Piteous my rhyme is
What while I muse of love and pain,
Of love misspent, of love in vain,
Of love that is not loved again:
  And is this all then?
  As long as time is,
Love loveth. Time is but a span,
The dalliance space of dying man:
And is this all immortals can?
  The gain were small then.

  Love loves for ever,
And finds a sort of joy in pain,
And gives with nought to take again,
And loves too well to end in vain:
  Is the gain small then?
  Love laughs at "never",
Outlives our life, exceeds the span
Appointed to mere mortal man:
All which love is and does and can
  Is all in all then.

The body rarely appreciates,
So however we treat it,
Eventually it depreciates.
The soul,
If we give to it,
Will grow,
Its glow is eternal.
Beautify the soul,
They way you would the body and even more,
Afterall its the inside that reflects on the outside.

Sunset whispers to itself
~No time outlives time~
The meltemi winds crackle the wild millet,
Graze-feed upon the stalks of Greek plains,
The pelican scoops up the honeyed Aegean,
Waves of sunlit anise and almond in refrain,
Vestigial as the sweet persimmon from Egypt,
The hammered warmth from the flat anvil of Africa,
Sunset whispers to itself
~No time outlives time~

Oh that those lips had language! Life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine--thy own sweet smiles I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same.

       Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
Oh welcome guest, though unexpected, here!
Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long,
I will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own;
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief--
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream, that thou art she.

       My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss--
Ah that maternal smile! it answers--Yes.
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such?--It was.--Where thou art gone
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting sound shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens griev'd themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of a quick return.
What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd,
And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd;
By disappointment every day beguil'd,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learn'd at last submission to my lot;
But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot.

       Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,
Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor;
And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we call'd the past'ral house our own.
Short-liv'd possession! but the record fair
That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effac'd
A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionary plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd;
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and brakes
That humour interpos'd too often makes;
All this still legible in mem'ry's page,
And still to be so, to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorn'd in heav'n, though little notic'd here.

       Could time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours,
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flow'rs,
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
I *****'d them into paper with a pin,
(And thou wast happier than myself the while,
Would'st softly speak, and stroke my head and smile)
Could those few pleasant hours again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart--the dear delight
Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might.--
But no--what here we call our life is such,
So little to be lov'd, and thou so much,
That . I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

       Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd)
Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle,
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore
"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,"
And thy lov'd consort on the dang'rous tide
Of life, long since, has anchor'd at thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distress'd--
Me howling winds drive devious, tempest toss'd,
Sails ript, seams op'ning wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course.
But oh the thought, that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From ***** enthron'd, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise--
The son of parents pass'd into the skies.
And now, farewell--time, unrevok'd, has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again;
To have renew'd the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine:
And, while the wings of fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic shew of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft--
Thyself remov'd, thy power to sooth me left.

Never forget the pain of September -
The dying of summer. The Autumn fall.
Foreseeing the harshness of winter days.
Yet, rising from the beds of memories,
Forever unforgotten, twin towers
Of love in the north and hope in the south.
Remembrance survives a terrored world
As love survives death and hope outlives fear.

Never forget the pain of September
And never those we have lost.

I sat beneath a willow tree,
  Where water falls and calls;
While fancies upon fancies solaced me,
  Some true, and some were false.

Who set their heart upon a hope
  That never comes to pass,
Droop in the end like fading heliotrope,
  The sun's wan looking-glass.

Who set their will upon a whim
  Clung to through good and ill,
Are wrecked alike whether they sink or swim,
  Or hit or miss their will.

All things are vain that wax and wane,
  For which we waste our breath;
Love only doth not wane and is not vain,
  Love only outlives death.

A singing lark rose toward the sky,
  Circling he sang amain;
He sang, a speck scarce visible sky-high,
  And then he sank again.

A second like a sunlit spark
  Flashed singing up his track;
But never overtook that foremost lark,
  And songless fluttered back.

A hovering melody of birds
  Haunted the air above;
They clearly sang contentment without words,
  And youth and joy and love.

O silvery weeping willow tree
  With all leaves shivering,
Have you no purpose but to shadow me
  Beside this rippled spring?

On this first fleeting day of Spring,
  For Winter is gone by,
And every bird on every quivering wing
  Floats in a sunny sky;

On this first Summer-like soft day,
  While sunshine steeps the air,
And every cloud has gat itself away,
  And birds sing everywhere.

