Your heart is the echo of your loneliness, it sets the practiced flow to your poetry and the undeniable sorrow of your prose.

Your unrequited love seeks out new partners with the deranged need of a ***** looking for the next score and with the same pathetic results.
Your crash between lovers' highs may lack the sour stink of the vagabond's putrid sweat yet the addict had the good grace to hide his broken soul behind doors, however flimsy;
You would rather celebrate your fractured heart, dressing your wounds with your words as the cheap ****** dresses her bruises with makeup and glitter.
She hates her john and dreams of a better way,
You idolize your ex and yearn for his or her return some day.

Yet I think we can all agree; drugs were the best thing to ever happen to the substance abuser...

Who is to say what is true and what is false,
Perhaps the angels who have fallen are you,
And me.

Stories and fables speak of our desires and fears,
What are the gods if not reflections of all that we find holy?
Does that not beg the question of who created who?
Is God nothing more than a combination of our eggs?
Some broken,
Never a dozen whole,
A reflection, however poor,
of our fractures beliefs.

And if we are fallen from grace and this life was deemed a sort of punishment then is it not our God given duty to rise above the suffering,
Deny the base temptations
And close the door on the face of hate?

I do not judge the fallen angels,
I count myself amongst them,
And we want to go home.

When the sun sets and madness comes to play.
I pray for you,
Please don't be far away.

The wolves howl as they hunt their nighttime prey,
I often ask,
Do they fear coming day?

I travel alone yet I am not lonely,
I close my eyes,
It is your smile I see.

I put these poor words to digital ink,
My sentiments;
Hello Poetry link.

If you are the a sun,
Then I am life blossoming from your warmth.

If you are the earth,
Then I am the moon eternally by your side.

I cannot speak for desire's fiery touch, nor can I speak against it for who listens to a hypocrite's tale and feels anything other than tired annoyance.

I will not offer any advice aside from the weary words of the twice, thrice, ofttimes fallen, yet who cares to hear the yarns of those that tried and failed.

All I can do is spout sad knowledge disguised as nonsense with the practiced ease in which Dylan spouts poetry and hope that you glean some semblance of the message therein and take not this crooked path of mine.

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

You speak of forbidden love
And relish in its passion,
Like a fat sow rolling in ****,
You cannot smell the stench,
Of your joined betrayal,
You couple with immorality.

Go home to your true partner,
Cast away your paramour,
There can be no happy ending here,
There is no love where there is no innocence,
I know as I once danced late into the hot nights to this very same song.

I could show you a skeleton path littered with the corpses of past lovers,
Empty shells of who they once were, skin shredded by snakes, leaving the stench of our distaste behind,
A litany of curious choices,
A dirge of the fallen's passion,
But you will not listen,

For your ears are deafened by the drums of need,
The screaming voice of your own conscience,
And the death rattle of your lost integrity.

I cannot make you feel beautiful.
Perhaps if you could for one brief moment,
With one softly drawn breath,
See yourself through me,
And behold the magic you carry within you,
As your friends,
Your family,
And the many strangers who pass you each day do,
Perhaps in that moment,
You would change your perception of yourself for an eternity,
For yours is a beauty that touches everyone,
Except you,
But perhaps through me you could come to know yourself.

Three hearts for thee divided,
Lust battles with duty for attention,
Making waves that drowned your cries,
Yet you persisted.

Three loves became one,
Your heart the sole victor,
To you go the spoils,
And yet you persisted.

One heart's love is yours entire,
Overworked and overwhelming,
Wounded soldiers make terrible bedmates,
And yet you persist.

Do you ask why the angel has fallen?
What is it the mermaids and sirens sing their song for?
Are jewels and princesses all the dragon keeps?
Who banished the troll beneath the bridge?
Do you demand an answer of your lord;
Why preach forgiveness in written word even while your children give voice to harsh judgements and incivility?

Where have all the faeries gone?
Who tends to their forests now?
Did the angels cry out as they were caste from heaven?
Do their wounded wings bleed?

Again,
Do you ask why the angel has fallen?

Or do you just follow the path your shepherd cut content with the fable he wrote, with your certain knowledge that all is right with the world.

You claim that you're no poet,
That you lack the gift of words,
Yet your notes convey such meaning,
Leaving me filled with the gift of love,
So I respond forget the poetry,
Pretty phrases and simple rhymes,
Continue writing as you do,
As I will love you for the rest of time.

