By Mark A. Leon

Heathcliff standing on the mountaintop; you are a ghost of my past
A dreamer from an Austen novel burned by the fire of reality
Handsome, rugged and pure
A wanderer in a sea of misfits; too wise for the commoners; to crass for the rich

I can’t get you out of my mind
I see that now
I was never meant to

You are my ideal madness
Can’t live with, misery without

The perfect storm

In that suit you are perfect.  A man with integrity masked in the rugged facial disguise

I will play your game, dance in your masquerade, fall victim to your passion

“Beware!” the tempests said as they danced a pirouette around my shadowy soul
They warned me of his whiles
In song, they chorused of his tempting kiss
They told me I would fall; further than the deepest abyss.

I listened, not! for I was stuck by the piercing of love

Now the shadow of Heathcliff reigns high above that mountain

In the distance, for only I to see.  You are still with me gentleman of the night.  Forever and ever