He ,wounded, lay in no man's land
fearful to crawl fro or back.
He'd wait for darkness to try his luck
and hoped the Huns would not attack.
Something was needed to pass the time
He reached his hand into his sack
Aeschylus, in the original Greek,
He read with pleasure
until night turned black
In the Attic tongue he was well honed
and so he never felt alone.

When and where does the mind wander
When it‘s trapped within its’ loom?
When plaque obstructs the passageways
Through which her thoughts would zoom?

When she was young the Universe
was all hers to explore.
Little did she realize then
What horrors lay in store.

She encountered the excitement
of new concepts and ideas.
But those memories grow distant
Then, in some dark corner, disappear.

When young, she was a fashion plate;
Vibrant colors every night.
Now she’s dressed in shades of grey
as she stumbles through twilight.

True, she sometimes can recall
a place, a name, a slight.
Yet she forgets to take her medicines
And she isn’t eating right.

When young her nimble mind could play
whole symphonies by rote.
But now all she remembers
is a single plaintive note.

Stop showing
You love me
A little at a time.

Stop saying
You care
Bit by bit.

Stop keeping
Me here
For tiny pieces of time.

Because I need
All of you
Not piece by piece.

I love
All of you
Not just some parts of you.

So love all of me
All the way
All the time.

Or let all of me go
All at once
For good.

As long as it doesn't affect me;
as long as it's not immediately relevant
and something I have to immediately worry about;
as long as it doesn't **** up
my credit score
or my
shiny
new
house
then,
**** it.

And
*******,
for bringing it to my attention.

how dare you.

this was promised to me,
it's predestined,
my two-story, three bedroom, two bath; the foreign workmanship and american artifice; the creamy halo of vinyl in the sun; the wrath of windexed windows and their hard missiles of bright, reflected sunlight; the soft lips of my children; my wife's pillowy, warm stomach and scratchy *****; our retriever that eats his own ****, picking apart tiny specks of feces from the sun-pricked tips of our rug of fescue; these are the works of God, this is the land of God. You are marring this flat earth