Do you think of me when I think of you?
Is that your smile which greets me from the steam of my morning coffee?
Is it your caress which trails along my neck as I gaze upon the ocean?
Do you see my face as you listen to your song on the radio?
Does you head turn at the sound of laughter with the expectation of finding me there?
Is you who banishes the darkness of my nightmare visits?
Is it your voice which encourages me to continue when I have fallen?
When you close your eyes, do you hear me calling?
Did you catch my scent on wind and know my yearning?
Do you miss me when you walk out that door?

I do not love you as Romeo loved Juliet, tragic misunderstanding, spurned by society's blind perception.

You are no angel sent from heaven above, God's promise made flesh just for me.

We are not soul mates separated by time yet brought back together by Cupid's arrow.  

I am not a frog prince whose kiss will wake you from your long aimless sleep.

Your dragons are you own, good luck slaying them.

I will not build you a tower to look down upon me from above,
Nor will I climb it in some idiotic feat to win your passing fancy.

My love for you is not some tale told by faeries to orphans to give hope of a better life, of a love for each and every one of us, tragic as it may be.

I love you, simply.

You come in the night
Wisp of vapour
A spectre reaching out
Waking me with your tendrils touch
And the hunger within.

You're the monster from my closet
Come to haunt me again,
You wear many faces and none
Yet I know you
As I know myself.

My lust answers your need and
I stiffen even as my will melts beneath the icy flames of your ghoulish desire.
I give in, relinquish control and with it my identity,
My soul is yours to devour,
Which you do with great relish,
As we both reach again for that taste of ecstasy.

Too soon it is over,
You return to the depths beneath my bed,
Back into my closet with your fellow demons,
Mostly forgotten,
But for the smile on my face
As I slip into a sated sleep
Even as I pray
That you never visit again.

I sit amongst rampant consumerism,
Yet I smile as I sip my Starbucks tall Pike Place.
To my left, old ladies decked in Tiffany decry their neighbours folly,
Even while they sit blind to their own.
To my right, Chapters!
Book store that offers so much more,
A perfect monument of society's needs answered in one storefront.
We don't shop here for a read, or for the escape some unknown author's words spell for us.
No, this masterfully crafted shop answers our shared need of empty spending on soulless items that will lift us from the mire of our meaningless lives for one instance,
Before that scented candle or witty greeting card is left to collect the dust of our fallen gods.

Behind me the street is full of noise but no one is listening,
Busses carry the many but each is a world onto themselves,
Thoughts not of their making wrestle for attention with smartphones,
Before long the thoughts echo what the eyes read on the digital screens glowing below them.
The enemy of my friend...
Don't let consciousness wake!
Combined the noise without and the noise within will drown whatever chance we had at relevancy.
And so Oprah wins,
Look under your chairs,
It's your new life,
Not to be mistaken with your old one,
This one comes with a shiny new automobile, trip, ring, dress, shoes,
Anything but enlightenment.

Before me,
Possibilities.

You?

Pathetic

The worm pinned beneath the claw of the morning bird,
Doomed,
No brain to realize it's peril,
Just automatic twitching
Back and forth like an equally wretched dog's tail.

The drunk homeless vagabond,
Too filthy for mere soap,
**** fights for supremacy of stench, With feces, blood and *****.
A human stain on society.
Nobody's father,
No one's son.

****.
Pull your skirt a little higher,
Her husband may not have noticed you yet,
Buy that man another round.
Where are your morals?
Lost with your self worth?
And you too stupid to comprehend that your emptiness cannot be filled by the ***** that you swallow.
Wake up wrinkled and alone,
No yoga pose is going to save you from yourself.

Me,
In your eyes when I show weakness,
Cry over veiled insult,
Admit defeat in the face of misery,
Depression.
Well I'll give you that,
What is depression anyway but a weak man's excuse to fail?

Pathetic.

Sometimes when I'm down,
Defeated,
Or weak,

All I need is a kind word from you,
As you to listen to my song,
Or read my poems,
Followed by a smile,

Then I will know that everything will be alright,
I will pick myself back up
And become again the strong man that you demand,
Whom you love.

That is all that I needed

Like bees to honey is how you draw me to you,

I become lost as you capture me in your hungry gaze even as I find myself within the universal depths of your bejewelled eyes,

And other cliche nonsensical phrases.

I love you.

In search of enlightenment
I stumble.

EMDR handled my childhood traumas,
Small pebbles can grow into landslides if not checked.

Buddha's mindfulness allowed for some insight,
But being aware of my behaviour does not always lead to course correction,
My personal OnStar can merely suggest direction,
As I am only a passenger on this ride.

