This is a man,
without change.
This is a man,
alone.
No convictions
to sour his soul.

This is a man,
who sees the tide.
This is a man,
Who is outlaw, brigand
and savior.

He walks a path,
no dusty trail.
He makes a call,
just to gamble.

This is a man,
with no hope
This is a man,
amoral.
No God, No Glory,
just alone.

My solitude comforts
Doubt, like a lover's lie.
His fickled fingered
Digits chokes my heart.

Second guessings elevated
to thirds, fifths, and sevenths.
Crippling and seducing
what ego and self reliance
I have, away.

My solitude that comforts
Doubt.  Betrays me.
I have no solemnness
nor reassurance.
I can not banish Him
I never welcome Him
But yet He stays.

Gay little poem book
sitting on the shelf
no one has a one pence
to give you a new home

Gay little poem book
big enough to Pocket
Your true love
shall steal you soon

Gay little poem book
Long forgotten
tell us all
your secrets that you hold.

The only thing
I really want
Ito earn my place
upon my throne.

I don't want my dream
just tossed to me
like a platter full
of roasted duck.

My throne's construction
of Burgundy satin,
and golden throngs,
call out its splendor
to all that witness.

I shall and must
refuse my throne
until  I can see
I wont heed any call
it sends to me.

I can only cherish
the things that will prove
what mine IS mine.
And that is my throne.

I observe the ancient wonder
An old music box,
Whose shell is enclosed in aged mahogany.

The innards contain dissimilar gears and cogs
***** by rust laid out by Father Time,
In his endless cycle.

The scarred ballerina
Her painted flesh corroding to a dust.
I witness the aging ballerina
In her endless German Waltz.

Yet the music, still pure,
As if the music fixes this artifact
As if it was her.