A moonlit orb
A summer storm
A borrow'd glance
A shadow'd form
All these and more I dedicate
To my soul's unholy god
And as I lie at her feet, prostrate
She casts off her facade.
Beneath the mantle, gloomy, dark
There beats a heart so strong
That although she's chilly as the fog
Her soul is light as song.


A little steel box on a sunshine hill.
The box, heavy, dark, smoky.
The hill, green, sunny, bright.
Alive with the growth of flowers
The trees stretch to the sun
The lake shimmers.
All is well
Until the box begins to grow.
It spreads across the hill
Trampling the flowers
Killing the trees
The hill begins to die
As the box begins to thrive.
The box is no longer a box
Shapeless, yet geometric
As it conquers the land.
A few souls remain
Who remember how it was--
The trees
The flowers
The shimmery lake.
A few souls in a land of gray
A few souls:
In the midst of the smoke and steel
Which poisons the land.
Only two good things can come of the box:
The Internet and Brock.
But are they really worth the price
Of thousands of anguished


Alone I wonder
How it will end
How can you ever be mine?
When you so easily fall
Under the spell of beauty?
I scream,

I love you!
But you cannot hear
You are far away
And you are made of pencil.

The Disillusionist

"Tell me what is wrong!" you cry.
You wait, but there is no reply.
You say, "I just can't talk to you.
I feel like I'm not getting through."
It seems to you that I should care,
And talk, but I'm just sitting there.
You flee to a more sympathetic ear,
and say, "I'll be back soon, my dear.
If I forget, it's no big deal,
You don't complain, you do not feel."
Although I show no signs of woe
I suffer more than you can know
Because there is a special hell
For those who feel but cannot tell.
	Why is it
	That when I talk to you, I forget myself?
	Why is it
	That our two souls, when combined, multiply with each other
	Geometrically to produce something of such inestimable beauty
	That not even the finest jeweller could value its worth?
	Why is it
	That our time spent together
	Is more full, more rich, more real,
	Tan the multitudes of centuries which have gone before,
	The vast parading panoply of lives
	That, while dead, still echo on,
	Elbowing the living away, shoving rudely, saying,
	"I lived, and you will not forget it?"
	I have forgotten all of that which is unforgettable,
	And all by virtue of the oldest of all plays.
	Why is it that that old trickster, Love,
	Forgets his tricks, his wiles,
	And gives us our happiness?
	Why is it?

Back to Rachel's home