She kept her heart encased in glass
  Or elegantly displayed
     On a moldy old canvass
   For callers by of gilded
      Or passing note

Wrinkled skirt crumpled in the
corner of the hardwood floor
poised to take the stand
and testify about the madness
and the lines of demarcation,
    The hollow harrowing haunting
     harbringer of the haughtiness
     that once served her so well;

I thought I spotted her reflection
in a magazine,
soot stained pages outlining
the continental shifts in her veracity
and the keloid cracks
running along the base of her foundation
a wrinkled old romance novel
in today’s latest fashion,
pretension the wayward child of passion

Harsh geographical tongues,
Set up against the asphalt gleaming in the bright light,
The A Crowd betwixt and between- efforting that cool knowing stance to cover the fear reeked knee **** bloodthirst their inadequacy always spawned.
The B Crowd simpers aghast at what unconscious desires to adopt the life husk of burned out hucksters has wrought.
The sentimental inspector dutifully tweaks the scales so we all have a tighter grasp on true value.
Postscript: Lord grant me the grace to disguise the portentous notions that I am anything other than what I pretend to be...


[Rolloroberson copyright 2020]

That brokered lace cascading from your brow,
Ocean brought swaying of hips that like a blissful tide,
Pull me out-
Pull me in to you.
Words that bring to mind the wholeness of you.
Immolated in grateful emotion,
Standing here burning heart happiness,        
On the periphery of each moment of nearness;
Flesh can slide off into secondary categories of import.
It is the knowing trust which becomes the foundation of any passing day,
Since that gaze, since that rain soaked glance first taken in innocent ignorant bliss,
And underneath a stolen Moon our embrace, our nascent kiss which has yet to cease...

Your lenticular heart ushered in a new reign of openness in mine
Struggling to recover ground and stand fast in my world
Had led to precipitous decline
The extent of which appeared like a blank canvas
Painted in blank colors and signed “Life”

The severed strands of Septembers past
Milled about with thoughts of youth
Partaking prematurely from the fount of regret
Distinguishing between the add ons and what nots they had gathered on the road
They glance skeptically in my direction

This is no fun, no fun at all
Even if all my notions of the word were reborn and rearranged
I can’t conceive of any merriment or mirth
Hidden below or dangling above this misbegotten meet

And who arranges such gatherings
Most likely midwifes with tattered stockings
And little left to do
But peruse the petulant prose which portrayed me in such a pale light

Feigning reinforcement resolves to root out this weekend repast
And charge headlong screaming freedom and forget me nots
At any shallow head which might turn this way
I’ve forgotten what to say
Twirl another strand of hair stuck awkwardly on the forehead of the universe

And we were all waiting like blind acorns in twisted tunics
As the caravan of caricatured contestants collided
With the haughty holdings of the hallowed harbinger
And whispered all my secrets in the air
Just as the rendered remnants of my hidden heart
Gave way to the scattering winds of this solemn September
Fortune flitted in and flared her skirt for me
And smiled… just smiled