I wept, and wept, and wept
As I had done only once before
When I first learned that
All my power was borrowed
That my hands were too small
To hold anything of significance
That the universe didn't care about my favorite season
That my name held no meaning

Why would you let me go on the way I did?
Gracing stages,
Planting rose beds,
Finding secrets in the way the light
Streamed through the windowpane, and
Futures in the pink of my flesh,
Why would you let me dance
Without rest?
Why would you let me peak through
The peephole lens?

If there was nothing in the end

(be-tween and be-twixt)

———-


the most precious but precarious item
in our possess, value far above rubies,
this love overflows, but it drowns me
from within, for it has no home for
pleasured sharing and goes wasted, excreted
in tears and exhalations without destination

condition incurable, and the doctor advises,
projects, a life span rangebound from
be-tween
and
be-twixt,
imperative that this love be
disbursed, pressure relieved,
fluid and gases shared,
send it forth,  
Doc behests,
nay,
begs,
you’re a decent human,
tell your tales,
follow your motto,
write those love poems,
always leave them laughing,
and give them love in smiles
all-the-whiles
bringing joyous relief to your clogged arteries,
all this the bare minimum,
for you must moreover grasp and clasp
your body to another, for this
the best transfer transfusion
of all your needed love needs

go be needed, be great, be lessened,
be all three
and never walk alone,
with just hope in your heart,
for the heart, automatically refills,
and this the best, medical opinion…
for all those with too many love poems
requiring expulsion and extrusion