Doubt

There is nothing worse

Than hearing I love you

And wondering

Why,

How,

Or

Until when?

Vacancy

My heart left me.

He packed a bag

(Sweet marmalade made from memories of love)

No reasons left, just a note:

"How is your Heart?"

Brain is furious.

"He's a bastard," he casually mentions. "and a drunk."

I think he's just as hurt and surprised.

So there is a hole. No pain, no joy...just a hole.

And the park benches become more comfortable

As the clouds speed up, the trees sway in the breeze, and the world moves on...

I don't blame him. He was right to leave.

I locked him in a tiny room with a window to watch happiness go on without him.

So he escaped and found what he could, only to be locked up again.

He's gone for good this time.

Probably living on a beach in Tahiti discovering Bronte.

Hope he sends a postcard.

Grace

Deep brown understanding keeps itself

Hidden deep behind a defense mechanism.

A smile that can light up a room

Stored in follicle waterfalls.

The swords of truth, innocence, and beauty you carry cut deep,

But like St. George, I will not let you fight the dragon.

You have the strength...the tenacity,

But the world needs your playfulness...your ability to love.

My world will burn and tatter before I let

A single hair

be

harmed.

My solemn vow.

An unbroken bond.

And you won't forgive me for it.

Failure

The cool dark night envelops the humming sound of the refrigerator

As memories flow with liquored ease.

Four pieces evenly distributed.

One stretched over a lonesome grave too many years neglected.

One conversing with painful players over two-step designs.

One saving those around while wilting like a Autumned flower.

One craving to understand the machinations of a world gone over.

And the center stares as the long steel teases with a click.

A half moon within fermented fingers feels no fear as each piece asks for this.

The Reaper sits on his stool waiting for his prize that will not be delivered

For the home will not let its captive audience leave the cylindrical lair.

A salt stream appears as incantations are invoked for understanding.

With a solemn nod the Reaper understands:

Not on this night.

Not yet.

Age

With time comes knowledge,

but that is no excuse.


With experience comes understanding,

but that is no defense.


We are asked to be patient,

but fix the problems that arise.


Out of focus? Unable to see the light?

Too bad.

Make a new path.


The only real crying shame

is

a

purposely

wasted

life.