I am left strained.
I can see the road
And the beautiful sun set.
I can feel you beside me,
But I do not trust,
I fear
If I look too closely
I will find you gone.

And so I continue
My search for enlightenment,
My lasting hope is
When this journey ends
I will find you there.

Mermaids cry with freshwater tears,
Dreaming of handsome sailors who do not flee in fear,
Or even mermen to share their dream with,
For mermaids are alone.

Sirens cry with silent sobs which no one hears,
For their voice,
Even lost and forlorn,
Would only entice further lovers to watery deaths.

Dryads tears drip heavy from leaves of great trees,
Their pain giving life to the forest,
Even as their love ensorcels their soul mates,
And their heart cries out the truth,
What is bound cannot be freely given,
And is forever changed.

I sit alone
The sun beats down it's heavenly warmth,
An angels breath that does not touch me.

I sit alone
You answer my call but the miles between us cannot be measured,
In metric or imperial,
And will not be breached by our muted conversation.

I sit alone
Cardboard pizza and cola
Do little to ease the turmoil within,
I miss you,
You smile,
Your face,
Your love.

I sit alone
Even as the world sits with me.

Warm rain drops beating the pattern of my heart's pulse on the shutters of this old barn house while far away a lone wolf cries, unanswered.

Wind kissed tears from hollow sad eyes form wet trails over dried out wrinkles, whistling through the caverns of past glories on this war torn face, bringing colour and life with the desert rose.

Softly playing violins couple with the lone broken voice of a fallen angel, singing of maladies forgotten, joys yet birthed and a promise, a promise that you fulfill with each breath.

Morning bird song chirping of fresh hope and new love, a sweet tune warding off possible predators even while in search of prey.

Rumbling thunder, the roaring approval of gods reverberating within my bones, my soul, even as the hairs on my arm stand on end at the sound of the fickle lords' voices.

The silence of night captures my imagination, from it's seemingly emptiness rises fables of faery love and poems of ***** desires, all falling short of your brilliant black opal beauty.

A cup of coffee in my hand,
Fresh aromas rising with it's steam
In this cool crisp morning air,
As I sit and read,

Your poetry inspires and moves me
As I catch a glimpse of your soul's echo.
We remain strangers separated  by land
Yet together we find community in words,
In prose,
In the release of voices that reside inside of each of us.

This is my morning routine,
I greet the day with your rhythms and rhymes,
I sip and savour them,
Along with my coffee,
And my heart knows peace.

I am ready for this day.

If breaking hearts were a sin then I would condemn nearly every woman I've ever met to eternal hellfire.

If love is the purpose then you my dear are the soft hands which open the gates of heaven and guide me through.

I do not wish to dream,
For dreams are illusionary life,
Peopled with phantoms of the living
Reflecting our awakened mind's
Fears, lusts, hopes.
Vanity flavours the subconscious.

There is no rest here.

When I close my eyes I pray for darkness.
I wish to escape into the black,
Silk tendrils of the lost tickle my fancy,
Easing my ever chattering mind
Into micro deaths of sweet silence.
I do not exist,
Neither do you,
Nothing.
It is here that I find comfort.

Solace in the forgetting.

Wake up to the pounding in your head,
Whiskey and regrets make for a mean hangover.
Three Advil's, a smoothie and 45 minutes throwing weights won't fix the evil inside,
But it will allow for yet one more day,
Of this sad blemish you call life.

Suited up, don't you look nice?
You hide your weakening smile behind your Starbucks tall half sweet nonfat double shot wake the **** up latte.
Strut your stuff,
Male model martini,
Sell another lie,
Buy yourself time,
Swipe another credit card.

Don't look that homeless vagabond in the eye,
Lest you see the need there,
And feel your own, answer in kind.
Rather make a crass remark,
Throw the keys for your overpriced sports utility vehicle to the valet,
And ***** about the mayor cleaning up the streets.
You pay your taxes,
You give to charity,
You've done your part to end world poverty,
These little lines go through your soul as fast as the ******* you've snorted,
But with less effect.

Your empty voice barks all the louder to be heard,
It joins the chorus of the lost as you sidle up to the bar.
You know the keeper, you tip him so that he greets you by name,
All so you can impress the charade around you,
Master of ceremonies for a freak show that not one of you,
The cast,
Can truly see.

Now you wake beside a beautiful stranger.
Rip off her skin and peer within
The ugly you see is the demon you share,
Drown it's harpy song with more devil water,
Pierce your skin and let it ride the needle ***** high beside you,
Into your own special hell.

