They want you in black and ashen finery, the harsh angel.
I prefer you in bright colors, the girl next door, an autumn day.
The pictures of you laughing as the leaves fall around you,
And you seem joyous and full of warmth the sun is putting away.
All the pictures in a folder, the autumn dreamer, the summer lover,
The winter sweetheart, the springtime saint, all the brightness freely given.
Unlike the faces you procure to perform and cut throats and rule in movies.
Unlike the reaper of blood and damnation the other so fervently adore.
A dream, unmade in its casting, the tenderness that is a shard in my heart.
You and me and a happy world, silly movies and domestic happiness
And soft and mischievous love making, and talks into the night,
Sad songs and cuddling and so many bottles of red wine.
I don’t want the demoness. I want the girl.
But neither is real. All our faces are dreams.
All eyes see are mirages and not the sainted sun.