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Wut Metaphysical - Vestal
(from the album Last of the Metaphysical Poets)
© copyright 2006, Wut Metaphysical

He fell as a tree desolate in the wood
To make a sound youíd have to hear
But of course nobody could
And what a pity too,
Cause the songs that it sang
Was the sound of true love
On the beat of the rain
Can you hear it?
Bit your lip and just listen
It takes a beautiful noun
And a manís preposition
But these normally couldnít possibly be
Because the days are growing evil
And my hearts heavy
I guess thereís possibly
A curse lurking after me
The feeds upon the seeds that I plant in the breeze
Or maybe itís a test or some sort of a trial
And yes itís been a while,
But I can tell by her smile
That sheís the perfect woman
With the perfect plan
To follow Godís son,
The perfect man
Not many can gleam perfectly
But sheís a true ruby as she was meant to be.

Perfection, not a word to use light
Although it seems to glow in the dark hollow night
And when I hold tight,
Iím called idealistic
And criticized for a hope
Thatís not quite realistic
I reject naysayers,
Iíve added the math,
I know if I stick close to this triangle path
Weíll fellowship together
On that one perfect day
And shut the mouth of the mocker
Through this quaint clichť.
ďGood things come to those who waitĒ
And Iíve waited like a soul
At St. Peterís pearly gates.
Jealousies conceived
From those who once believed
To settle like a handshake
To mortal enemies
But not me I scream as I take my stand
Upon the rock and disregard the sand
Not many in all of history
Contain a true beauty
This is meant to be.

Time stops.
The earth holds itís breath
The click of her heals
Is the only sound thatís left
On the front porch
I knew that only one exists
With hands so perfect that I hold her wrists
I canít think straight
Even though I know itís time
My mind sifts thought the rifts
Of emotional rhyme
Waited so long for a true woman renown
Given other girls up
When they couldnít hold down
Her eyes sparkle so bright
The stars feel shame
And my soulís aflame
With who sheís became
The perfect woman
Cast down the fakes
And though sheís past through the wakes
Of various mistakes
This is Godís own daughter
And she knows her place
So she wears the robes
Of elegance and grace
All those replace
Any known disgrace
Just to touch her face
Just to tough her face

Sheís so perfect
These stains are still wet
From the rains that Iíve met
And thatís all that left
I tried to forget
But Iím ingrained
By her small arcane silhouette