for love steadfast and true
as a plum tree that blooms
in winter, will wait for you

Blood boils hot in my veins
Begging for a release of this pain
I see your face wearing a grin
Its about time I wiped it away
Fists up, sloppy right hook
But still I stand my ground
I'm not backing down
Not now or ever again

You shout and yell
try to make me afraid
But I stay standing still
silent and brave
Im winning this round today

I read a story today.

Like any good story it was layered upon the premise of the love between two perfect strangers.

Like any good story it was about romance that blossomed... and then flourished as quick as it was fierce.

Like any good story it spun a far-reaching web of hope and longing whilst still holding on to the uncompromising nature of responsibility to one's dreams.

Like any good story, there was a spot of intimacy. The gradual build up of physical and psychological attraction that culminated in the merging of two, was nothing less than tasteful.

Like any good story there was conflict.
But it was not the cliched garnish that involved oppressive parenting styles nor glaring racial differences.
It did not rope in the overused notion of "we're so different, we're two parts of a whole".
It was... a beautiful conflict.
One that does not allow the audience to choose sides.
In fact, it encourages you to think inward and root for both parties - be them together or apart.
If anything at all, it boils down to the pursuit of each individual's happiness.

Like any good modern day story, it ended with a breath held in a gasp. You hold it there for the longest moment and you have to close that breath with a heavy sigh of loss.
It also leaves you with ample room to deliberate the "what if" factor.
Happy endings last a while but sad ones... they rip a hole in you that almost never closes...
and you cannot help but go back to read it over and over again in the hopes of finding the elusive right answer or the best alternate ending.

Like any good story it was tailored in my fit. Because I envisioned myself in it. I got consumed by it. Overwhelmed by it, enough to almost break the pipes.

And like any good story, it's worth keeping...
In heart and in mind.

So I read a story today. And I didn't want it to end.

In every American state
county and town

women walk barefoot
on broken glass

looking for an
open door.

When the whispering demons of the morning come calling
When silly , robotic thespians deliver their scripted theatrics with slow motion , foggy angles of the world as rivers of window condensation and sorrow are falling                                                          ­                                                                 ­    Be watchful for songbirds are connected with the mill pond , see the dove at peace with bobwhite songs
Be assured that the wind , the rain and the hardwoods
share pain while celebrating the whim of a cold , methodical yet temporary Earth