i look upon the dregs of a young man's youth misspent
and out upon the broken parts of hearts he was lent.
every one pristine before he lay hands upon it
twisting love of women to lust to hate
and where all the flames of passion were lit
his insecurities were keenly hit
to which his only tactic was to abate,
downplay, decrease, discount and more
he found the reasons needed in the lore
of days long past. the kindly ladies demur.

days and days go by and he could still only lie
to himself to ease his stress and pain
and hunt once more for hearts to strain
with lures in words and faultless face,
a self imposed long haltless race
to sieve their affect through enclawed hands
and
and yet
and yet he knows not why he stands
or sits
or speaks
or sings of love
when clearly he knows nothing of its austere offices
he knows only hunger for the heat of an embrace
the clasp of another hand
telling himself that life will follow with fences of white and broods and rings and gardens and windows and light, ohsweetgodlight
but he is blind.
there is light but he does not see.
each and every one does hold a key
to life and fence and broods and such.
his burdens must appear too much
to hand to others and so he flees
to hide in shadows and lament the passing
of another life. the kindly ladies demur.

and now. there is only nothing and no one to blame
but the arrogance of youth and the youth itself.
crying out with fist clenched tight
why oh why. this can't be right.
it is oh it is. you know full well
that each and every one was bright
and, for you, another light.
and yet you chose to bask in hell.
so drop the act and take your nails.
the wounds will heal, you stupid knave.
open your ears and shroud the mind.
when you do, i think you'll find
that when the women stand speak,
it's not words for sake of words
or just so that they can be heard
but because you think you know too much
and they love you more than you yourself.
a kindly lady demurs.