I can feel the passion in his eyes
How he is undeniably enamored by me and yet
on the surface of this untouched pool
is simply me, who is him
But the whispers and flutters of the wind
that bend against blackened trees,
with the gentle hums of the blue birds
tell him to try harder
and so his shaking hands plop into the pool only to find that I am gone
but the birds and the wind still continue on with the singing in his ears of "our" everlasting song
How pathetic that I am his first and last love,
that he should be blinder than the blind
and try to be kinder than the kind when he is not
and so I think, "poor him", but then realize it is me
that will forever watch this cretin of a dog in heat
Oh,how naive one could be
Like a quiet child who would like to think the moon will always follow where he should go
a slave to ignorance is what I see,
but how pitiful it is to once again realize
that I him, and he is me