A pretty face,
A petty life.
Until a moment ago, when love,
                               like pain,
renewed itself in memory.
Where is he now?  This gentle bastard of mine.
How old will I be before I know enough
                                      to seek the truth?
So to console my weary fulfillment
I search best forgotten places
                    of heart and mind,
betwixt the realms of reason and reality.
Who has heard my sobs
In ink of night and soaring sun
                                          alike?
Fruitlessly finding abandon in that
                           I cannot have~
                           And do not want.
Only the tremble of my soul reveals a longing,
for the warmth,
my search,
my niche.

alli july 1st 1997
modified july 98