A mask of my flesh
made pleasantly familiar
by Strangers
who, grasping the wild
silk ribbons of my soul,
pull &

stretch each strand of me to be
neatly knitted into the
Fabric of Society.

You’ll know that I love you
when I feel far away
e’en as I embrace you
and say “It’s okay.”

My darling, my dearest,
for me true love’s call,
is being the Stoic -
your rock - a wall.

Ne’er will I grimace,
my nerves wrought from steel.
No matter the burden
I’ve no reason to feel.

My pain and my tears -
only gum up the works.
I’m not what’s important;
who cares if it hurts?

My body is strong,
but my heart has been broken
so please hear “I love you”
in my action - it's token.

"You work far too much -
how is it you can't see -
I'm what's important!
I need you here with me!"

My partner, my chosen,
for our Sin I am ******
to suffer each moment
keeping life by my hand.

Day’s end grants reprieve -
a moment from toil -
after hands exchanged love
for aches from the soil.

But I tarry not long!
Night's darkness gives aid
to Death's silent servants -
though I'm not afraid.

While I live and breathe
I’ll fight to the bone.
And in between battles,
we’ll settle our home.

"There's no battle to face!
The wolves are in us!
Your broken heart hides
in a tomb made of rust!

And every love blossom
you 'in action' planted?
my heart drenched in poison
once taken for granted."

O! Hubris of Youth -
That grindstone of years
extracted the bitter
from blood, sweat, and tears.

And though we took notice
and tried to repent -
Resentment's a missive
not simply unsent.

Now a wall ‘tween our hearts
built with bricks from the clay
my hands worked to tell you
What I would not say.

You’ll know if I love you
just watch what I do.
Too scared to be broken,
my Self cut in two.

A younger me, acting out naïveté,
trudged in t'each gloomy day
Looking for life, and leaving the wife
Back home without a say.
The passing years extracted our tears
For I knew not the way.
I gave her no time and she lost her mind
So here - alone - I lay.

Oh the sorrow that fills my heart
when morning sun finds us apart.
So strongly felt - it makes me wonder:
Is it absence makes the heart grow fonder?
Would satisfaction of this yearning
- truly - quench passion so fiercely burning?
Surely! flames of love burn strong and true -
When the fuel being used is “Essence of You.”
What remains to feed love’s consuming fire
once wild desire rips off what’s admired?
Will you still be there to stoke the flames
When life’s reality overtakes our games?
Poets have tried through man’s many years
to capture the infinities of heartfelt tears
shed lamenting loss of love’s bright light -
what naive refuge from eternal lonely Night.
Why do the poets not speak of chores?
Of daily tasks become mine and yours?
“Such flights of lust!” - but when lovers land
Will they still long to go hand in hand?
Our imperfections will be brought to bare -
My secret shame; your selfish glare...

What happens when the dreaming is done?
When daily routines replace what’s fun?
United as one -
Will we plant a seed?
Will our passionate love release its greed?
Will we write the book our children should read?
Lovers in lust! I warn you thus - take heed.
Reduce your speed.
Your whole lover - not simply the cover - read.
Exsanguinate your Need.
From your Anxiety - be freed.

Your lips begin sweet lullabies:
a love made into voice
to ease a cradled child’s cries.

Loving Mother, you ask no “Why’s?”
the babe wants not her toys -
'tis lips sing out sweet lullabies.

Would come the day - I’m full of tries
to keep from her those boys
could cause my cradled child’s cries.

Your lover’s hands upon my thighs...
those days your mouth played coy;
what lips to sing sweet lullabies!

These, my unlived memories - lies
unborn and full of noise:
our gently cradled child cries.

Now - in quiet contemplation, I
unmake my every choice:
What gently cradled child cries
when my lips unsing lullabies?

Yesterday, the “Filtered Shade” gray
walls of my living room echoed
with a promise whispered
though the camouflage clouds of March.

And today, as the sun began pulling
a golden blanket across this cold
spring morning, I almost remembered
to appreciate yesterday’s gentle reminder.

Gray whispers of dreary days
who softly nudge at loss -
tomorrow, our memories remake joy
under warm, golden blankets
and forsake with haste
your gentle embrace.

It is only there
from that low, low place
of utter despair
and civil disgrace,
your mouth in the gutter
earthen soil in your face
in complete desolation
your heart laid to waste
from which you must rise
to make your own Fate.