How tragic is it?

We all yearn for the same thing

Love.

Yet we fail to offer it.

Not to others. Not even to ourselves.

We’re all hurting for the same reason.

Our desires are identical.

But we choose to endure the pain

and let those around us suffer as well.

We hold back love,

then lament that we never receive it.

How tragic.

Everyone defines love differently.

But at its essence

we all crave the same thing.

Yet we’re molded to believe in varying forms of it.

And now,

we neither know how to give it

nor how to accept it.

How tragic.

We fail to find love

in our own homes,

in our own circles.

So we search for it

in strangers,

in fleeting encounters,

in harmful places.

How tragic.

We live in a breathtaking world,

yet we seek beauty

in someone’s thoughts,

in a verse of poetry,

in the pages of a book.

We discover love

only in ink and paper,

and the more we uncover it there,

the more it pains us.

Every day.

With every passing moment.

How tragic.

We lack the one thing

we need most

the very thing

that defines

our humanity.

The picture
has been written
the words
have been painted
but the silence
remains
insane

Cradle his young ego
The man repeats old patterns
Fooled by his own mind

On the wings of forever love
Your name passes across my lips,
And onwards to the stars it passes.
The brightest star absorbs it into itself
And it is all the brighter for it.

Pain bloomed,
along its festering vines
It's tendrils
peered through my eyes
I could feel them,
throughout my exposure
choking me, suffocating.
I was reborn
I was trapped, content.
My body, never again was rhythmic
With fueled strength,
I watched in distance,
how they burned.

I often remember, and remember fondly
how the fog rose off the surface of the water
in great tall fingers reaching for the sky-
when it was almost still night, the sun making barely a shadow
and the cool kiss of dew on my skin
from the humid air
as even the breeze had not yet awoken.

I remember how the boats and oars
looked so vibrant in their color
as that gray shroud of morning sleepiness
laid a drowsy shade over the greens and blues
with a gentle hand.

They were red and yellow
and as we glided quietly towards the sunlight,
sparkles rippling alongside the waterbugs
and I thought to myself
this all I would ever hope for.

A secret spoken is no secret:
I've only one forever love,
one true love,
Foolish woman that I am.

I know his name inside and out.
As well as he knew mine,
And in the many other forms
It took as we lay in love-talk.

As each one forms on my lips
Even now, I say, "Yes, I knew it."
I used it like a conation chanted,  
"one true love."

Though all knew the secret
No one spoke it out loud,
But perhaps whispered.

And it remained
A silent secret kept inside
like a whisper
Desiring to break out at times,
yet kept.

One forever true love,
He was mine, and I was his,
silent in our hearts.

Divorce can be harsh.
Yet our children always knew,
This secret, which somehow comforted.

He spoke my name one last time,
Our children proclaimed.
Then took our love with him to his grave.

I lived on, grew comfortable with our truth,
In my old age, "We'd only one forever love."

We must ask ourselves
Is the sun moving closer
Or are we just dumb

Is an action word , not of a sorrowing heart , but one of a change of direction like a stone bouncing off an immovable force .

Plum ripe from windowpane
Meets enamel

Two drops
Blood-red juice

New shirt
Baptized