Have you no purpose in the world
  But thus to shadow me
With all your tender drooping twigs unfurled,
  O weeping willow tree?

With all your tremulous leaves outspread
  Betwixt me and the sun,
While here I loiter on a mossy bed
  With half my work undone;

My work undone, that should be done
  At once with all my might;
For after the long day and lingering sun
  Comes the unworking night.

This day is lapsing on its way,
  Is lapsing out of sight;
And after all the chances of the day
  Comes the resourceless night.

The weeping-willow shook its head
  And stretched its shadow long;
The west grew crimson, the sun smouldered red,
  The birds forbore a song.

Slow wind sighed through the willow leaves,
  The ripple made a moan,
The world drooped murmuring like a thing that grieves;
  And then I felt alone.

I rose to go, and felt the chill,
  And shivered as I went;
Yet shivering wondered, and I wonder still,
  What more that willow meant;

That silvery weeping-willow tree
  With all leaves shivering,
Which spent one long day overshadowing me
  Beside a spring in Spring.

The only love I have known is the bird that lives in my ear,
In the wind and cloud tunnel of long ago, with a hot salve
Of sunshine poured into the singing hole, the warm honey
Of wives’ tales, the remedy of home against the world,
Though the song has since flown.

Reality has spun its web,
Beneath the indifferent moon,
And as the ocean tides sigh and ebb,
It catches life- too soon.

Time has cast her heavy net
Upon the vacant skies
Begging dawn to ne'er forget
The sunsets slow demise.

Oh, fallen stars, don't fail me now
Your glow outlives your light.
Bear no sweat upon your brow,
For your death  is lost at night.

The sweetest eulogy does sound
Against the hollow space
That pushes the moon round and round,
Casting shadows 'cross my face.

i'll tell  you when communism actually works...
   communism can never
be an instigator of some internal problem,
that'll never work,
   however much *** you smoke, however
many dreadlock girls you send to a protest...
   the perfect example for the effectiveness
of communism?
                     ok, ok... socialism, whatever...
why did sweden receive marshall plan funding,
when it was neutral throughout the second
world war?
                 communism will only rebuild
syria...
                   it's the economic policy
    for a post-war period... it dissolves naturally
once a competitive plataeu is achieved...
prior to that plataeu being achieved?
               you need ant-like-collectivisation...
communism is not a failed system,
  it's the only system in post-war scenarios...
how can you capitalise in a war-torn country?
the capitalisation already happened,
prior to a war, with arms deals...
                   you can't just shove communism
under the carpet...
         communism, it would seem,
  is not in competition with capitalism,
in that scenario, it is a failure...
               but how can capitalism rebuild
a country like syria?
               when a brother distrusted a brother,
a neighbour a neighbour,
   a butcher a carpenter...
                     communism is not aligned
to capitalism per se for sake of competition,
                 there are ulterior needs for its existence,
the new enemy of capitalism is
          the marshall plan model of:
  who deserves... and who doesn't;
   for ****'s sake... at least the poles were doubly
taught integrity to fend for themselves,
rather than being pumped with free dosh...
     so why did a neutral country, such as sweden
receive marshall plan dosh (money)?
     with our bare hands, we rebuilt
the warsaw starówka (old town)...
               and yes, the misery had to be equally
shared... but most people outside my age
bracket remember it fondly, obviously except
the years being placed under martial law,
             suspecting a second russian invasion...
communism is a transitory economic model,
it times of absolute crisis,
          such as the war in syria...
               capitalism can't rebuild syria...
which doesn't mean that syria will not return
to a capitalistic model, it just means that
    only a transient communist model may allow
syria to allow to a capitalistic model,
  if that's what's to be desired,
          if capitalism were to resurrect syria,
you'd get competitive arms dealers necessitating
the prolonging of the civil war:
to boot... there are no capitalists in syria at
the moment...
                          they're all foreign...
                         seriously, wake the **** up!
stop fearing communism in a boxing match with
capitalism, that's a trap...
               it's an economic policy in post-war...
                obviously it outlives its welcome when
enough people have finally reached
                 the chance to compete in a "friendly" /
olympic manner...
                        but communism has a place...
and its place is in such instances...
                      it is to rebuild war-torn nations,
and it is, but a momentary solution that even
    if communism were a person, it would understand.
             it was never an inherent evil
   that needed to bring down nations,
      it was intended to lift them, from the ashes
       of war, and give such ashen nations:
                              one brick, two brick, four.
the west is always talking to itself,
   in a cushioned room, donning a strait-jacket...
what now? trans? trans?! transgender is the problem?
looks like we'll need a lot of butter and coconut milk
to oil of the west's throat, so they can keep on talking
  absolute crap.

