That boyish heart rescinds,
Others call it growth,
What of worth has he,
If not the love he's known?

Now here stands the man,
Or that is what's supposed,
Whatever happened to,
His storybook betrothed?

The way we touch no longer lingers,
With butterfly tipped and desperate fingers.
We kiss here on the dotted line,
Rent will pay in full on time.
This is not what he has read of love.
So simple to refuse,
The art of growing up.

Who would think a rose so sweet
Would dry and crumble at the feet
And blooms that scent the night and day
Would steal a heart, then fade away

With petals soft and fondly red
Sweet essence fills an addled head
Then turns to dust before the eyes
Leaving naught, but sad surprise

Who would think such thorny vine
Could lift a blossom as divine
And by the stem on which it stands
Could so wrong an offered hand

Such strength and beauty is rarely true
A blessing owned by very few
As 'neath the soil, in winters keep
There sleeps a rose to tear a cheek

Who would think that perfect bloom
Could be a bane, a curse of doom
So fine a sight, yet in disguise
A rose to ***** and blind the eyes

If I could I would cast a spell
With a vocabulary beyond my reach
I would stack it layer upon layer
Deeper and deeper or higher and higher
Depending on the perspective you took
Rounding corner after corner
Finding what was lost and again losing what was found

Chipping away at a crooked alphabet
Making you sleepy-eyed while still wide awake
Casting aside any aspersions asinine or not
Planting new symbols hidden carefully  between the A B C's
Making troubles for those needing order and for those ordering their needs
Lifting our senses so high  knowing depression must follow
After the low you again start the climb only to crash again

I strive to paint a picture so abstract it loses all meaning
Viewed over and over with eyes that look for answers
I lead the proverbial horse to water finally to have it drink
Meanwhile touching a shadow on a cloudless day poking holes in its silhouette
Do I plant seeds in dust hoping to yield a blossom where none can grow
Are my arms stretched outward to embrace a loveless world
That spins so fast that my fingertips are set ablaze.