When night falls dark and shrouds all hope
of mending what has gone awry,
Remember it takes time and faith
to know just when the moment’s right.
Cocoons unfurl new dreams of love.
Above, they dance and light the sky.
You are who I’ve been dreaming of.
You are my butterfly.
It’s been a while since I’ve rhymed.
I don’t know why, or what has sparked,
this need to can a moment’s time
and regimented meter in
a note-to-self; a bottle marked
“return to sender,” floated down
a river where the days begin
and end within the boundaries of
a winding predetermined path,
where by the night my note will drown,
an afterthought, a wing-clipped dove
consumed beneath the aftermath
of ebb and flow—of tides that stole
away with all my self-control.
I walked along the back of the hospital where two men in overalls were hiding an exhaustive list of graffiti with fresh paint and rollers.
+=+===+===+===+===+===+===+===+===+===+===+===+===+===+===+
+===+== Some say the world will end in fire, =+===+===+ It’s raining men!===+===+
+=+= Some say in ice.===+===+===+===+===+===+===+===+== Hallelujah! =+
+===+===+= From what I’ve tasted of desire, +===+== =+= It’s raining men!===+===+
+=+===+===+== I think neither would be nice.=+===+===+= Amen!==+===+===+
+===+===+===+===+===+===+===+====+===+===+===+===+===+===+===+ Continue reading
Mondays are always an agonizing chore.
I’m starting to grow quite poor
in a sense. Begging god and womankind for
a second chance; just one more.
I need to start fresh; rebound. I can’t afford
to waste my days outside her door.
Tuesday (we met online), I knocked on her door,
ashamed of what had brought me to this chore.
At first glance I thought “at least I could afford
her for the night.” Her unpleasant and poor
attire consoled my expectations – more
against my usual instincts than for.
Wednesday I was renewed, and spent the day listening for
the phone to ring, or maybe the door-
bell. I couldn’t describe it, but only what I desired more
than her in that moment, is that this anxious chore,
this effort I’d put forth, would not be poor,
but rather a new-found bliss I could afford.
Thursday clearly showed we couldn’t afford
to keep away from each other, for
at last my hope, my fantasy, my poor
lover’s soul burst through the door;
the bane of my heart’s lonely chore
of distant longing ever more.
Friday I thought she yearned for more,
so I sold the things I could afford,
to buy her a diamond worthy of that chore.
But my hopes for her – for us – had faded, for
her mind, I learned, a flimsy door,
had made it clear my choice was poor.
Saturday found me broken and poor.
My resolve had dissolved to nothing more
than her fickle footprints leading out the door.
I fooled myself into thinking I could afford
my waking hours waiting for
her return. Was it good or bad? Not knowing was my chore.
Sunday opened the door: a solemn, self-fulfilling chore.
The poor woman begged, “I changed my mind. Want some more?”
“Sorry, babe; I can’t afford. Anyways, you’re not much worth fighting for.”
A strange young man from far away
With clothing ragged, torn, and frayed,
Approached a maiden by the bay
Whereon the grassy shore she lay.
He kissed her hand and asked if they
Could dance beside the ocean’s spray.
Before she spoke, a soothing wave
Of pleasure and contentment paved
A trail they followed to the shade
Wherein he held her, and they swayed,
And formed their love from hallowed clay.
With him, she would not fall astray,
Or end up lost and in a daze.
Amazed, she questioned, “If I may;
Why dost thou act in such display?”
“My precious flow’r, you needn’t gray
And troubled skies for one to aid
Thee and surmise that no bouquet
Would serve a prize or could convey
Behind your eyes of radiant jade
What passion lies that we have made.
The ways of old, I have betrayed,
And thus thy wishes I obey.”
And then for every smile she made,
A rose he set across her gaze.
Each star above that they surveyed,
He kissed her cheek in doting play.
And if her lips did give him praise,
He furnished her a tender phrase.
They huddled ‘neath the moonlit haze
‘Til dew-drops claimed the break of day,
But morning wrought a somber shay.
His eyes were clouded, glazed, and gray.
Now old and weakened, down he lay.
She quivered as he withered away,
And watched wearily, his soul fade
With nothing more than this to say,
“Remember passion—love; I pray.
My dearest one, I long to stay,
But Fate binds me to my dismay.
I grieve no act, but parting ways,
As my wish was love for just one day.”
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