His eyes... Oh, his golden, glimmering, eyes! Never before In a thousand years Had I thought that his eyes His heart His head Wouod comfort me so.

Daddy shrek, I call him. Daddy shrek, and nothing else. In his swamp I get Outta his swamp you go

And yet still In the glimmer of moonlight While his but cheeks reflect the water And his ogre ears reflect my gaze I stare. And he stares. And together, we smile.

Because my shrek is his shrek And his shrek is my shrek. And in this light of the moon, In this dirt of the swamp, We become neither the shrek of mine Or the shrek of his:

In this swamp, We become the shrek of ours.

Her hair coils.

Endless, meaningless, driven rhymes, Written upon a bleeding head.

She burns it. Cuts it. Marks it. Colors it. Tries, if nothing else, to Straighten it

And yet still, In the midst of the summer nights, While the moon shines above the stars, And her smile brims upon a broken face,

A single, Tiny, Sharped, Bit of

Her hair coils.

And in the depths of the night , Hands barren, cold hay While my breath rings upon itself, Cold mist; a winters quarrel She follows me.

Green hair. Blue eyes. Castrated hands. A menacing smile.

Her lips bring warmth; Joy; A light.

Her tears bring life; Sound; A comfort.

And yet every year, She must leave. And every day, She must age.

And finally, in the brink of this madness: I shall die. Before her. Never to see such a red lip again.