You don’t know who you are, but these are for you

By Matt Schering


Whitman’s grass grows, as Spencer’s leaves
They languish in a world that cares not for the aureate
I wonder too, if my love for you should I submit?
And abandon my words, my soul, forever to grieve?

As now, these words shall fall only upon the ears of the deft
As all that is anthropogenic shall find naught but perdition
Their ancient empyrean unreachable in this current condition
Their power, just as my hope for your love, bereft

This dolorous reality of my abstruse love that pangs with plight
I seek my muse in hopes of salvation, for this I am mad
Can the love and life of yore still be had?
Foolhardily I look to my heart and write

Hoping these words will sooth my hearts cacophony
Hoping these words are the key to love’s harmony


You captivate my eyes, like embers dancing in a flame
Then immolate my mind, I’m a fool within your glow
The cadence of your voice destroys the love I want to show
Sound replaced with fury as I cannot speak your name

The reflection of your beauty shimmers in the pool below
This agony of isolation, drowns my heart without embrace
Stopping time, without your love its meaning is erased
How I would enjoy the light, even in your shadow
But pain lies within the past and pain will ever be
Rage engulfs the memoires of a love I try to hate
Chemicals that mask the pain of us do nothing to abate
Cannot cope with what’s been done or what I’ve yet to see

Then why you ask I long for you with my heart forever tore
You are all that was, all that is, and all that is no more


My wayward eyes by chance did spy your face’s mighty sheen
Her gorgon gaze with glory praise shall freeze my very soul
To see her eyes is worth this prize, to pay Charon’s toll
From hereto forth my prose shall praise that face must been seen

For in her eyes, a labyrinth, that none can navigate
Only a fool, would flout this jewel, and seek such an end
For it will start a broken heart that cannot choose to mend
With just one glance you subjugate, and leave me to this abject fate

For to linger long in her light of love is but my only wish
But oh my wish, she shall resist, and leave me but to sigh
For who am I compared to thy? For this I offer no reply.
My heart is theft, to letters left, as the outlet for my anguish

For I am a clod, with naught to delight
Constructing a hell in heavens despite.


The Stargazer may have me bested in quality of muse
The Bard and his patron, outlast my summer days
When brought to count, I match few in the number of their ways
But in terms of the beauty that inspires, none can help but lose

For have you ever set your eyes on something so true?
A sight brighter than the sun, that it ebbs your very soul
Lighting the darkness of my life, a full moon, enjoy the eerie stroll
Have you seen this? Of course you have, tis but the mirror to you

Though, truly I am not worthy, in person, or in prose
Only the finest is worthy of your light
Yet all I can offer are these lines, simple and contrite.
And pity for my humble effort is the best I could suppose

For in thy face is the power worthy of the greatest verse
This, though I try, I cannot provide; welcome to my curse


A thief is what you are, my words, what you take
Vocabulary once vibrant and variegated
In an instant you have extirpated
With just a gaze, I’m in a daze, and forfeit what’s at stake

I catch your eye, and become stupefied
The deluge of your beauty rushes me at once
In the presence of pernicious pulchritude I become a dunce
And I forget myself, and all that I had planed

But at my desk away from thy allure
I can see the face, the smile, that causes me such pain
And I reflect, on beauty and this ill fated game
Can it be won? Or do I just hope to endure?

For my words may be a garden ready for love to bloom
But I’m mistaken, and now awaken, as I compose but a tomb


To what degree does my passion truly reach?
Is it the inferno of hell that I perceive?
Or but a chill, to myself I deceive
Either way, my emotions I must impeach
I’ve spent over a year on this amalgamation of emotion
Anger, pity, despair, I’ve felt them all, but what has it gotten me?
Has it brought me any closer to a realization, an epiphany on love, or on
No, it has not. All it has given me is proof of my soul
I know now it exists, because I have felt the pain of it
A tremendous void inside of my chest
The eternal ache of knowing my words, and my love, will never be fulfilled
I don’t blame you, I knew the odds were against me from the start
I don’t blame you, either, patience has fled, the medium is dead

To what degree does my passion truly reach?
Is it the inferno of hell that I perceive?
Or but a chill, to myself I deceive
Does it even matter?

Spurned with pain, because of pointless ambition
Forever haunted with cognition