Love is the poetry of the starsThe wind is the breath of the earthTo never become who you areOr to change at all, which is worse?

I’ve been worried since I left the wombLike a schizophrenic on shroomsLike a hypochondriac on crackNever shy with the panic attacks;Internal reality succumbs to psychosisDreams destroyed by self-diagnosis.

In vain I try to jump into the photoTo create again a time so simpleThat a piece of paper might encapsulate itFrom the erosive winds and waves of timeWhich bring even the greatest of loves to a grave of dust.

Fate is the cruelest of masters, takingLife when it pleases or at random, handingRigged decks to whom it pleases, cheatingAll alike and none the wiser, takingEverything away from those with nothing.

As joy dwindles with the yearsI wistfully recallWhen the christmas treeLooked ten feet tallAnd the presents under itSeemed endless And more Than mere wrapping paper.