Poetry that does not rhyme is prose,
It's yadda that I'd much rather oppose,
But every now and then I see the sun
Inside even the dark artful pagan...

Close your eyes, sow your sighs
Let the moonlight wash away
The memories of love thats meant to come
You are the author of your own demise
You are the soul pretending judgement day

You were given every chance but your world just fades to Greys
Invaded by a fiction thats now a hostile faction
A parasite of your insight thats counting off the days ...
..You own equal and opposite reaction

I guess I should write penguin when I title these few stanzas, 
Its about as close as well get to any of the answers

My heart is hot, my face is not
Although not much, it's all I've got.

I cannot play the game, I have no love
I cannot be the bastard that's beloved
Because he is the silhouetted glove
That hides his heart beneath his shadowed hand.


citadel_prime@yahoo.com