These scars aren’t pretty,
but they’re a part of me that will never ever fade away.
These marks tell a story of me down in the valley when I’m hopeless,
and how you reached in with your grace and healed me.
They remind me of your faithfulness and all you brought me through.
These scars teach me that my brokenness is something you can use.
They show me where I’ve been and i’m not there any more.
That’s what scars are for.

You dream of love
And fantasy
I cannot any longer
Because of reality
My face is shadowed
By a memory
While yours glows
From your insanity
The insanity of passion
And the sexuality
Imbedded in a promise
Of fidelity
And a lifetime
Of matrimony
Yes I am past that
But I speak honestly
About life
As a casualty
Of love
And adultery
But I need to believe
In love for me only
But if you cannot
Then let me be lonely

In the thick evening fog

the man walks with his dog

-

The two friends roam leash-less

A bond of no, oppress, aggress, distress

-

They wandered, trailing close but still apart

Yet, never so exceedingly to miss the beat of the other’s heart

-

He breezed on by my petty stroll

looked to me and sang, “Hello”

-

The black dog saw a squirrel, darted towards the bend

I panicked for a moment, “He gonna lose that friend!”

-

Panicky, panicky, pondering, what is loyalty?

Faithful is a friend that never will leave me

-

Their love inspired how beautiful devotion can be

To stay, without being chained, freely.

-

Leading ahead or following quietly behind

I am His and He is mine, without stress of mind.

-

The dog waited and wagged with the squirrel

engaging about his friendly man and the feeling girl.

I stepped in through his ears, covered in hot mud
and rolled off his tongue clean as a whistle.
I was no longer a whisper, he uttered in a painted mirror.
Scratching out two eyes that saw nothing but themselves.
He came to wonder
if there are ants in my stomach feeding an army
off the peaches I couldn’t eat for six summers.
Three winters with no springs yet, the snow up to my neck.
My eyes spilt pearls like a Japanese ghost, onto the white cold
he buried me in.
and when that melts into the lush green we’ve yet to writhe on,
I hope there are limbs left to entwine us,
I hope there are streams made to wash us.
My body unchilled is sight for him to absorb,
and record and plan a trip.
Diction may be a skill he knows
that I have learned to be versed in,
but no matter the assemblage of my alibis,
he finds me guilty, so I choose to make quiet familiar,
and comfortable and the stringy nerve endings I've grafted
into his skin and his kiss when I love him,
are threatened to be severed with scalding water,
poured from the darkest kettle called
doubt.