Binoculars

It was ever a beating pulse, sifting through masquerades,

lighthearted and blind. I was so young, grieving love,

overexposed. Play a viola, buff a violin, for love was tragic.

We fought and lied—our aphrodisiac, loving such

passionate pain, and ever alive. I touched her in agony,

without much to render. Our arms, lacking reach. Our voice,

wanting conviction. We loved like nightmares, afraid to

utter, “Goodbye.” Oh what have I learned, in heart our

calamity! Our lamp is mystic, gazing a Jesus piece, longing

to comfort shame. I couldn’t break her loose, sipping

champagne, mourning abandonment. I wrestle with a

concept, alive—my daughter’s eyes, praying she carries

such strength; for nights are long, adjusting antennas, and

reading fairytales. Our days are often downhearted, but

Shiloh souls, hoping for an unafraid love. Else our minds

are overlaid, kneeling for more than a concept, dreary-
eyed and casket.