I wish to put
this tantrum into submission;
if it is only to let the
opportunity of
touching false love,
and caressing away
false seconds,
seep out.
Finger nails, grown
and ready,
rip at the maché decor
that conceals so much.
Tear and tear,
until another appears.
A dimension so deplorable,
and so painted with enigma,
only to have a sole young girl stand
akimbo.
And if she is of false kin,
then I yearn to embrace her form and
share a frigid veil covered
with some exotic coat of arms.
And if she is hindered inquiry,
I desire to provide her
with imperfect answers.
And if she is mine,
then let her be mine; and
let her plump palms cling to my shoulders.
Let her guide me to a trench
for us to inhabit
and play hide-and-seek
and watch dominoes cascade.
And if she is false cleansing,
then let her not be defiled
by the remnants of a decadent home
that I shed.
Let her hold me tight,
and don’t let her disappear
and prove me mad—
neither north by northwest
nor south by southeast.
I love her so,
my precious Dear.
Don’t prove me mad,
for I do fear,
that I’ll never want to
abandon her here
and return
to that place.
That place: a blend of ailment and spite.
They’ll send me somewhere
full of unwavering light.
I swear by the pacing of her little, fast heart,
she’ll put me right—
even in her stage
of stagnant night.
She’ll kindle my truth
and harden my sync.
Before very long,
I’ll be very well.
My circuits will suffice.
I’ll accept it, then, without
much fight.
Just patch up my hole
and let me alone.
So this little girl,
and her puerile nature, can hone
in and dethrone
my unsound thought
of singing irises.
And we’ll canter and laugh
until her voice goes raspy
and her legs grow weary.
Then I’ll finally cradle
her charming form
if only to let slumber take hold.
Then I’ll say a hapless goodbye
and fulfill the tasks given by
a busy man.
Who hopes that I will, for once, comply.
I have tried to conjure warmth
for learning’s sake.
But she told me that
I didn’t have to, for it is a burden
she is willing to take.
I'll abide by design
and be perfectly polite.
At least,
until tight strands
become a snarl,
and she is left tangled
in fright.
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 5:07 PM UTC
I wish to put
this tantrum into submission;
if it is only to let the
opportunity of
touching false love,
and caressing away
false seconds,
seep out.
Finger nails, grown
and ready,
rip at the maché decor
that conceals so much.
Tear and tear,
until another appears.
A dimension so deplorable,
and so painted with enigma,
only to have a sole young girl stand
akimbo.
And if she is of false kin,
then I yearn to embrace her form and
share a frigid veil covered
with some exotic coat of arms.
And if she is hindered inquiry,
I desire to provide her
with imperfect answers.
And if she is mine,
then let her be mine; and
let her plump palms cling to my shoulders.
Let her guide me to a trench
for us to inhabit
and play hide-and-seek
and watch dominoes cascade.
And if she is false cleansing,
then let her not be defiled
by the remnants of a decadent home
that I shed.
Let her hold me tight,
and don’t let her disappear
and prove me mad—
neither north by northwest
nor south by southeast.
I love her so,
my precious Dear.
Don’t prove me mad,
for I do fear,
that I’ll never want to
abandon her here
and return
to that place.
That place: a blend of ailment and spite.
They’ll send me somewhere
full of unwavering light.
I swear by the pacing of her little, fast heart,
she’ll put me right—
even in her stage
of stagnant night.
She’ll kindle my truth
and harden my sync.
Before very long,
I’ll be very well.
My circuits will suffice.
I’ll accept it, then, without
much fight.
Just patch up my hole
and let me alone.
So this little girl,
and her puerile nature, can hone
in and dethrone
my unsound thought
of singing irises.
And we’ll canter and laugh
until her voice goes raspy
and her legs grow weary.
Then I’ll finally cradle
her charming form
if only to let slumber take hold.
Then I’ll say a hapless goodbye
and fulfill the tasks given by
a busy man.
Who hopes that I will, for once, comply.
I have tried to conjure warmth
for learning’s sake.
But she told me that
I didn’t have to, for it is a burden
she is willing to take.
I'll abide by design
and be perfectly polite.
At least,
until tight strands
become a snarl,
and she is left tangled
in fright.
Perhaps it's a bit too prosaic...
Oh well.
