Evening comes, and there raps a surprise
Knock at the door. "Who is it?"
Opening the portal there stands an old
Acquaintance, one with whom several short discussions were made.

Neither truly knowing the each
But make their pleasantries
Not knowing what to say.
It was the thought that counted
And it lifts the spirits.

Oh the possibilities,
The hopes, the spirit of melancholy
With reservations;
Wishing for the acquaintance to stay an hour
Or two, no offensive word is spoken.
No detail about life is given with any haste.
For a good natured call
And a visit bring levity
Yes, but also reserve.
For it is a rare thing
And one which the procedure
Must be precisely
Followed through on.

Hera, you were strong in 
Courtly abodes, where the messengers
Could keep your stead
And give you the sustenance you required.
For it was the infidelity of Zeus
Who led you to your humble position.
This the peoples knew
And gracious was their kindness toward you
In your low estate.
Completely innocent you were
While Zeus made off and courted
Danae. They were but men.

You required rest;
So with Artemis and Apollo.
Yet, you instead wished to smite
And like Prometheus steal the heavenly fire.
You thundered, and your rage flung
For the thunderbolts, but Artemis and Apollo
Were sick of loves, and cried day and night
For peace. Yet in your wrath
There was no peace,
But made war as Egypt's vine.

Then, you established your house
And cast your thunder at Cyrus
Not Zeus; no, you threw down lightning at Cyrus
Just as Cyrus had feared.
Who would free God's people?
Yet you, seeing yourself as a god
Smote the one who shew the most kindness on you.
For Artemis and Apollo's sake
Cyrus rose early to counsel thou, Queen.
Yet your fury hath spilled onto him
Who was your greatest ally.

Furious art you that one had told the truth?
That war among the Titans would ruin
The happiness of your children?
This will be your ruin;
And alas, God has told me it already is.

Lazy, entitled, working all day
To solve problems the world will never solve.
Like so many, finding good solutions
And like so many, those solutions
Work only for the self.

Wise one moment
But the wisdom flees
When a thousand opine, it clouds
The clear declaration from God.

Oh, how everything is known
So sure of it.
Only to be confronted by a thousand presumptions
A thousand baseless reasons;
Thinking the game is won
When, truthfully, hadn't even seen the first move.

How all of it is true
That Morpheus spins the idle
Wet dreams through the night
And in the morning am the man with his beads
Rubbing them, without a single bit
Of entertainment in my house.

For chastity is never saying "Fuck"
And abstaining from video games...
Meanwhile the alarm clock wakens
Me at eight in the mourning
But I awaken at twelve.

A mess, yet within this heart
Is a secret unlocked.
It truly knows God.

Bitter David, I see you unravel
The mysteries of a song.
Your heart in melancholy turn, studied
What would become vanity.

Your daunting effort goes noticed
By those who love music too,
Of ages gone by.
Stand at the age where deep
Calls out to deep;---
But the Cypress in its
Mourning replies,

"Death has taken over the valleys.
"Meaning doth sing her lute
"In the Elburz
"And armies travel through the Gate.
"For the sun makes his revolution 
"Over the mountains
"And on one side is day
"And the other it is night."

Yet none do draw the wisdom
For men are marked out for their sins
In youth.
For a man's sin is discovered
And it is now altered new,
So that David, your effort was in vain.
And with it the Cypress
Mourns, for even the work of man
Is besmirched by what's misunderstood.

Sela, I see your strength
And bitter rage.
You course through the seas
O' Bitter One,
Ruler of a Thousand.

When Cyrus came to Babylon and Ecbatana
The peoples fled from your tyranny,
For your wrath was kindled
And your ire, your wrath
Your broken pride, it caused the peoples
To flee from their cities
And they allowed Cyrus' forces within the walls unhindered.

The Medes hate you, O Sela,
As your hideousness is made the Form.
The peoples lament
While you set sail on the ocean,
Mighty Princess of the North.

