On the death of a loverCrest of trees in shadowy lightAmid the falls of petals redHer pupils fixed in star-ward gazeShe rest upon her fiery bedUpon her bosom, lie her armsAs if to hold the secret downBut alas! With her very last breathHer little secret is all but goneI saw her last with laughing eyesAnd happiness that knew no fearBut I had to tell her this was the endAnd I saw her delight disappearThe secret it was that saw her perishA secret that no other can seeBut when I gazed into her beautiful eyesI knew that her little secret was me.
The ChairI met her the other day, as we were walking down the stairs
I felt suddenly the need to ask her if she was going to stay. I was embarrassed with myself, for asking such a blatantly selfish question. I already knew the answer, I always know the answer. The question was becoming a rhetoric.She left. I walked down to the eat out at the corner of the street and sat down. Something was wrong. Sometimes you just get used to things happening around you. You take them for granted. The empty chair next to me seemed and felt emptier, because it was unoccupied. And not just because it was unoccupied. It was empty. I hope I'm making sense here. When we say something, it has to make sense right? Well, then this didn't make any sense. The room was filled empty chairs, why would I feel this way about the one next to me?I allowed myself a smile as I contemplated the fact that I had irrevocably pinned my hopes of happiness to this chair next to me.Yesterday I was sitting right here, people aro
Men, they would mould loveMen, they would mould Love to their taste,But alas, fools, mistaken are you,For it is Her, she who comes naught but once,Who moulds you to hers!Changed, do you find yourself?Though cursed, sometimes, you may feelHave you not heard of the fables?Dark is the storm afore it's endAnd when the storm is soothed,And the Darkness banished,Think not that thou art wonFor He will come againMen, they would mould Love to their taste,But alas, fools mistaken are you,For it is Her, she who comes naught but once,It is Love, who moulds you to hers!