closer to the Ferryman, and a penny to pay.

Whether my desert be of sand or snow,
desolation is the same.
Whether my passion be of lust or love,
loneliness is the same.
Wether my sea be of water or flames,
breathlessness is the same.

Now I’ve done what I feared,
I’ve hung the reliable rope.
You may sing to me dear,
But you are no songbird of hope.