Three Songs.

Can fires be any more fickle?
Can your passions seek any more vindication?
Where these cruel pacifications meet some
Divine pranksters caprice, as your life
A joke played on a friendly face,
A tree went to grow.
An oak.
Each seed seeped like a plague of
Too much felt and too much known.
It was time to wake up yesterday.
But my time to dream passed in a waking whim.

Yesterday Don't Matter...
She'll never be seen again, it seems
like a nation's divide, is a loving
split, but a fate derived lost and drift
like a spider web flung by a heavy hand.
It still clings like truth to a victim's scars.
It still clings like a vision to a prophet's heart.

St Peter's Cathedral's cross, draped in gold
Seems lackluster in your hair even despite protests.
Feathers fluttering in open air cant claim your
Gossamer threads of blonde divine.
A gentle touch and single lip, drowns screams
Of futile passions, aching not to be supremed.
But succeed, and visions of her rosy breast
And sights of gentle sighs bleed dreams dry.
A harrowing account, a burning bush
Or heated Dam... but mine, Love, a broken Levee.
I do dream of you, and that sweetest smile
Becoming mine, becoming mind, becoming visions of
A Paradise.