Not for pleasure mind a manner
though the truth tally fortune
he does stand alone
her mockery is surely known
do quiet in her stealth
come to terms with time at home
he is her solace
to him we toast
The fragile nature of knowing,
the kind we like to deny,
that’s my world,
the crisp reality of burning flesh.
there is no matter of hope
the once brilliant scope
of passion, unbridled
desire in sweeping form
Is gone, felt in some waves,
a soft smile,
a similar glance,
quiet afternoon reflection.
All I can do is stave off
the tears that cry
the only name I can say aloud,
for the privacy of love remain.
I wonder how it became so crazy
that I can only answer riddles
in my own mind,
and they’re not nearly as satisfying
as a look in her eyes.
Only today, I realized
how easily I did
a quiet solace is my nightmare.
Visit inside the mind of despair,
when words matter little except a bare
reprisal of need, untapped in its deed
toward killing me softly, indeed.
Physical beings finding love
whence the world up above
makes little change except engage
in fueling the idiocy of rage.
Last night we crossed path,
with swords drawn in wrath,
to slice apart our solemn heart,
as if to suggest insanity an art.
Now today, even still with the settling,
love’s path toward enlightenment begging
a reprieve, a new found aching solace
we little realize the moment is helpless.
When love forgets to say hello
and rather seeks our lives below
that horizon of worth, desire, dreams
wreaking havoc upon love’s stream
Seek some avenue of hope to please
ourselves, rather than these awful degress
of vanity, of self-serving, ill met release
forever challenging our ability to find peace.
Lover’s torment stepped into the eye’s mercury
bearing a scraping of passion, blessed our fury.