Of the heart, I ask:
"What is wrong with you?"
I asked you a question.

"Why aren't you looking
at yourselves in the mirror?"
You do not look well!
"You idiot!"

The sick heart,
This heart, our heart,
Look at it, my love.

Can you feel it?
It started some years ago,
This bloat and rot.
And it is about to infect us all
With its putrid mass.
For you cannot put back
The fetid tissues in the corpse.

Relentless, Time’s tide
As it flows onward ever so fast.
Each second slips away,
Creating a moment passed.

This world turns, yet my heart
Stands still, a hollow echo
That your laughter used to fill.

The sun will set on another day
Alone in the sky, it will happily stay.
But not I.

The stars explode with brightness
But still, I feel alone, no longer known.
A page will flip as the calendar burns;

Each season changing in its hue
And with every breath, I think of you.
For life can no longer be the same.

(Inspired by a poem posted on FB without a title or a credit to who wrote the one I used for inspiration.  Do any of you recognize the premise?)

Tragic poets were often mocked
By comic poets during dramatic festivals.
Some travestied more than most.

They write to record.

Frequently shocked by the heresies
Put into the mouths of powerful men,
Many, too frightened to begin again

Commit political suicide.

Though racked and broken,
Bringing words of wisdom spoken
Like a prophet crying out in the wilderness.

With a reputation for cleverness, lo,
Thought to be vexatious by some, numb,
Carry on in a wasteland, with hums slow.

Hail the great lyric poets, those actual,
For the rhythms of an old poet, practical,
Are somewhat freer, more natural,

And filled with absolute truths.

1st draft
1.
She was like a juicy red apple unpicked
He could never resist

Each time he rode by he'd bite that apple
Reaching way up high

He returned, again and again
Until the day when

Nothing was left but core.


Final draft
2.
She was like a juicy red apple unpicked
He could never resist

Each time he rode by he'd bite that apple
Although for him hung way up high

He returned, again and again
Until the day when

Nothing was left but the core.

The scent of my love
Was rose and sandalwood
Placed in strategic locations.

Yours was patchouli,
Which you rubbed into
Your mustache and beard.

And with each kiss;
Each time we made love
We created our perfume,

The Scent of Our Love.