No easy ends - no simple way
to create a finale
of all that feeling,
buried deep. Trapped.
The heart - conduit
of all the good, and pure,
loving and fair
in that childlike innocence,
but too the cage,
controlled, emboldened, refused
by the cerebral gatekeeper.
Why let that emotion
out? Is it self-sustaining?
Should it be?
Searching in the thickness of grime
and the transparency of glass
both to find that balance
between self and self;
the self that needs its own,
and the the self that needs
its other.
To what end is the search
viable, in being separate
from the internal pervasion
of anxiety?
What does it mean to err irrepressively
from one side
to the other -
a seemingly ceaseless internal script
written drunkly, incohesively
scribbled across the walls -
is it damage?
A calamity of mentality
and an unsaveable prospect
to none of earth - and perhaps she knows.
So many things to ask, each
with an answer he doesn't have
or doesn't want to, tied
to questions he can't put into words,
for her sake, for his, for fear
for love or selfish compulsion -
there is no knowing.
Wordsmith indeed, unable to weave
the most fundamental askings,
but foolish enough to think
he has done it in his moments.
The tale of saving the broken one
has outlived its life
at the forefront of storytelling.
And still, she saves him.
In every word,
every touch,
every grasp,
every time
and every day,
she saves him.
And to think herself the wrong,
to take on the trial - the insanity
of only the loyal,
of only her.
The story is titled simply:
a crooked man,
and the perfect lady.
