The bull still stands
Out in our yard,
Snorting puffs of steam,
Posing in his threatening stance,
Muted but a little...

He and we
Now
Biding time.

A man's not safe,
Nor woman, either,
So long as this bull's out,
Free to move about
Unpenned.

This meeting of the mice
We hear about
To solve the the problem of the cat
Inspires us now...
To bell the cat...
To pen the bull....

Aye, there's the rub....
As who shall bell the cat,
And who shall pen the bull?

For  now, we go our quiet ways,
Eyes down
Still thinking,
Praying...some,
Contemplating penning up
The bull.

I hope I’ll think back to those days unchecked:
When we didn’t stray too far from our den
In the Latin Eden, we were ship-wrecked,
In love, or in something unnamed, unpenned
When the cold winds were the perfect excuse
To touch each other, besotted, bemused -
As if we were the first. Lost in your blues
Or grey stares, one with the red duvet, fused.

I hope when spring comes we’ll still be frozen,
Together, despite the thaw. The garden
Overgrows with ****-like worries, swollen
And over-ripe. But I am stranded in
Too deep to feel the pull of dreams of spring.

I would melt for one more chance to be with him.

Why do I insist on looking for solace at the bottom of all of these bottles?
I know full well that nothing in this world, nor in Heaven nor Hell, can fill the small, Gavyn-sized void in my heart and in my soul, yet still, in vain, I try to drown my misery in the suds and decanters of inebriation…
I have dreampt of you twice in the last week. That is more than my dreams have been graced by your countenance in the last year. Each time, upon waking, I have been found with a smile, painful in its hope, for waking brings the end of the dream. I spend my time chasing dreams, for dreams are so much more hopeful than the reality that my sleeping brain awakens unto.
In these dreams, I have seen your face, heard you laugh and cry and call for me. Seen you run and play and question, seen you witness the sun and the World. I have held you in my arms and felt you wrap yours around me.
This alcohol numbs the sting of this unreality, for when I awake, it is in the sobering arms of loneliness and longing and emptiness. My heart beats for you, and in your absence, continues to beat, labored and heavily.
Every fiber of my being cries out for you, every second of every day. I see my failure in the smiles of children, in the hands of Fathers and Mothers and Children entwined, for mine clasp only the pen or the pillow, the bottle or themselves.
I want to heal the pain of this world, yet I cannot find inside myself the focus to care for anyone other than you or myself, nor the capacity to heal your world, or my own.
My hope continues, beaten down and suffocating, yet alive; the hope of the ******.
Whilst ****** I may not be, the excommunication from you is damning…
Am I dying, my Angel?
…Maybe.
Or am I just not living?
Try as I might, I cannot find the answer to this question. Perhaps, it is both. Dying while refusing to live.
For there is much to live for and much to die from.
Yet, my heart beats and my hope, my hope screams in whispers. Because of you.
I love you, Sweet Angel. With more than I ever knew that I possessed. These unshed tears are nothing more than unsung songs and unpenned verses in your name.
Sleep sweet, my love. Don’t forget to say your prayers. Daddy will be here when you wake up.

Where is the consumer of the words unpenned?
Lurking elsewhere, its muted giggles
grotesquely mocking me
before crawling to some dark
and well-frequented balcony
over the stage of my sanity and sentiment...
The thing shivers, sneers, and points
to the boy in glass slippers
that are strong and warm for perfect feet
All of us would be better off with poor fathers
shrieking miserable curses
like the old codger
feeding the stray cats that spit at him.
The mind frames visions
of shattered windows along empty streets
where we killed the kind cats
and now their cousins are stray.
In a world of frail light,
we welcome the meat
without questioning
the work of the slaying hands.