You grow to hate
So you draw forth your oars
And pillage the coasts
Causing all things beautiful to age.

O! Sela, the world has become yours through Scythian war.

Atalanta, you stand among your thorns.
Everything you touch withers and dies.
Your anger and shame behooves you
As the food you feed the nations
Wilts and does not satisfy.
It is ashes in the mouth.

You make haste to do good
Yet only grief and shame come from your deeds.
Your good is only ashes seeping from clenched fists.

How the nations love you
Atalanta. They cheer your fame
But they curse the name of man
Who challenges you.
You, like Death, bring the shadow
And the grey of the thunderstorm.

Your benefactor is rude in his abuses
And your lover is unkind.
Slowly, your creeping vine tangles itself around
The world, as you stand among your
Thorns, and pluck the Corolla of the Rose
To shape it into your deign.

Fortunes you cannot make.
And it flees from you;
All things die and wilt in your hands.
For the rose does not prosper
For you do not proceed with
Diligence. Your garden is fertile
But you slack hand makes the bulbs stoop.

Cleopatra, your domain is yours
Who gives words of strong guidance.
Your ire is just, your indignation furious
But your favor like a copper piece,
Choice among the coinage.

Silent and swift, your judgment comes
While strong are you to battle.
You lead this one, and he goes there.
You lead that one, and she goes here.
They all hearken to you.

Egypt is guided by your strong bow
But strange are the Satraps who preside
Over the prosperity of our world.
For much strong gain,
The flows of the Nile overflow your head
Yet you strive, even though the rewards are dim.

For the fruits of your kingdom are small,
Small among the kingdoms,
Yet you man your post with dignity of office
As a Prince among princes.

The war comes, and allies flock to your aid
For your reign is good, and just
Though there are kings above you
And kings above them.
The peoples are wary
Yet you keep your subjects under the yoke
Of hard effort, and strength
For you join yourself with them
And thresh the corn, 
Beating out the fitches
From the fold.

Jacque, you cry for a storm
Against the church.
You ire, and are indignant.
Aught had such indignation at a time.

You wish sin to be removed from this world
And believe with your heart that all sin finds its root
In the institutions of man.
You see it, for they have always rejected you.

You rage against a machine
That neither you nor aught fully understand.
Yet, the machine, dirty it is---
It brings upon its apparatus 
The sustenance of the poor.
It is a place to tell dark secrets.
Those secrets told, they will
Vanish with the wind.

Yes, you and aught rage against
It, for it never accepted us.
But, as black and dark the machine is
It makes men civil
And protects them from themselves.

For in all things is sin,
And to take away sin from a man
It takes mercy, and a covering of skins.
For our shame is bare before all mankind,
And these institutions are the places
Where the spinstresses weave our cloth
And wrap us so we are no longer naked.

You wish to strip the cloth
From men
When you wish to dissolve those institutions.
For aught do understand it,
But certainly, those institutions are good
Because men need to cover their naked shame.

Alex, your love for life exudes
And your love for meaning in the little things.
Like a child, you look upon the world
And see greatness, you see unexplored
Alleys in every nook and cranny.

The strangeness of the world is still fresh
In your youthful mind,
So your sense of meaning is founded
Upon a love for life and its victuals.

Grow older, though, Alex,
For one day you will,
And looking upon the turtles
Chirping their love songs
In the spring
You will at once find all things artificial.

The aspirations of love
The charters of worlds gone and far
Of new lands, and sailing over the world's edge
It will be a far off thing,
When standing before the turtles chirping
Their mating hymns.

To which, life will be somber and melancholy,
Yet, it will be sweeter, for the Turtles singing their hymns
Will bring you the knowledge,
Sweet it is, that within their happy little tales
Lies the force of life, and the gay little charm
Of something deep within every living thing.

And when you find that,
You will have found all wisdom
And all charity.
You will have stumbled upon the outer breath of God.