another day,
another truth to choose..
another beauty to amuse,
another flower.
she blooms for me..
but only in the midnight hour.

what is so beautiful about a rose?
is it the fact that I’m the one she chose?
is it a beauty that the naked eye can see?
is it the tender sweetness of her soul
that calls me names and beckons me?

she knows that she’s a beauty to behold..
that she is there for poets to immortalize.
her beauty has been gazed upon before,
by many eyes..
and yet, for but a moment, there she was,
a beauty for this blinded hermit’s eyes to see.
and what might be the reason that her beauty,
from the sea of many gazing eyes, chose me?

upon the early harvest..
upon a blood red moon..
and not a day too late..
and not a day too soon..
and might that be the reason
why she delicately puts my tender heart at ease?
the reason why she chose me
as her source of innocent and playful tease?

another beauty to amuse..
another beauty that’s not mine.
if longing is a sin, then I confess..
consider me the worst repeat offender
for this noble crime.

she knows that she’s not mine to toy with..
yet, so demanding is her beauty…
that it demands The Poet’s justice
to be done upon it still.
I said I won’t, goddamit..
but The Devil knows..
goddamn, I will.
The Devil knows..
The Poet’s heart is fickle.
His rose’s heart is ripe
upon the day of harvest
only for the sharpest sickle…