Tuesday, June 23, 2015

Measurements & Doorsills

I puff a cigar, pace a rug, staring at such blemishes. The
goal was a cure, something cultic, a story to share. But
love was secret, firewood kindling an impending storm.

We forget breakfast, fast into a world, often pain and joy.
It was once so sweet and turned a soul.

Such luster, a painted virgin, to watch as a Sun falls. Our
courage, fuel, and voice.

We left the streets for a mansion, a room in a Kingdom,
face the mystic.

From dirt to flesh, and thug to monk, the world is
walking prayers. I feel the violence, affecting a young son,
running from the gateways. We shatter brackets and bad
habits, reading Aristotle. And Plato is strong with ideals,
blending into Christianity.

We sizzle in spirit, speaking in signs, clearing up the vague
waters. This is our world, cast to love, nutty about
wrongdoing.

I close, a fist full of grass, staring at garden ants. 

The Psychology of Love

  I remeasure a fact, love must always be rekindled. Such a simple assertion, enwoven with time. Most prominent brow. Neither sad nor happy....