The Destroyer

The destroyer of brothers with truth.
Walks down the hall, smiling.
He is the only destroyer worth that smile.
I want so badly for things to be different.
Yet I'm sliding and spilling and what can I do?
The coffee drips, the clocks tick.
The tune plays-- but the song I'm singing,
Has no tune and no end.

Lizard

Farewell the temple master's bells
His kiosk and his black-worm seed.
Courtship solely of his word.
With Eden guaranteed.
For now Prince Rupert's tears are glass
Make saffron sabbath eyelids bleed
Scar the sacred tablet wax
On which the lizards feed.

Wake your reasons hollow vote
Wear your blizzard season coat
Burn a bridge and burn a boat
Stake a lizard by the throat

Go Polonius or kneel
The reapers name their harvest Don
All your tarnished devils spoons
Will rust beneath our corn
Now bears Prince Rupert's garden roam
Across his rain tree shaded lawn
Lizard bones become the clay-
And there a Swan is born

Gone soon Piepowder's moss-weed court
Round which upholstered Lizards sold
Visions to their leaden flock
Of rainbows' ends and gold.
Now tales Prince Rupert's peacock brings
Of walls and trumpets thousand fold
Prophets chained for burning masks
And reels of dream unrolled . . .

-Sinfeild

I am in love
So hopelessly and honestly in love.
I cannot stand it anymore.
I know that no one will understand.
No one will approve.
But what I am seeing now is that
Nobody has to approve.

If I were in love with approval,
Then I would hold it and cherish the thought of
It

Instead of him, whom I love
For his eyes are like stars
And his mind is so fine I cannot stand
To be without him another
Day, and he doesn't know
Perhaps he never will
But what he's given me is this
Vitality and joy in existing.

I love him more than words can tell.
There is no questioning this feeling
There is no questioning whether he loves me back.
He does not waste his time
He knows that his time has value.
He knows what value life has.
He isn't afraid to enjoy things
The fine things I know I could give him,
He deserves.
He deserves every inch, every tablespoon...
Every second of my love.


I will not deny this to him.

I was lost
Without hope
In the cataclysm of those eyes.
Then I watch myself
Flow into running circles
Down the drain.

Blood, bone, sinew, dust.
Parts of myself were washed away.
Tears, burns, razorlust,
I will not abandon myself to this.

Not today.

Francisco, my love, I felt that
You had been jilted by Galt, revealing
My own moral mediocrity.
It stemmed from my love for you.
You were a shade of brilliance that I desire.
I know that you then were brothers
For that I cannot grieve more.
And so I'll leave you to your shocked silence.
Where are the recesses of your heart?
Are they full of misused longing?
Where and when and how did you hope
For your ancestors to be inside your life?

Yet you know it wasn't she that hurt you, but yourself.
And I do not know that he has that ability.

He is the sea,
I am the sky.
I cannot sink into him.
My attempts to lift him
Only result in storms.
I will not sink.
He will not rise.

For us to be together is futile.

Yet we both hold this longing
As any gazer longs for that spot
Where the sea meets the sky.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


-Dylan Thomas

Time

The ticking of the clocks,
The sound of tinkling keyboards
Usurped by my own feeling
I lie awake, walking awake, talking awake
Breathing a song that is silent inside
The phone rings
I answer.
It is a machine.

Time.

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

-Joseph Rudyard Kipling

The Writing on the Wall

He loves me, but does not know me.
If he knew me, he might not love me.
Does he, then, truly love me?
No. He does not.
Then what exacerbates the problem
Is his silence and his inability to know.
I understand the need to do other things.
I wish that he and I could understand one another.
It is my fondest human wish, indeed.
Yet, standing between us
Is a chasm of doubt and dispair.

So what can I do?
Shall I turn and never look his way again?
What can I do?
The rules do not apply with this one,
Neither rules of spirit, nor moral code
Nor logic. Nothing but a void remains.
Why step into that void? For a chance at love?
Is love really worth that chance?
After all the pain that has been felt
After all the scars that have not healed.
Nor ever will, fully.
Why step into the void of a maybe?

To further complicate things,
He and I do not subscribe to similar moral codes.
What is right for him is not what is right for me.
What is wrong for him is not wrong for me.
What is legend to him is religion to me,
His logic is always full of holes.
My logic is always full of holes.
None of this can possibly get us anywhere.

The writing on the wall is rearing its face, my love,
The writing on the wall.
It says that you must change in order to be with me.
It says that if I expect you to change, I may be disappointed
If I tell you that you must change or I will not love you,
I am prostituting myself:
I would be holding my love, my life, my body up
For the price of your change.
I will not play the whore.

Rather, I will seek a man that deserves me.
And, my love, how I want you to be that man.

who am I, anyway?