What to write about?

Should I speak of my love?
It's continued development,
The lessons learned and hurts hastily covered with blue coloured bandaids and a kiss?
A favoured topic to be sure.

Shall I rhyme about lust?
Love's charm without the rust,
Your soft body beneath me a must,
That this need will fade, unjust.
Once departed, lacking love, this passion returns to dust.

What is left?

Hate does not touch me,
Not in this country,
Not in my city of cherry blossoms and sunshine,
Or darkly overcast skies coupled with soft misting rain. (Depression?)
Not today!

Death is a foreign entity.
I am not unsullied,
Yet I do think much more of this ***** than as life's bratty little sister.
Necessary,
Which may one day grow into something beautiful to be admired,
But for now is nothing more than crayons coloured outside of the lines.

I guess I should not write at all.

For what worth is there to put pen to paper,
(Finger to touch screen),
When my muse is silently humming a tune to which only she knows the words?
I can hear the rhythm,
My blood pulses with it's beat,
But I cannot glean the meaning.

Therefore I am done,
For this poem is about nothing.

My words are not my own,

Nor do they belong to my totem frog
Which hippity hops
His way trough my life,
Guiding me towards a metamorphosis,
From drunkard
To enlightened.
He (I) sure am taking his time,
But should/could this journey be rushed?

My poems are not the caw of the crow and/or raven,
She does not sing a song so beautiful that I am moved to purge it least it take up too much of the spare space I have inside of me.
She is my spirit guide,
Turn this way, choose that one (with the pretty smile which makes you ever so nervous),
Do not wear that ridiculous outfit,
Don't even think of-
Too late, now live with the repercussions, idiot.
A ****** of voices.

My muse tickles my lust and embraces my love
But is neither.
She/he dons many faces none of which I have ever seen.
Whimsical *****, ******* of emotional release
I do not know you!
I write your words as they come into my head.
Or I would,
If I could keep up with your maniacal laughter;
You spew nonsense rapid fire, child slaying zombies with Cheetos stained fingers,
And with all the elegance therein.
Yet,

I am thankful indeed.

I am left lonely
Tired
Whimsical
Lost and
Empty.

I keeping looking for your words
Kind touch
Soft inhale
Hard kiss and
Laughter.

I do not know what to do
With myself
My time
This world
Without you.

It has been four days
Three sleeps
Dreams
Awakenings
Without meaning.

Come home sweetheart

Without you
I am dust
The space between
The last exhale
A forgotten lyric
Road sign that leads to nowhere.

Come home sweetheart.

Can you know love while your heart seeps in hate?

Sleep deprived,
My mind whispers of your soft touch
Urgent with need.
My eyes wander over your every curve,
Intoxicated by your beauty,
They devour you whole.
My skin recalls with vivid clarity
The feel of you beneath me,
The throbbing desire,
The explosion of mutual release.
My mouth can still taste the moisture on your lips,
It yearns to return to you,
To nibble,
To lick.
Watching you dress,
I wait...

Bloodied and bruised lips,
I enjoy the taste of iron passion in your kiss.
Tears filled with too swiftly spoken words and
feelings never to be expressed well up then slip out and over,
leaving salty trails of dried up promises, of joy of pain.
Dark smears of mascara mark your otherwise flawless face.

I can read your need.
Our stories are intertwined and older then the cave paintings depicting hunter slaying prey,
and just as primal.

Sing me no sweet lullabies.
Rather pound me into the moist earth with your crescendo,
your dirge,
a harpy's cry coupled the siren's song.
My lust will answer in kind.
Rising proud and *****, a soldier standing tall, fearless, with yearning gaze searching the worlds between us, welcoming you, the enemy, more friend than foe, into a dance designed to wound,
Cupid's arrow through our heart.

The only peace we will know will be the quiet of the field when the battle is done.
The only victor the carrion crow,
a ****** of beaks to pick over our shredded skin, our false pride, our misconceptions.

It's not the bride who cries on this wedding day.
White virtue walks the aisle splendid with beauty that shines from within, sending my ghosts screaming as they are replaced with a spirit far more profound.

My knees shake as I lower myself to worship you at your alter.
Any more sacrifices and I'll be dead. I am laid bare before you, every layer pealed back, raw meat for the knife.
I await your tender kiss.

