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 that’s 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 that’s now a hostile faction A parasite of your insight that’s counting off the days ... ..You own equal and opposite reaction I guess I should write “penguin” when I title these few stanzas, It’s about as close as we’ll 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.comPenguin