I'm jealous of no-man and no-thing… I can be envious, mildly regretful that perhaps a person has been allowed to live life in a certain way, or compassionate that they have not.  I see people hurting. 

It's not nice.

I have seen a woman burning up inside, cradling her within, her life, and another's.  Desperate and alone, desperately known, then thrown away again.   

One day I will write a poem and leave it for someone to understand at a relevant point in their life, I knew that they'd come to reach. 

I don't think anyone can reassure me in this life, when it's over, it's done, and we're all dying, and we're all finished…

Can you freeze a heart into a photo?  Capture soul in a painting? 

I can.

When that photo is taking with my own eyes, and when that canvas is my mind… I know the love fixed there is enduring and shall last forever. 

And when I no longer do, I'll take it with me to sit on my own cliff, watch the sea, and think, and wonder what could have been different, and what I did wrong.  Then I'll get out the photographs, and sift through my paintings, unsold and priceless, and I'll smile to remember a time when they were made...  (God, how much would they be worth now?)

And cry when my 'someone' reads the poem, and may come to understand how I already knew this was all to happen.  But that knowledge changes nothing, and cannot stop a life from cracking open and pouring out onto the street to pool Cadmium red about my feet.  And I'll stare.  And I'll wonder, why are they wasting my paint?  I can use it for another canvas; I have so many to fill… I'll need that red shade later on when I'm to immortalize my 'someone' onto memory-parchment… 

But by then it's too late, and there's nothing left to save.  And so I'm forced to walk away, leave my befouled palette, abandon the torn Hessian board… It's over, and far too finished to come back to.      

A heart so troubled and filled with woe,

May wander where no others go.

When, in a moment, at the touch of strife

Slips from its path and out of life.

And all I ever wanted

And all you ever knew

Was that I had felt something

For a person much like you.

But to say it would be folly

To admit.  Best tell a lie.

So I'll guess I've never told you

Before I knew I'd die.

What would I do to touch your heart?

A crystalline beside me?

What wouldn't I do to have it here?

And keep it there, to guide me?

'Not much,' I say,

But know I mean,

'Anything at all!'

To realise the dream.

But known to be

So hard to do.

And who could blame me

For loving you?

Sullied by you mother's kisses,

Bathed in a light from your father's eyes,

You could no more stop my heart in breaking

Than return from where the Eagle cries.

~*~