I can be a star that shines through your night and day
a painting that sticks on the feathery canvas
the radar to your ship, the enduring campus
the words that are so difficult to say
I can be the one leaf in windy seasons that never falls
but sticks with you till the very moment eternity calls
the beautiful melody that never ceases to sing
the serene filled drone which may never sting
I can be the careful and graceful bird that never perches
the unnoticed but concerned eye that always watches
the willing helping hand in your times of need
the much desired friend in need,a friend in deed
I can be every joyful and melancholic poem you've ever read
a roseate flower whose frail petals never fade
the green thick dense canopy to always bring you shade
the one who makes your twisted world a better place
I can be wide spectral smiles to colour your love locked face
A friend against foes, a kiss on your cheek,
Or a secret in your palm to hold you whenever you're weak
I can be more than just a phone call and text
a mechanic who gets the wreck of your broken Heart fixed
Or lifeless images of glowing eyes and tearful emotions,
and the eternal rivers of hope flowing within to Oceans
I can invent the technology to teleport you here
be the keeper who whispers sweet somethings in your ear
the destiny you've always wanted to have
I can make that dream lad you've always wanted to love
if only you give me a chance,and to the rhythm of life rise to dance
walk barefooted through thorns, I can take the bull by his horns
I can be the Madonna whose bloom conquers all seasons
and outlives eternity if only you understand my reasons

Respect yourself enough to see that
Unlike where your heart may lead,
No woman should date a child.
Remember, new love will taste sweet
Until his comfort outlives his care, and
No woman should make him try.
Realize the vast potential he has
Understand the man he soon may be, but
No woman should make him grow
Raising men is for mothers, not lovers, and
Ungrown things need space and time
Now a woman should let him go.
|b.g.|

Let love be performed, as required.

Let desire flow, as it will.
Let excitement mount, as it must.

Let synchronized pleasure commence.

Let the hydraulic imperative be obeyed!

Now is the moment of peak sensation.



Let rhyme be used where it helps.

Let rhythm bounce when it can.

Let words speak to the heart.

Let form magnify sense.

Let the poem take flight!

Now is the moment of inspiration.



Let love grow stronger with age.

Let friends share our happiness.

Let thought guide us to wisdom.

Let our children be our epitaphs.

Let life be savored.

Now is a moment of reflection.

But ...

... Affection outlives passion.
... A good poem needs time to be born.
... Life might not ever make its meaning manifest.

Now is a moment of partial understanding.

(PART I)

My heart aged quickly
Much faster
Than my face lets to see.
Pumped with deceit
By things and many
Stabbed and asked to heal
Perpetually.
If there is such a power
As to completely recover
A lesson I never learned;
Because regardless
Of how well it survived,
The finishing line
A heart in pieces
Already from the start.
Back to square one
The heart has won
Matured a couple of years
A thousand with every tear.
The heart grows older
Each time it starts over
The heart gets wrinkles
That no night cream
Can meddle;
I move with a cane
Taken the ability
To love without restrain.

(PART II)

But every time
I am done
I bethink myself of
The time I was young
When I believed
Without seeing
When I knew
Only by imagining.
With every life experience
The heart has catered
Faith
Always seems
To pull me back in
And this ancient heart
Runs back to that route
On the verge of innocence
When the heart's skin
Was still so thin;
Not hardened
Nor overshadowed
And eyes still sparkling.
I do not mind getting older
As long as I get wiser
And the lesson
Withstanding alone
With every heartache
A heart doubling its age
The heart that still tries
This heart that is willing
To always begin a new life
Is twelve years old again.
And when my body
Will slow down
And my hair
Is no longer brown
I will love as long as I live
Leaving behind what outlives;
For nothing is as hard
Nothing more enriching
Than staying young at heart.

Eschewing that second thought,
let me tell you what I truly sought
come, lock me up in your heart
you, I've no doubt  is a true despot

I don't hold back, life is way too short
can't heckle and haggle like an idiot
on the planes, see  profligacy of robust water
hills are in the reign of wild sun and winds

Here ends the vast fields of ripened  rice,
where prowl crooked foxes eyeing hens,
on the foot hills furious bisons flare nostrils,
as you climb,eager leopard smells blood.

