The funny thing ’bout all great loves
That writers care to mention:
The players have virtues in droves,
And always clear complexions.
You never know until tomorrow comes
The true worth of today
You never see until the morning sun
Shines on the ocean spray
Every day the bird flew past;
Every day, I thought the last.
But still it came, and still it went,
And I within my punishment
Despised its beauty and its wings;
Its height above us broken things;
And so I swore to bring it down.
First a rock upon its crown,
And down it came to crash;
Down into soot and ash
Until its plumes were black as pitch,
And every cat of every witch
Would’ve hissed with jealousy,
Had there been any there to see.
The bird fluttered, then he ceased.
I thought, “I’ve got the beast!”
But as I approached, I fell:
Through the smoke, I saw no well.
The creature laughed as he looked down
Still wearing his midnight gown
And I asked him what he meant to do.
“I will do no harm to you;
I’ll not give you the pleasure.
But when you die, I’ll take my measure
Of the flesh from off your corpse;
And though it be bitter and coarse,
I will take my lot with laughter:
For you once forgot the heights you had,
But you’ll not forget it after.”
I have lost the sense of flowers
And the magic in the air
I’ve lost sight of higher powers
And set my eyes upon despair
I’ve locked my door to moonlit nights
And ceased in looking up
I’ve remembered just enough of life
To forget what’s important in a cup.
Too many self portraits deface a soul
And I’m but a painter with too few to paint
All I see is the same in all of my models
The same variations on different taints
I once was a painter who looked up at great heroes
And secretly hoped that one day I would be
A sculpter of clay such that conquers all battles
And somehow of that clay I could recreate me
But now all I see are the base imperfections
That block out my way to what could never be
I can paint over, but always corrections
Can never be true when truth is just me
I feel a swell of pride
To see the woman you’ve become;
And the sting of my regret,
That you became her on your own.
What claim can Cupid’s arrows have
To have triumphed through your armor
When you with but a devil’s laugh
Can lay waste to they who harbor
Such weapons as might penetrate
Your skin of sorrow and of scale
And with a look you seal their fate
Wrapping them in stony mail
Never more to strike at you
With beauty and with song
Never more to bid adieu
To the moments they were strong
There is only weakness now
Brittle, gray and dull
But if your eyes could only life allow
They would be fairest of them all.
It all comes down to endings
All beauty, to the last
Makes way for decay
And fades into the past
It all comes down to endings
All we try to do
Will see its final day
No matter what we choose.
We are warned away from love
For the broken and the damned
For though we offer all we ought
They can only bite our hand
And we never should be caught
By the beauty of a beast
For there is no such thing as fairy tales
Only the diner and the feast.
There was a rhythm to the world
That I can no longer hear
Just the wild, frantic beating
Of a heart gone mad with fear
Now I’m keeping time by heartbeats
And wishing that the world was near
For when I could hear it sing
I could believe in something pure.