By then
the wonder
would have
come to an end

time has spoken

the rose
greeted you
you ignored
soon enough
it was dead

love wooed you
you turned away
giving the excuse
you weren't ready
(as though you heart
had been stitched)
it wept and visited
never again

by now
the sun has set
the daylight waited
but you were wrapped
within yourself
(in rumination)
sad, how really sad!

Alone
forlorn
you're left
to the darkness
and know
no rest

I wish
I had known
it was then
brain-fog
just for a moment
the opportunity
was lost

the right words
I failed to speak
(she was waiting
in such great expectation
with her I lost eye-contact

then she said:
'The wind
is brewing strong
I must leave
in case it were
to break
into a storm'
( a quick glimpse
of her I took
in her eyes
there was a tiny teardrop)-

evening was setting in
into the fading light
she walked
I couldn't find
the words to say-
my heart grievously broke!

No one bats an eye at a ****** assault
Instead, they continue their meal at the dinner table as they pass the salt
"What were they wearing?"
"Why is everyone dreading?"
"It's not my fault they looked like a ****/*****."
"I want some more."
"It's their fault for wearing something like that."
"It's not my fault they looked attractive as they sat."
All disgusting words, said by people who don't have common sense
It's been like this since
Yet, no one bats an eye

No one bats an eye at murders
Killing all the mothers
And family members
But no one simply cares
All they do is inhale the air
Unlike the dead
Who has maggots in their head
Instead, they do nothing about it
They act like they don't care even a little bit
Police
Aren't protecting people from the beasts
Lurking in the open
They aren't in a singular pen

No one seems to care
All the women picking the bear
Because of violent and perverted "men"
Just like Benz
Who shouldn't even be considered "men"
Doing dangerous crimes like abuse, murders, SA, and more
They don't look like a pore
They look like a pimple
If I tried to make it more simple
The pimple desperately trying to make itself a pore
But they can't do anymore
They stick out like loose strands
Yet, no one bats an eye at these strands

No one bats an eye at evil individuals
They considered them "normal/average individuals"
Yet, they are dangerous

Where Her Spirit Fled

      Once a body with a breath of life
The Doctors reported she was dead
Instantly the tears began to fall
Though knowing where her spirit fled

From a life of abuse, she now
Sleeps in peace in her best bed
During her days she watches over us
From the place where her spirit fled

She always believed in Angels
And in the Bible stories she read
Now she’s one of them
In the place where her spirit fled

She always loved spring and
Winter she would always dread
I know she’s loved and it’s always
Spring in the place where her spirit fled

A Butterfly Angel forever fluttering near a
Rainbow of purple, green, yellow, and red
In a meadow of vibrant flowers sending
Her love from Where Her Spirit Fled

Written By:Charles Kean
01/12/2025
Dedicated to my mother
Norma.
They say only the good die young
Died of Cancer at the young age of 59
Title is (Borrowed from Emma with permission)

1:12:25 9:20am nyc

Exactly, how far is it to you?
this is more than mere question,
or a rhetorical poem title discard,
consider it an interrogatory of
the first order, a debate raging
with every word successfully
affixed from brain to fingertips,
from my breathing to your heart,
how far is it exactly, pray tell me,
how these cords of words find you,
are your lips bending up in a smile,
need me a weather report, air quality,
wind gusts vitals vital to yo! estimate
how fast & conditions they’ll require survive/arrive in your eyesight well
and be friended


feed me the data, Heart Rate, Blood Pressure,
SpO2, so I’ll know what condition your
condition is in, adjust my words accordingly,
send to this distance back to me awaiting,
the necessary facts & figures to provide the finger stroke directional, do you need whispers or emboldened bold face to arouse the a spirit flagging, a shoulder shaking, a dozen red lipped chords of
kisses and sweet everthings, that do not
dissolve, dissipate or disappear instantly,
but can be stored in a Ziploc bag, refrigerated,
ready for gorging and disgorging, repeatedly,
as needed, synchronized slow or hard, fast
or soft, wet or dry. sweet or salty, savory
or a blended mixture, an adjustable concoction depending
on distance, time of day,
tell me,
the stuff that you accept
with open willingness,
or just begrudgingly

all adjustable
all shaped to
your individuality
elastic flexible
but the schedule
filling up fast
so we can mutual
squeeze into each others
empire of empty

so,
Exactly, how far is it to you,
to where you are being?

There is still time
To have breakfast in bed
after we woke up
There is time to talk
Slowly
Carefully
Picking words which don’t hurt
We can still hold hands
Gaze into each other’s eyes
Be kind
Be nice
We still have time to laugh
Watch each other smiles
And be amazed
Everyday

It is not too late

but about cat ladies,
with cats attached

who most like their
fel~ine femin~ine
mistresses, also
come in many colors,
categories, shapes ‘n
sizes

looking to adopt a
pair of cute kiddies,
with promises of
much stroking and
endless affection to
fill the void in my
currently, sadly, totally
animal~less existence

But!

we want a pair,
cat & cat lady,
for how a woman
treats her cat is
the single best
indicator of how

she loves to love
poets, who are
most like cats,
needy for exchanging
purrings and many
other endearing
sounds and belly
stroking, inclusive
of the frequent
recitations of
onlylovepoetry

(a tiny amount of
mutual scratching
is to be happily
expected as well)