Love is the  fragrance  that outlives the flower,
my trek to the mystic mountain continues where
**** and shroom grow tangled  everywhere
the trek to the love hill, to strike  gold,is in progress,

the inexorable finality of time

that outlives us all

clutches at exaggerations

that would conform

to pretentious intentions

and succeed in consummating

an accentuated design

of limitless flaws

Whence come ye, so wild and so fleet,
For sandals of lightning are on your feet,
And your wings are soft and swift as thought,
And your eyes are as love which is veiled not.

We come from the mind,
Of humankind,
Which was late, so dusk and obscene and blind.
Now, 'tis an ocean,
Of clear emotion
A heaven of serene and mighty emotion

From the dim recesses,
Of woven caresses,
Where lovers catch ye by your loose tresses,
From azure isles,
Where sweet wisdom smiles,
Delaying your ships with their siren smiles.

We waded and flew
And the islets were few
Where the bud-blighted flowers of happiness grew,

Our spoil is won
Our task is done,
We are free to dive, or soar, or run,
Beyond and around,
Or within the bound,
Which clips the world with darkness around

The joy, the triumph, the delight, the madness,
The boundless, overflowing, bursting gladness,
The vaporous exultation not to be confined,
Ha! Ha! the animation of delight.
Which wraps me like an atmosphere of light
And bears me as a cloud is borne by its own wind

As the dissolving warmth of dawn may fold,
A half-unfrozen dew-globe, green and gold
And crystalline, till it becomes a winged mist,
And wanders up the vault of the blue day,
Outlives the noon, and on the sun's last ray,
Hangs over the sea, a fleece of fire and amethyst

The  joy  to  be
outlives  dreams
yet we must  sense  cuboid  skies
will follow one  to  the  breathe
of  forever
where the winds  will clusp  you
to  the  next voyage.
But  today  must  be   considered  beautiful
for  there should  be  no foresight
than the  simplicity

The joy of now should outlive  dreams,
yet we must remember there are cuboid skies,
who would rather hem us in
until our very last breathe.
But today must be considered beautiful
for there should be no foresight
other than simplicity.

“To love is to tenderly dig into someone’s mind:
His or her heart and soul to forever find!
Care and carry compassionately in storms and in winds
To love is to find an eternal peace in the one that you lovingly abides
Love is to find a familiar ground that two forever binds!
Love is the joy shared by two that in this journey, true rides!
In love are routes rough, in love are ways tough, in love are rails-grids that grinds
Though, in love are determined souls that never part but remains set in strong stands”

A kiss is a stamp of love
To feel your breath warmth in mine
An emboss, an assurance of love
Our staring gaze, the stupors for each other’s sight
Is a language stronger than words-written or verbal  
Understood only by two fools honestly hungry for each other
The beauty and peace of your voice
Candidly meaning your saying that you love me alone forever
Is an indelible engrave of our love
Music, a sweet sacred hymn to my soul
Like a piper’s pious pipe, it is a song to my ears
A solemn instrumental, sentimental to my heart

To hear the heart beat of your heart
In the strong embraces of your arms
It’s a stigmata to our love, there to be binding forever!
An umbilical cord strapping us together end-ever
To listen to the whispers of your soul in our feelings and flows
To feel the silences of your heart in our emotions and elations
Is to be entangled in eternal love, to be chained in forever love

You are mine, there is no way I will let you go!
I will fight for you, I will care for you!
I will love you forever and ever for our love is forever  
I will love you beyond any Heaven's heights or Earth's extents
Now in its extant and ever even when we are lost extinct
We will watch the earth form and deform together
Nature, magnificently make and despondently delete together forever
Together we will quietly listen to the melodic music of the universe forever

When the sun sad burns, I will be your shade
When storms rage havoc, I will be your shelter
And when the rains pound, I will still be your umbrella
When lightening rudely strikes and thunders raucously scares
I will still be there besides to care, your scares to cure
When snows severely fall, I will be your oven, kiln warmth
When summer and springs sweet sings, I will be your mild melody
And when autumns dull comes, I will be the joy to raise your moistened moods
To who do you owe your heart to? To you I owe my heart
In my heart is my all-my soul, it that outlives me-dust!
Keep compassionate care of my spirit, until I returns-compost!

© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.

If we are mark’d to die, we are enow
    To do our country loss; and if to live
    The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
    God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.

    By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
    Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
    It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
    Such outward things dwell not in my desires:

    But if it be a sin to covet honour,
    I am the most offending soul alive.
    No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
    God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour

    As one man more, methinks, would share from me
    For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
    Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
    That he which hath no stomach to this fight,

    Let him depart; his passport shall be made
    And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
    We would not die in that man’s company
    That fears his fellowship to die with us.

    This day is call’d the feast of Crispian:
    He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
    Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,
    And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

    He that shall live this day, and see old age,
    Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors,
    And say ‘Tomorrow is Saint Crispian:’
    Then he will strip his sleeve and show his scars,

    And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’
    Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
    But he’ll remember with advantages
    What feats he did that day: then shall our names

    Familiar in his mouth as household words:
    Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
    Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
    Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d,

    This story shall the good man teach his son;
    And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
    From this day to the ending of the world,
    But we in it shall be remembered;

    We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
    For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
    Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
    This day shall gentle his condition:

    And gentlemen in England now abed
    Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
    And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
    That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

the black widow schemes
Her bony finger outlives
the crest fallen soldiers

Most would rather live in ecstasy than die sober because excitement and the withering flow of blood that rushes to our extremities outlives a steady beat of the heart.
Because everything worth knowing is discovered by discovery not sobriety of the jewel we refer to as the mind.
Because every move that we make, whether it be the slow movement of a blink or the fast motion of our hand reaching for the falling teacup, they feel amplified by the nerves instead of being directionless with the soul.
Because the light dances around the walls like buffalo herds while an aware mind would just see it as bright.
Because life is about living in a fantasy, not wondering if the moon would say hello if spoken to, because it does.

you said forever
i knew that wasn't true
nothing outlives its end
the debt is paid when its due
no extensions provided
no questions asked
no warning letter sent
no longer a flag up its mast
slowly but surely it came to an end
you fell like a leaf at Autumns End

She's cuddled beside me
in the front seat of the truck
as we watch the moon
rippled upon the waves,
bundled beneath the comforter
which once covered our bed.
She's so, so warm...
last week we'd have begged for fever
to fog the windows as we slept.
At least tonight's kinder;
we can crack the windows with the doors locked
so the warm, gentle breeze
can run its fingers through our hair
and remind us of times
when this was a luxury.
Another two days
before the check comes in;
we'll get her a couple good meals.
God knows she deserves that.

For better, for worse,
richer, poorer...
we both grew up poor,
knew what buzz-saw hunger felt like.
We got to know the better
for a few years,
did okay even when
we both got sick the first time.
The cancer, though...
that was the beginning of the end
of better.
We both lived through it,
if you want to call
what we do now living.
Nothing special about us;
the story's been told a
couple million times
in the last five or six years.
You hear about the before
and the after...
but rarely, the during
as the slow juggling of
one or two bills
becomes more and more manic
as one by one
another is added
until
         inevitably
one by one
they're
dropped.
The choices are easier for a while
as you're pulled down Maslow's pyramid;
food or internet,
a roof over your head
or paying the power bill late.
Thought we'd actually make it when
I got the second job;
then she lost hers
and the unemployment ran out.
You know, I worked two full-time jobs
and played out weekends
when I was 20,
and lasted almost a year
until I fell over.
You know...
I'm not 20 anymore.
I just couldn't do it for very long.
That's when the choices got tough.
Gas to get to work...or food.
Medicine...or food.
Rent...or food.
One morning, I opened my eyes
with my heart thrashing,
a salmon in the bear's jaws.
Disability payments the same
as two weeks' take home pay.
Last time I checked,
there's still four weeks and a third
in a month.
The landlady did what she could
as long as she could.
She's got bills to juggle, too.
We found a nice little efficiency.
We found a nice room.
We found a crack-house motel.
We found it better to find
a parking spot for the truck,
and here we are.
The rent's only the cost of the plate
and a few gallons of gas;
in the words of the rental agents, cozy,
with the best view the fuel will allow.
We huddle, helpless
to douse the fire in her body,
no place to take her
and no way to get her there
until the check comes
in a couple of days.
I'd have gladly died
to spare her this;
now, that'd be the coward's way.
I pray that my heart outlives her
so that she doesn't die alone
in the front seat of a God-forsaken truck
on a deserted beach
in what once
was Paradise.