I used to be a junkie. I was all strung out on your love.

I went running blind and crazy from day to day, chasing a mirage, an illusion of yourlove. I went running and screaming stop-stop-stop-let-me-love-you-let-you-love-me but you never heard.

But then I stopped, as you skidded around a corner out of view. My mind was pounding, my heart was pounding, my pulse was poundingpounding --for you. When the dust I had kicked up settled around my feet I saw the spin I was in and stopped, but the world kept going spinningspinning.

Your face allaround everywhere. Your name pounding in my brain.

I was all strung out on your love. I was a junkie.

The highs were dizzying, blindrush of smiles and laughs and arms slung casually about each other.

But then there was the runningscreamingrunning Stop.

I was a junkie. I was all strung out on your love.

But now I'm leaving all that behind. Leaving all the runningscreaming spinningblindrush smiles and skidding to a stop.

Skidding as your mirage skips a frame and falls out of focus.

I was a junkie. I was all strung out on your love.

And I hear Look I'm standing naked before you, don't you want more than my sex Tori singing and I think, yeah. Sometimes I would just settle for the sex.

I was a junkie. I am allstrungout on your ... your love.

For Shakespeare, as I met him in London

Oh, marble eyes of greatness past, stare on-
in chilly hall of monuments, and stone
and cold, and rigid statues here, stare on.
Your poet's eyes, in life your spirit's throne-
In death unblinking, shiny, stony, still.
Whose eyes in dimness here have your eyes met?
My own young eyes met yours and, strong of will
your face perused, your poems praised, my debt,
my artist's homage paid. I bowed my head;
You, yours, did not- but on you gaze and all
and nothing see. How bold, with life still wed,
my eyes do yours dare meet. I heed art's call
and Write- a path to you to clear,
Your verse to praise, Your grace to hear.

Sonnet II

Tick-tock the clock keeps marching on, her pace
does race, her hands spin round, her face so still -
the face of Lady Time reflects. "Oh, chase
me not, sweet Lady Time" cry I, in chill,
so frightened tone. She heeds me not but, light,
runs on. Through silver ghostly leaves and groves
of shining phantom pines. Her dress of white
trails threads of mem'ry, cloaking thoughts of loves
long lost and scenes of passions yet to find.
I flee, and run and leap, near fly. Escape
escapes me; I am lost, while Time her kind
of magic strews. My past is past, her cape
of gauzy mem'ry closed and days
to come fly fleetly on their way.