What shade is a bitter heart?
A man in sour mood, broken over
Healed how? Water poured on ancient wound?
Alas, mine is the sort of solid pain
A man doomed, nay consumed
Vainly with her quiet stubborn prose
Alas when and why did I come to love
This witty, shy and stubborn woman so?
The shade of my heart is her emery hair
The wound healed by her cinnemon stare
And so I am here for her, the shadow
Waiting the return of his lady
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The Shade of Writing 
Time after time,
line for line,
I grow weary
My patience thin
Like ice in winter
The cold pain splinters
Into my soul of glass
I grow weary
How I tire of these words
Empty, left unheard
Nay unheeded
For sake of heart beholden
I dare not chase the stars
For it only leaves bitter scars
Nay I chase the troubled moon
Still I grow weary
For the troubled moon
Does not rise at high noon
Nor does she recognise the sea
Yes weary it isn’t me…
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You give a man no credit to bear burdens deep
Agony I have bared to you and all
Simple and so ever sweet
Alas would you think men to be weak?
Is weakness that I sigh “poor Sora.”
After I swore not to use her name…
Or weak that I tell you I wish you joy?
All is and all the same
I say again you give no credit men
Nor to him, nor me the bard to say
We are weak in mental state
When my hearts such stress on plate
And here I pray each say your burden
That I might find way to take
And carry it on wing
Ne’er mind that my own song
I must attend while I start T again
And on top 2 midterms
And 2 teen children who must learn
Yet here I am at page to console
Princess, dear… weak? I think not so
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