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Thirty days tomorrow,
a slightly disheveled gait.

And the debt to be paid
In waking to the painful knowing
That noone wants closure.

It's waking every day.
Waking sober.
What do I want?
Spare my soul to adventure
An enlightened child,
Playing dress up as mentor

Denying my hand
Casts doubts on my words
No wager to fold
Fated souls might endure

She will be beautiful.
Woke up and made my way to the shore.
Take a seat.
I'll never find where I rested before.

Only one new change not in mind but heart.
All knowing.
A hand touches my shoulder.
I use to look at your picture every day.
Then four times a week.
As of tomorrow,
I'll have almost made two weeks.
A long time passed.
Excruciating.

I'm not OK
They pay me to be.

I planted tulips last spring.
They weren't for you,
But I thought they could be.

The tulips bloomed again
Three red, one yellow.
As bright as your carnation
On prom night yellow.

The tulips bloomed too early
Hence the wilting.
I said I'd pull the weeds and tend.
It's almost been two weeks.
Excruciating.
This place is a run down, poorly lit bus stop on the wrong side of town. You're stranded at birth and die waiting on the bus home.

It suits me just fine.
Lurching
from line to
line

Crossing
this little bit
of time
with you

Hoping a beautius one
wetly writes itself out
down here
with us

In this hole
we arrange
around our soul
to suffer in
and fester
sometimes
in song



Copyright@2019 Dennis Willis
with wine
and chocolate

??
Dear Mary. Dear Theresa. Dear Eve.

I write to you to see
My daily reminder
To be sovereign

Test not the waters
Waves will brake alone

Let Mary talk. She needs this
The world listens.
Man need not be present

Dear Diary,

We were hunters. Free.
How could one soaked in blood
Enraged with life
Contrive such marital obligations?

Do we dedicate ourselves to such,
Or simply ones self?

Give her a year, give her a day.
Give her a minute.
Give unto women that of which is woman's.

Give it a rest.
He spoke, 'Let the dead bury the dead'

Dear God,

Like the birds in the field I do not worry
Return my rib
I give not. I detest.
MT
Hey
Wrong number
                                        >   Maybe not.
Is there an in-between?

It's safer that we're strangers..
But can I tell you of my dream?

I glimpsed her amongst the stars
A light piercing through the seams.

Threw myself into the sky and missed..

My world goes silent.


Bleak as I'm floating..


Shrinking.
                           
                                            >   I'm busy
You were always
three steps ahead
I trace my steps back
To where it all began
And I'd have given anything to call you
Friend.

It's 70 in November
Why won't the sun give way?
I'm seeking a reason
To be locked away again
Though tunnel vision held my gaze
Winter must arrive
An end to wondering if
I'll still grow old, and still.

Intoxicated in disappointment
I call a beggar for what he isn't
I've caught him at his darkest hour
Measuring his life against my best intent

You were always four steps ahead
I trace my steps
Back to where it all began
I'd stole a moment if time stood still
And give my last breath to call you friend.

I count another day gone
Another notch, another aim
I down another shot
Lest my throat go dry
And sight grow straight

I have to thank you for the closure
That smile that told me
I never really left.
Finding time to watch you sleep;
Holding tightly the to the magic
I must say goodbye as you sleep.

Dare I say I could not trade
The image of my true love then
Fore the new woman before me isn't.

Though I once was strong enough
To walk toe to toe with warriors
Masked only by our sins
I can only think of you and smile
To find that smirk once more
And remember we were more once

I'll dream a day that I can call you friend
From once upon a time;
Where this all began.
Everything, and everyone has a price; however, most bills are overdue. I have put myself in every situation necessary to gain opportunities. To those opportunities, I throw in a bid. To those bids, I place an unmeasured but respectable effort. This bill is still due. The ladder will be climbed. The plateau will be reached: Gaining and assigning costs. Sadly, where I cannot help but stumble, and never collect, I tread. As I walk, the soppy mud pulls down at my heals. There is no exit aside from the direction I came.

This is Pursuit.

I can name heroes, such as Alvin C York, who gave up the pen and took up a rifle, leading 100’s of men through respect and fear. I read that he was a teacher that volunteered for the first World War and captured over 130 men single handed. I can work canned equations that will tell me the declining chances as the hours near closing in my office that my phone will ring. I can cite tax regulation in context to a very defined, specialized and rarely referenced subject matter. I can draw on these lessons the way a craftsman draws his tool belt; I cannot explain hours spent or define with any reason one subject matter.

This is Woman.

Far more time is wasted than spent, yet somewhere, somehow, collected. I’ve spent on the perfect screens to distract myself from this fact alone. Most men do not chase a dream they have not experienced; ignorance is bliss. Within men that try, dressing as casual as one can afford and resting their beaten hands on electronic controllers, one may find a survivor. This man will climb blindly, because he has only ever know spending. He will spend blood, sweat, tears and time to never be vulnerable. The act of collecting becomes nothing more than the means to spending, and he will never let be.

This is Myself.

I have turned off the news. I have separated ways with those that need to surpass trivial, arbitrary hurdles. I will spend down on screens no longer. I have stopped broadcasting the news. I can feel myself exiting society. Like many men before me, I have begun to pack my bags for checkout. There is no blame. There is no hate. There is no expectation. Dreams. Goals. Responsibilities. A man cannot live on food and shelter alone. He cannot pick up discarded pieces of society that are not worth their weight. This man cannot die for anyone that would not live for him.

This is My Decree.

Signed,

Without Notoriety
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