His high intellect was a whip and a chair to keep the lion of your growing independence at bay.
Cowering child,
You roared your defiance against proud deaf ears.
Now a beast grown with a pride of your own,
Your let sound your growl,
Your angry howl,
But within that defiant song can be heard the whimper of the cub that just wanted to be heard.
Stop it.
Listen and speak softly for your voice carries and is heard.
You are not your father.
You are your own man.

Two strangers exchange eternal vows. Neither lovers yet fully born.
You were more a stranger to yourself than to her.
In you she sees a mirror spirit,
More lost than found,
Lacking an identity to call your own. Her passion, a hot storm built after a lifetime of suppression,
Is released by another man.
In this and in him she begins to find herself.
You think you lost her, yet she was never yours.
Oaths sworn by the wraiths of the beings you were yet to become are not considered binding by any council of lovers,
Lost or foresworn.
You are not her husband.
You'll place your ring on another hand.

Your eyes swore to possess her as her faery beauty woke within you the imp of desire.
Fey creatures know there's magic in *******.
Her every whispered breath was poetry as you pressed your stiff need against her back.
There was honesty between you even as you lied to yourselves,
Just one more kiss, another **** another glass of wine.
No amount of pleasure could bury the wrong.
It was not your lips she kissed goodnight,
Nor your smile which greeted her in the morn.
You were her paramour,
Her poet,
Her escape from another man.
She belongs to another man.

You are both the light which chases my old shadows and the breath that snuffs out my flickering candle.

My duties require feeding your warm glow with my left while placating the your angry breath with my right.

I am in. Committed in love
With you.

*** slave workers
Bent over stained beds
In forgotten brothels
Far from country and home
Have more joy than you
Or I.

Skeleton thin children
With skin stretched
Over illness bloated bellies
In poverty ridden streets
Under a relentless sun
And equally relentless culture
Kick a worn ball around
And feel more hope than you
Or I.

Flea ridden mutts
Runts of the brood
Feasting on garbage
Shying from the kicks
Of rotten teens
And sour drunks
Reciprocate more love
From the hand of a kind stranger
Than you
To I.

The world is dying
As we keep trying
To assimilate
To accept our fate
And drown our fears
In a stranger's tears
But we are one
We let our own blood run
When we wound
We become doomed.

I tell myself not to message you.
What good would come?
Our paths diverted
Separate roads for separated
Souls.

Yet I see your smile when I awake
And sometimes when I'm down
Like a beacon of hope
Guiding this ship home.

But you are not home.
And I am no sailor
Tackling the elements
And winning my way.
I am drift wood
From a wreck lost way out to sea
Long, long ago
Under a listless moon
And the only witness
Drowned with me.

So I will not message
And the letter of my heart
Will remain unwritten
Floating with the wreckage
Which is me.

You are the vision of my heart's beauty.

I broke again today.
Mind caged behind emotions
Not of my making,
Not of my choosing.

The tempest whipped up
By foreign deities
Which reside inside
Whom do not mask their hate.

I cry out for your help
Even as I strike your hand
When you reach for me.

Yet you stand resolute
In the wake of my broken fury,
Birthing new love within me
As I find strength in numbers
For I am no longer alone.

You put more effort into your job.

Think about this.
Let it sink in.
You don't love your job.
Often you don't even like it.

You don't look forward to it.
You don't write happy status updates regarding it.
But you do put more effort into it.

You dress nicer.
You're often kinder and quicker with a compliment for your colleagues.
You're nearly always on time and considerate of others needs and wants.
You do your hair, put on a suit, paint on some face.

Imagine if you did that for your family and loved ones.
Imagine getting up in the morning and making the effort to look your best; no lulu lemons or tank tops and shorts.
Imagine putting on a pressed shirt or dress just so the person you love can see you looking great.
Imagine showing up on time for friends events with a small gift in hand.

Imagine caring as much about the people you love.

Take a turn at poetry
See the sky in it's endless capacity
Smell the moisture and promise in the soil of the earth
Revel in the love and beauty of the many bird calls
Dance to the song that beats for your heart
Relish the warmth of your ***** thoughts
Catch your breath as she catches hers

Shudder at the shivering heat of her touch as your mind sparks, kicks and starts like an old rusty pick up truck.

Shed tears at her loss,
soft pattering rain on the window of your soul where you hide listening to the scratch of the records as they turn out melodies fresh with the scent of the baker's hands
but lacking his warmth.

Don't hear that thunder,
Rather,
Feel it within the bones you use to brace the thin beliefs and morals you wear like bleached white skin yearning for the colour only she, your sun, can provide.

