هر دو بی فرزند هستیم (متفاوت)/we are both childless, differently
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let us not ask each other or god

the why, just how life worked out

and maybe by a choice unconfessed

~

yet we both lie.

~

you possess thousands of offspring,

tend to their every need, breast feed

them water, special nutrients, stroking

their leaves, worry about their viruses,

you, dying just, a little, when, one rooted

looks up and says, “I am dying mother,

thank you for your love.”


~

my ***** produced two men,

each now, differentially,

lost, lost to me, and daily

privately, in word and wet,

weep my losses, for what

is a man who had children,

but goes down into his grave

gray haired, with none in

attendance to refill the soil

that his grave grayed body

requires to

hide his wasted,

childless

life.

She was neve going to be in white,
              neutrality was never

going to be her hue.

She was telling the world a message..


Her gown, was onyx silk woven
                 like Cinderella had told the
arachnids  to create beauty in the night
unbridled
            it fell entrapping on any who gazed

upon its woven radiance.

She walked down the isle and with each step,
                                at least five were captivated

in the webbing of her beauty,
                       walking beyond there view.

All entombed within the elegance
             that captured them.

She was the spider weaving a web of beauty
           that captured every eye.

And the man was her prey, he smiled
          lost in the moment of her captivation.

I do, I do,  and both were entangled
within the
                             eyes of each.

This moment was silk ropes tied to each others
          wrists,
         and now they'll weave them every step
              

                          they collect together.

"He's either a madman or a poet."

"Can't I be both?"

"You already are."