Sweet opus, sweeter hope
Anger in the same, of a friends stare?
Sent from here to eternity, a chastity's cope
Through the eyes of friendship, we know a care...

Sentiment of challenges, asked to contain
A laugh of days long austerity
The grace or the cramp of resolve, to maintain
A hopeful live and let it be known, the choice of a vanity

Sweet hope, sweeter opus
Set to livid forces, we sake a chance meeting
With advancing judgment, of a seemingly national cause
Set to living days, a blow of wind with time for a friend?

Prayers are said
Patience be a column of repose, livid even as tears stream
Plied eyes should, a careful need for what was lead
Persuasion of a courtesy, that has become a pet demon...

Pretty invaders, in particularity's cloth, seconds of dress
That are formal, that are fiendish?
To make no mistake about a hateful lip, heard in the God bless
Of the moment partaken, where a silent mention of a wish...

Is a brazen cough, of psyche and dismay...
Taken to reality; for a simpler have, and orchestration
How is a waiting hour, the only way to seek a smile from a stranger?
Answering the question, a priest indicates if hell to pay, is our destination...

Secrets of watches, of the teary night
None to lay, and become a knight of persuasion asking ways
Of a reason beyond silence, the order of dread to a wishful right
Right about now, a marriage has looked, and seen times bell mays

Power of the named
And the cursing of prowess, to understate the privilege
Will a careful lip understand the notion, of a particular shame?
Setting love before justice, is a reality of gestures for life, or a ******?

~
Sun drips
on leaves

not the backyard variety
but the trembling kind

the kind
that weld night-time
intermissions to
the roof of the mouth

sonnet-filled
evaporation
reveals
the timely concealment of
a very, weary
inanimate object
at the brink

just enough hip
to be woman

just enough wild
to be frontier
~

Throughout the life of this lonely traveler, one thing has been true.

No one knows the burdens of a truthful, man.

Women pine, quake and laugh about the piteous concerns, and lies of, men.

But, no man has ever exposed the truth of women and their lies.



Clothes to cover up, aging flesh, morose temperament, and the scars of woe & wrath.

Mascara, the dark filth of the earth, to cover tired eyes and the depth of secrets in the soul.

Paint, to cover the cracks of age, and the true doom of the beautiful, yet withering, rose that is youth.

White lies, that blind and twist the fabric of a man's sense of truth and wonder about his love.



The lies are small, the vanity deep, and the wrinkles like rivers that are of broken reason. Trickling; yet, like veins in the eye,

The blood of falsity bleeds deep into the twisted soul of the lying woman. The illusion.

The lies are. Small. Yet each day, each month, each year, they are built skyward, like bricks in a chimney.

The smoke from within is putrid and rife with the anger of misunderstanding and emotional vapor.



The chimneys I see reveal factories of deceit and compulsive irony. The make-up of woman-kind.

They beg for truth, yet hide everything but tears to the eyes of their coddled lovers.

Each man, a babe; helpless to the hammer and clock of heart break to come.

A woman will tell one lie to save your soul... then tell another, to sell it to carrion. The lost.



I am lost. I am a vulture to truth and I am sickened by the taste of greed for love.

They tell me, they hurt, because one man broke promises meant to churn the engines of love...

Yet they continue to stir the cauldron of their own false worries and stifle the honesty of love.

What do they want? My soul? My. Soul? I will give it. I will bury it in the grave of pity, I will.



I will shovel out all the hope, dreams and promises I have to give and empty out a nest; in there.

I have burrowed out the ache and the pain of the bricks and lies women have told me, just to make home for new residence.

When I watch the walls crumble from the coom and cuss, of their idiocy, I will simply clean up the mess.

I have no more to give, but what I hope to be and what I hope to have once I find the woman without lies.



Truth is, men are masters, 'because' of women. Physical strength is all that keeps them at bay, because they, once, slaved us to their needs, we tipped the balance and hold the chain of destiny, in hopes of taming the horses that pull the chariot of angels.

The woman I see, riding the chariot is fierce and bright, like the light that shines that forms the ever-present sun.

I watch her until she passes by and wait for an empty return.

As I am here, with an empty soul... For. New. Residence.



The emotional man, is whipped and beaten by that chariot-woman. She laughs and curses me into the dirt.

But, I stand up righteous in my pursuit for the honest woman. The 'giving' woman.

She waits upon the highest tower, letting down the chains of our bond, to give me flight to the heavens.

... Until then. I simply. Have.

No woman.

Doors with no pleasance
Doors with a memory of teeth
Doors with angels to remark, a unison in chance
Doors with dread for each sincerity, we let

Doors in love?
Still to fore, the guarantee
The silence of guidance, to relocate to us
Welcome a shrewd forth, as if might made me happy

Tenuous
And taken with a smile
Here to say, time with baring, to bless
Has come by the still day, all the while

Liberty...
Is a raging storm the only way to communicate?
The assuaged voice of redemption, a universes key
To take to another, the open bother, of sense to wait

For passion to become...
Got, in a row of exception, enthusiasm
Has to have it now, the levity of questions all along
In the name of an answer, a place for a heart to avow at last

She wear acceptation, like a moment alone
She dream in dances, that will the wisdom to life
She speak in loves riddles, answered only by love, atoned
She take to the time, to sit the hour with our decency, wife?

~
faded mauve
butterflies
fluttering along
defeated
selenitic walks
the sound of
abandoned ship bells
in the far
parlor north
but the guilt of
wind is silent
like Venetian whispers
from motionless lips

us, then
inward and upward
one step too far
a house of strangers
tipping like boats
seaworthy as sleep
oars divide
the ocean
but framed pictures
and love letters
unite the walls
to this unstable floor
then, us
always, us
~

There's been a death, and I can feel it.
The death of the love you promised me.

You promised to love in sickness and health,
But I can tell in your eyes you despise me.

What did I do, where did I go wrong?
When did I become not enough for you?

You chose pretend women and imaginary worlds
You chose literally anything but me.

My tears mean nothing when I plead with you.
And now like an enemy you attack me.

You once promised to always protect,
But now you're the greatest danger to me.

So don't you see that's why I must leave.
The man you were is dead.

I am a widow, and I'm mourning the death
Of the man who used to love me.

He whinges, but I

know he is lying, maybe --


that's rather funny.

Your husband: rotate

him and look at him closely --


See what he's hiding.