July 18, 2011

He knows so little of love, this man,
And I guess even less about you:
For he shakes and he fumbles,
He moans and he grumbles
And can’t wait for each day to be through.
But though he says that he can’t,
You can tell that his heart
Beats a shambling rhythm for you;
And I know that he’d follow
Wherever you’d go,
If you told him you wanted him to.



July 4, 2011

Oh, she was Rome,
She was the river bowing gently to the coast
And the summer blossoms flitting through the trees,
She was the forests and the waters of our home:
Oh, she was Rome.

When she was here,
The fires would dance and crackle soft before her sway,
She’d sweep the clouds from out the corners of men’s minds
And seize the hearts of our most vicious mutineers
When she was here.

And when she’d sing,
One gentle note of hers adrift upon a storm
Could strike it silent as a mother’s new-born sigh;
Tornados turned, as cruel winter turns to spring,
When she did sing.

She was alone,
When they took her, as the day fell off to dark.
Her kingdom, helpless, could do nothing but look on
As her cries were met by grey and witless stones:
She was alone.

They did not weep,
So the willow trees in mourning shed their leaves
Upon the river’s face, down to the riverbed,
To haggle slumber with the traffickers of sleep,
Who do not weep.

And when she’d gone
The very days were like to weeks of winter frost,
Her shoes, untouched, lay where she’d left them on the floor
And served remembrance of the land she walked upon,
Before she’d gone.

Oh she was Rome,
And now on Rome has fallen black and baseless night,
With weeds and thistles grow the forests of her youth,
And the bowing river sounds these days, a mewling, sorrowed groan,
For she was Rome.