Tailored suit, Turkish smokes in a fancy silver case
Gold buttons, collar straight, black tie neatly pressed in place.
Who is he? Well, you must make a deal to learn.
Give me two cents for my trouble,
And a cigarette to burn.

A man made up of shadows and illusions black and gray;
He's a quaint manifestation of the muse you've thrown away.
All of your escaped emotions,
All your unmitigated strife,
Packaged up in flesh and bone and given dusky life.

He breaks apart unfinished thoughts without regard to you,
And uses them to flesh out patchwork dreams of rosy hue.
But happy dreams are wrought of love,
And though Wolf vainly tries,
Internal nightmares oft bleed through and mar his cheerful lies.

He takes your lost sincerities and shapes them up like clay,
Gives them form and simple purpose,
In a rhythmic, pleasing way.

The Wolf is but a poet, his goal you mustn't misconstrue
For he will tear apart your soul
And smiling, give it back to you.

A child with fine features,
blue eyes,
learns from teachers--
deep below our perceptive thought,
our Einstein philosophies,
and artsy intellectualism.
She multiplies the rose bushes,
across the Italian culture,
so romantic,
so fair.
breathing only to discover a Shakespearean air,
about herself.
She knows more than most,
sitting just above the state of human consciousness.
Reality is reigned by being just.
If one could know,
if the lion tamed,
of cruel desires,
and citrus teas.
We would object,
justification.
What beauty lay below a rose bush?
Nothing, muck.