Love is unattainable; this is no exaggeration.

It is simply the way of my generation to dismiss all sentimental feelings in the name of reputation, but for some poor, idealistic fools still enchanted by the forgotten practice of romantic gesture.

I have 17 rounds for my thirty aught six, and
a five gallon barrel of kerosene. 
My Papaw would have said,
"you're set son," but
I bet he never counted on
all of our best Uber drivers
sliding off the side of Signal Mountain.
Who knew suede shoes weren't weather proof?
We used to pray for a way to make it through
one more unbearable winter.
Now we pray that the power stays on so that
we don't have to burn coal oil and
experience that unpleasant odor.
Praise be for The Tennessee - American Water company.
That's where water was invented.

I thought love meant
       Butterflies in your stomach
       Your heart skipping heartbeats
       Or a faster rate for that matter
       Being mesmerized by your significant other
       Watching movies together      
       Late night conversations
       Stealing kisses every now and then
       Staring at them and get caught looking
       Cuddling and holding each other's hands
       Enjoying the moment even when the future is scary

But love came out to be different from all of that
      
Love is letting all of those go
       When I thought it meant everything to him
       When all of it meant nothing at all
       When I thought I was his everything or even "something"

But no
       I am nothing
       What we had was nothing
       What I thought we felt
       Turns out to be what I felt
       I
       No "We"
       No "Us"

None

When muskets shattered bones within the chest,
an era slipped from time; new shadows born
where history cast its cape on Budapest.

Their fate entombed in honour; doom the guest.
No haven in their valour, loudly worn,
when muskets shattered bones within the chest.

The sabre steel lies dormant in its quest,
its master slain in scarlet fields of corn,
where history cast its cape on Budapest.

One leader freed; damnation for the rest.
Thirteen there stood; thirteen then shot at dawn,
when muskets shattered bones within the chest.

These Arad martyrs, ever standing lest
long centuries erode the passion borne
where history cast its cape on Budapest.

Glasses do not kiss, by grief’s request.
Laid quietly the ghosts that gently mourn
where muskets shattered bones within the chest
when history cast its cape on Budapest.

You started to leave as the cold nose of Winter
bulldozed through Guy Fawks skies
and Christmas silent nights.

Your nearness was a far plane
of slumped reflection, deliberation,
contemplation of your plight, so mine.

Suspicion stirred in morning tea
and pre-work niceties.
You watched me when I turned my back,
your head buried in the ‘Daily Mail’,
too close to the print.

Denial hugged me a long while, dismissing
the cosseted phone and obsessive hygiene.

Giggling-head days, home-fire Wednesdays,
pledges in sweat daze
all rolling around
on a distant carousel.
I hoped you could see,
but hope could not override
your turning tide.

Your eyes begged for the ‘talk’,
so you could bring it up
like rancid *****.

Coward

You left in a yellow haze with the daffodils,
and I hated you

with all the love anyone could imagine.