Gentle tear drops of moonlight gleam

Silver-gold and molten stream

of long and lost, forgotten dream

shed by moon's pallor, starry light.

Like a woman's emotional blight

shadows coursed to 'scape the night

lead by ones whom held the right

to live and kill, maim and beat.

Never knew that's how to treat

a dying soul in mourner's seat.

Oh may these hurts be washed

from my weary and ever lost

soul! I lay behind the present cost

that others place upon my life

a dream of endless mired strife

like a simple mechanic feif.

Where can I go to forget

what in I had been set

as molding gold for a statuette?

Oh my rest be absolute!

Full of end and resolute

as last note of minstrel's flute!

Where must this final note

be found? In mystick rote,

or perhaps a tiny mote?

It's been said I lost that magick

work. I've become too tragic

in this long paragraphic

sort of living, fluid play.

And chilling thought for

others seeking just a little more.

They'd see just what bore

within that swaying ethereal door.

It's said the soul was meant to soar

letting tears turn rain to down pour

for life to death, as the lore

suggests for each lost core

of human guile, hidden sore.

From my body my soul tore

flying nowhere beyond that door.

And for those that looked within

they saw a wraith, silken thin,

with hellish eyes, sparking dim.

That tortured ghost sheet

was calmed in time past.

Chilling it was for some

to think within these dead

walls of stone and lead

it was the living that groaned

within.

But, fear not, my wond'ring

friends! The door groaning

had creaked and opening

for that still thinning

ghoul to slip free of straining

chains that held no weight

nor substance of sight.

So it waits for the doors

to open to the glitt'ring shores

of ocean's eyes and