You seeing through your dream,
One so bright and full of beauty,
For my river it was the stream
And to protect it was my duty

I wish to go to the moon together
And make that night last forever
Sorry, It seems I must stay behind
And make sure you won’t wither

Your words, sharper than any blade
A leader, with its crown at stake
In any battle, I’ll come to your aid
And into nothingness, i will fade

But you will wear your shiny crown
And pass judgement on this clown
You will forget all this blood stains
And I shall regret that I have stayed

As the memory of you fades away
Like every candle that’s left ablaze
It shined bright, but still died out
At the end, you were just a stray

Day has come, your temple has fallen
Do you really see how far it has gotten?
Did your soul die or was it just rotten?
Would you like to play a while longer?

I am an old fashioned lover,
When I love I really
REALLY love,
Pour out all of me,
For and over and all about
The woman I adore,

And sometimes it has been
Worth it and wonderful,
Time and a journey shared,
And sometimes, truthfully?
Not so much wonder full,
So much as I really wonder why,

And then there's you,
Poured out over big time
Loved and adored to my detriment,
But sharing and reciprocation?
No, you were are and always will be

All about

You.

these feelings are abandoned
they look at me sulkily
i shrug and tell them to quit playing
they don't seem to understand what i say
they are persistent, these long lost feelings

they continually haunt me
and faces appear in my mind
i strike a deal with them:
fine, i will build you a home
among these words i write

they will find a home
among these secrets i must keep
whether it's a dream of Rome
or the women i think in sleep
in these dark passages, they roam

so, i quietly bury these feelings
these people i once knew and love
people with whom i don't even confer
their faces show betrayal, demanding an answer
but, in acceptance, they wave goodbye.

perhaps, not forever;
outside, the sun grows by the second.
to get up is to forget.

I have given you the bakery,
The flour mill,
The barn,
I have passed the keys and title
To these allegories of
My heart entire,
Placed them in your care,
Expecting the deeds to your
Estate at some point in return,
Your physicality,
Your romance,
Love
And your desire and yet
Your response is nary
A crumb,
Let alone a slice or a loaf
From even my own oven,
The flour that I have planted and grown,
And harvested and milled,
All counts for nowt,
So I'm folding those deeds away now,
And watching and waiting
To see what crop
You choose to reap instead,
What crop,
Which farm,
And indeed with whom.

Skin needles, made from rain
threaded hope, that stitches pain
peel away the Monday morning
a coffee scented cloudy dawning,
the existential grey clad ******
of a quintessential English summer

Disillusionment:

seeing the ridiculous --


ignoring beauty.

In the depth of the night,
when the crickets and cicadas
are holding my pain,
and they chirp as each tear wets the pillow,
I would like for you to hold it too.

To be fully seen is to be
a closed book with a lock,
for he who has the key.
He who cannot wait for the night
to come and let his pain be held
and also hold hers.

He prepares himself and reads
a page or two a day,
immersing himself more and more
in the story of her.

To be fully seen is to know well—
well,
he could grab a pen and scribble all over,
add a page or two,
write instead of you.
Yet give him the pain, and the pen and the markers,
excited to see what he'd do.

Because you have his book, too,
and all you want to do is highlight,
draw a rose or two,
plant a kiss or two,
where the scars are visible,
where the pages are torn.

When it feels like too much—
two people and two books—
to be fully seen
is what I am here for:
to open the book of my heart
and my life
with hands trembling,
with eyes caught,
with heart open.

Did you throw away the key?
Forget it...
I want to read your book, too.
For every page that ends with a question,
I'll make sure to add my answer to my book.

To be fully seen,
as a soul, naked,
floating in space,
with you,
you can let go,
with all my secrets,
with all my questions,
with my book.

You can tear it to pieces if
you so decide.
With my heart trembling,
and a bag of markers,
I'll return your book and the key
and be glad I was fully seen.
At least, I tried to be.

Sometimes, no matter how much you explain,
the person cannot read your book well,
nor remember the details
carefully underlined by you.

Maybe, just maybe, the closure is to see
it's not the quality of the book;
maybe the genre's just not his cup of tea.