As I sit before this crackling fire
My thoughts return to her, to her
I know that she will never love me
I know that it will always hurt
Crimson splashes on the mountain
My blood trickles on the tracks
Then the poet shall be martyred
Then the priest shall march for war
My heart aches for her mere presence
Her fingers pressed against my arm
My lips brush angelic wholeness
Her heart, tha-thumping, glowing hot
The stars that hide in her blue eyes
The oracle slides into a dress
Shoes creak against her floorboards
It was the last I'd see of her
And now the plucking of steel strings
Or the caw-caw-cawing of the crow
Or the sight of burning money
Or the drought of thought surrounding
Or the open smell of sewers
Or the drifting clouds and storms
Or the thunder of true wisdom
Or the purse-strings of a lord
Yes, these and all such wonders
Mundane within the Father's eye
Remind me of the Once we had shared
Remind me of the Then that died