Blow, Lyceum grasses, blow,
From coiled lips of your wolf-god Apollo
Whose dawn-padded paws to starprints roam
This temple-tribute to thought-illumined roads.  

Blow, Lyceum grasses, blow
Of wave upon wave of your brushings-by,
From staff to sandal-fall to cloak hemline,
For rhapsodes, your song-odyssey to sew.

The Greeks built the sun,
Upon scaffolding~acrobaticon~  
With pear-skinned lightness to glow,
Or like leavened bread from the woodburning stove.

Blow, Lyceum grasses, blow,
The sun lies old on its famine-cracked pillow,
In spittle of gold and yellowed phosphorous,
With the gods past-blown to ruin.

The whispered cry of a lonely man
Reverberating eyes with stars around the walls stare at unknown clutching hands
Through these desperate nights of violent quiet
Nothing to the left in me is left of me but at least it’s now silent
To feel a thing of mine so perfect become someone else’s is to not want to feel at all
I found a house of possibilities and all you did was put up all these walls
To the right of me is a girl that seems more nothing than the nothing itself
In the darkness of daylight the glancing blows of affable screams demand that you show yourself
In a place with a face I hate to love, mother emits tender screams whilst we sleep
I am not here even when she is because she was never mine to keep

A perfect painting ruined by maddened men with their selfish brushings
I saw the first strokes and have had to watch her become tarnished with childish rubbings
Though beautiful some may call it, its layers peel after time
It is not what I knew it to be and therefore it is no longer mine
To see a thing of mine so perfect become vandalized is to not want to see at all
The incessant shadows and lowly intellectuals insist she always crawls
This darkness and aged ******* take pieces and replace them with ***** of their sodden pages in her hair
You lie next to me but we are both blinded by your mirror you insist was never there
There is medicine for our disease but you will not take it without a guilty kiss,
I will give you what is left of my working pieces to try and fix you from all of this

To believe you are dying in your life when you are living your own death is not an existence
Reason gives reasons and I hear them but I know no sense in sense
So I will lay here with my perfect nothing
Give to you all the things you were supposed to have been
To hear a thing of mine once so true now fall apart is to not want to hear at all
With my tools you can keep my stars in your eyes but close them so that they shall never fall
I will become the nothing, the living death I had to take from you and start the end to begin
You can have the sounds of songbirds from my ears so in your darkest winters you can hear them sing of coming spring
Now the sound of your breathing I don’t recall and your face is nothing but that of a stranger
I roll over to my left and stare into a mirror you have put there that shows me a perfect painting I now can’t remember.