Love is longing and aching.
Love is fawning and shaking.

Love is the door to happiness,
Swung open wide.

It is nerves and flutters--
It is holding the heart of another.

Love is kisses and assurance.
Love is the support against which a latter stands.

It is a tender hand,
A steady, unyielding flame.

Love is you and me.
Love--
Is "we."

When they stood up,
And spoke out

About their experiences,
And daily trials

I too wanted to stand up,
And apologize.

But I did not.

I sat down.

And listened.

I pledge a grievance
To the flag
Of the Divided States of America
And to the Republics
For which it stands
Two nations
Under (no) God
Divisible with restraints and injustices for all

She whispers slow,
Soft, seductive secrets. 

She sashays with stealth,
And deposits a million kind kisses

Upon these,
My tired and listless lips. 

She breathes beauty,
Boldly inflating me. 

She summons my soul
From its deep and haunted hollow. 

She comes closer and closer with confidence,
Knowing that I am coolly complicit. 

(As ivy climbs its tremendous tower,
So too do I grow gratefully into her.)

She lifts my life,
And we float free of fear. 

Far, far away from here. 

To a land of longing long-forgotten,
Where all are secure in their insecurities. 

She takes me there,
Loves me with tender care. 

And then, with not a word,

She softly dissevers,
Disperses,
And departs.

I am left alone.

It's true, I think,
That sometimes I don't know what to think.

I toss and turn and roll all about,
Living without living,
Doing without meaning,
Accidentally planting soft seeds of doubt.

I think in Solitude
I become more confused.

I write without knowing what these words say,
Or what they will mean to you,

Dear,
Faithful,
Compassionate,

Reader.

This is such a selfish exercise,
Writhing for your approval.

Still I know I'll submit

To the hopes of finding a kindred spirit--
That my words might touch your eyes,
And soothe your mind.

This is my only wish.

In the dead of night I yearn for you,
Reader.

For your connection,
And the belief that you are someone,
And I am someone,
And that there is significance enshrined in our exchange.

I am made small by the vastness of this immense world.
7 billion souls, and I am but a diminutive voice in the crowd.

I hope that you hear my voice,
As I hear yours.

I hope that we might discourse,
You and I.

And I hope that,
Perhaps,
We might impact some souls outside our circle.

To think otherwise is too much to bear.
I cannot carry a cross of anonymity,
A cross of insignificance.

I must voice my thoughts,
And hope they are heard.

Because if a poet writes and has no reader,
Did the poet write at all?

So here is to you, dear reader.

This,
My shameless plug for your continued loyalty--

Without you, I am not me.

I have reduced your readership to mere pity,
You see.

Still I must ask--
Read me.

Like the metallurgists of yesteryear,
I must melt, mold, mend, and make.

Like a master teaching his apprentice,
Schooling him in the ancient ways,

So too must I impart on my readers my knowledge, my thoughts, my living.

Leaden words of silver roll off my gilded tongue,
(Perhaps someday you, too, shall have gold-plated lips),
Into the warm, receptive ears of followers devout.

You admire my art,
And rightfully so.
But I need you, as surely as you need me.

You see, intricate inlays and ruby-studded pommels are beautiful, yes.
But the sword dispatches a sterling service, soldier.
It is functional, as are my own subversive talents.

The wars you wage with my weapons are worthy ones,
And we ought both take pride in them.

Without your deeds I would have a mere hobby, not a duty.

But I have traded the battle swords of ages long past
For the fountain pen of today, and tomorrow.

Heed my words,
Even as you would kneel before my sword.

I am--
The New World Blacksmith