he is the darkest of dark.
With shadowy hair, as light as the night
with faint hope for the morning
…lifting of accents, his comments will spark (up)
like growing pains- so tall without sight
to an end, with this body forever in mourning.
His laugh takes his colleagues elsewhere.
Always, away, someplace- home
where the hope for the future forever is dawning
…glassy, ice-eyes, with beckoning stare.
Those who indulge find nothing- but lone
sparks of courage, and life- always in mourning
his talent, insurmountable, unnamed
Suitors flit, and reject- like the hell they care
like those who placed them there without warning
…smashing the old lies like he who was famed
to hate them, so much, trapped in his lair
as one who was troublesome, but mourning
(what was it he lost? freedom?)
he was once the darkest of dark.
Hair streaked with grey- young once, new
with a hope for the morning
of a new age- charismatic- spark
who stumbles at night. The big here so few
But the large of heart many, always, mourning.
McIntyre
He with the curls in his hair and the pride in his heart
he with the noble face, and charming smile
The one who took many while he was away.
children, but lovers, there all of the while
he had but a better half at home.
he of the interesting namesake, deserved.
He of the light, his moon-shining brightly
thatman, who took anger and love there together.
Children, but childless there, not taken lightly
he drank to the stars deeply, often then
he who left friends forever- but him caring
not, he who ran back at first chance-
Him. leaving nothing but wishes, hoping to stay…
but go all the same, saving last dances
for him- not another, but with child in hand.
He with the height and not much of the heart
he left where the home is, smile honey- smile
for him- he took nothing back but
children's screams, and lovers, all the while
hoping for their half, waiting there, home.
Hunnicut
He of the dark horse.
but never his blackness
He who came later, to mend broken hearts.
Balding of hair, the more of it elsewhere
Falling and swearing, the lightest of starts.
he with the strange name
belonging to others- sunny-like, home
She crying there, nursing his heart
were his head should've been, a child left crying
for real this time, her misgivings to cart.
He of the sunshine valley.
Differing colours- him, so alive!
as he came there later, missed out on the start
of one other, to end another, elsewhere this time
not so cold, or only when summer'd not started
(from them and then it was 'oh so cold')
he of the dark house.
Sharing its blackness, drinking it, in it.
He who came later, to mend dying hearts
Losing his hair, his head and mind, to demons laughing
in that place he'd soon find, and wouldn't depart.