Embrace that rumble,
let it shatter those bones of learned judgments, smash your shivering fearful spine allowing brave voice to let sound the cries of the hobbled child inside.

Return to the naïveté of your birth
Blood fresh iron mist flavours your first taste of life.
In this you find true words
In this you find poetry.

Passion leads
This fool follows.

Death is boring.
Dark, cowled and skeletal,
Exuding a mysteriousness that she fails to fulfill.
Her goals are one dimensional
Though myriad in her often creative
Approach.
Creative after an eternity of
Collection.

God is almighty.
What can you give the man who has everything?
Your faith?
Omnipotence...
Safe bets are seldom captivating.
Unless you’re a criminal stacking the odds
While your fellow man takes the dive
For your gain,
Your glory.

Buddha is just a man.
Enlightened.
He accepted Death’s embrace,
And God’s divinity
Thrusting aside the Devil’s whispered
Temptations.
Yet
Buddha was just a man.

The Devil whispers the sweetest dreams
His voice is a silk melody
Dancing along our nerves
Touching our forbidden parts
“Take her, she wants your ****”
Plunge into her moist depths
Sheath your spear,
Spill your seed,
****** hard
Then soft
Find release in her moans
Peace and heaven in her trembling touch.

Her moist lips part
But it is not your name she sounds
Her voice once radiant with lust
With desire
Now drives a shard of hate within, through your still rapidly beating heart.
Cupid speaks another name

Once hard now limp
Pull back, pull out your flimsy ****
Look down into the empty depths of her eyes
See in them another man
Her hunger is sated
Bruised lips mouth the apology your ears refuse to hear
Yet your heart laid bare just moments before
Is pierced anew.
Laugh it off but
The Devil has his hooks in you

Another carcass for the heap
She is the hook, you are the meat
Butchered
The lost leading the sheep to slaughter
Do not fret, you are not finished
Soon you will rise a phoenix from her cooling embers
Golden and resolute
Stronger for having licked her poison
Yet you will know that you are now
A stranger to yourself
You are the hook
Find him some meat
The Devil hunts again.

The fleeting peace of softly playing music and oncoming dreams.
Too soon I will wake.
Too soon we will pick up our burdens & stumble on.

You’re the message my heart needed to hear.

The lost drown and smoke your words away
Hidden behind layers of a self-induced fog too thick to be heaven’s curtains,
Yet too thin to be effective.

I hear your whispers
Soft melodies of melancholy
Ripple down my spine
More paralyzing
Yet akin
To a car wreck
Birthed by the same vaporous spirits I used to hide behind.

Now I choose clarity.
Mindfulness
The Buddha showed the way
Is it easy to follow a path first lit over two thousand years ago?
Ask me again tomorrow.
Today those whispers like tiny devil worms sneak along
My spine delivering emotions and thoughts
Not mine.
And I am lost
Helpless as they take my mind
And defuse my spirit
And giggle as I follow Rome
Once great, forgotten, found but never resurrected.

I defy you Voice inside my mind.
I see you
I hear your whispers and acknowledge
That I am not your author.

Be wary
Be mindful
Because I too whisper
Of a love stronger than your hate.

I speak poetry when I dream of you as I drink a dram.
My words are poor.
I don't give a ****
Cause last I checked I'm still your man.

Your high intellect is a slim shield for the heart that bleeds black death beneath it.

It need not die.
Though all is mortal and finite know this
My love for you is eternal.
It is within my love the light that will hold that blackness at bay.
A wall more than a shield.

So drop your weaponry my darling. Sheath that sharp wit for another day
For another lover
For I am not your enemy
In me you find your man.

My poetry is not for you.
My heart is.
My words belong to the wind.
Emotions cause this volcano to explode.
A release of rhythm, of prose
Of joys and of pains
Of memories of today.

You are a muse.
That's amusing.
A tempest of a temptress,
Your touch sings maladies on my soul.
A dirge of crystal tears
Reflecting lost hope
Lost love.

This poem is not for you.
Yours is a smile that lightens
This burdensome heathen.
Whilst your scorn leaves new scars
Over old,
Like a worn patchwork cloak,
That no wizard ever wore
But this one dons with the certainty
Of the pious
And the loved.

The library is a quiet, empty cave where voices echo like ghosts in a gymnasium.

Laughter.

You can feel the history here, both in the dusty tomes and the architectural nod to the Roman coliseum.

Strange visitors of which I am numbered as I stand here spouting poor poetry on my phone.

Enough.