Two hearts were never closer when separated,
Nor more apart when near.

We do not stress the important stuff
Rather we raise the ****** flag of war over the inconsequential,
And trample our soft field of love beneath the heavy trod of harsh spoken words stomping over the ripe carcasses of anger.

Where do we go from here?
Do we turn back time and bite our tongues never uttering the words that have bound us one to another,
Or do we plod onwards trusting that joy, loyalty and our oft proclaimed love will win through our clouded emotions to arrive at those poppy fields where this war becomes just another memory?

Pain is separation from you.

Do not stress over the broken dreams of yesterday,
Cracks in the walls of your good intentions allow the glimmer of light,
Neither sought or understood,
To shine through.
You cannot know what awaits,
Not can you have more than the slightest effect on your life's outcome for 'you' as you know yourself to be is nothing more than a grouping of molecules more complex than the universe you reside in and your thoughts and designs no more authored by you than your eventual fate.
So please do not angst over broken hearts and what may have been,
You never really had a chance anyway,
Yet realize that something good and often better will come for within you resides the universe just as you reside within it.

Once upon a time
A bard told a tale so wonderful
So moving
That it was told and retold again and again
Across all nations
And in all tongues
This tale became the greatest myth
More believed in than any religion or god
It became a part of every culture
As important to our genetic make up
As any particles
As integral as breathing
Pumping through our very souls with each beat of our hearts
Yet this story's happy ending remains elusive
But such is the profound power of this yarn that men and women drive themselves to ruin yearning for its realization
And upon such an occasion are consumed by the fiery nature of the story never to be the same
This fable has a name
And it is Love.

I'm a bloke in a suit on a train to last year's realized dreams no more content to arrive at tomorrow than yesterday.

My mind chalk full of plans and strategies for a better me because Michael taught in an unforgettable hymn that the path to world change begins with a mirror.

Yet it is not peace or culture and religious tolerance that bubbles through the frothy brim of my troubling mind but you.

I love you woman.

What worth this life and it's lofty goals full of meaning and well being where only careful deliberation will carry us from misstep and disaster if we do not have each other to share in the glory and the gore.

You don't look like I know you should; your clothes, your hair, your body and your accessories speak to a culture that I do not understand.
I'm not even sure I want to.

Before you cry hate realize that I am not speaking to the colour of your skin; pigment has zero relevance to the way you were raised, the friends you chose or who you are as you stand before me in this modern society.

The alien I find in you are the choices you've made, or rather the very few choices you've made as you've allowed the flavours of the masses to salt your very being, laying the foundation for the same row houses on each block, 'we' nothing more than automations that turn right, vote left and drive straight on into the witless death of 'our' meaningless life. Group hug.

I obviously am not talking about you; you read this poem and judge it unworthy or not and write your own birthing thoughts not yet authored, cutting yourself free from the tether of normality making the awakening of social consciousness possible.

Or perhaps I'm just another ******* on the train wearing awesome golf pants coming back from the game that takes more than it gives griping about life and those that don't live it or love it.

The human heart is very fragile indeed.
Yes it is capable of holding and exuding such fiery passions as to consume you whole,
Yet can it not be crushed underfoot with a wayward blow meant to push away rather than injure or the sweet kiss of fare thee well from the object of your eternal desire?

Love is not the monster that hides beneath your bed, rather under your sheets where you wistfully dream of your prince, your knight, the girl next door or the **** *******.

Love is the creature that hunts for your immortal soul not by night but rather captures and enraptures you in the brightness of day with a single smile and words that only you amongst the billions in this world were meant to hear.

Love is not the answer, it is the question in the truest sense which poets, songwriters and the daft have spent eternity trying to unravel, it is a puzzle without end for the missing pieces lie within us all and can only be found in another.

And the creator in all his glory housed such a curse as a gift within the most fragile of vessels yet we stand shocked witness each time our hearts break.

Can I be considered a good leader if those that follow ultimately fail in my absence?

Is the artist only as good as the canvas upon which she brings her creations to life?

I suspect not.

Therefore I am a failure as my legacy is covered in the blemishes of the fallen. Viaducts down, Rome sacked as what once was great is now nothing more than tales told by those who choose to live in the past.

But I am young.

Thus I return to the scene of my crime, hastily departed, left reeling, a drunk short a drink and a sympathetic ear, and I begin anew.

Perhaps this time I will impart some wisdom to allow those that can to light their own path, so that this time when I depart they will stand resolute and face the coming dark with the certainty of knowledge, of awakened minds.

Wish me luck.

Your sad eyes awaken a need within me to heal the heart which cries tears poorly hidden by the night rain.

Who left you out in the cold?
Whose harsh hands left those marks upon your skin?

Something in me wants to save you from your chosen fate;
Lean into my protective embrace and I promise you no hurt shall ever visit you again.
We both recognize that lie;
The saviour is nothing more than the precursor to the persecutor,
I would lay you upon a cross we built from your past misfortunes and misdeeds, and the understanding which thinly covers my hate.

Better I offer you nothing now but a friendly smile,
And leave you, alone, cold in the rain, waiting for the man who bruised your face,

I would batter your soul.

You are my peanut butter,
I want you everyday,
Breakfast, lunch,
Snacks and dinner,
You go perfectly with my jelly.