Its favorite complaint
is not valid,
to imagine one’s pain,
is beyond another’s reach.
We are often more together
than what visibly
might be imagined,
while the construct of love remains.
To imagine solace
rather than feel it is easily
than finding the truth.
Oh to be your guide,
to let your body fall in grace,
into my own,
so the comfort of love remain.
Oh to know a solution,
to understand a helpless nature,
in the human condition,
to show delight in love.
A simple remedy is plausible
only to the sightseer
who has not trekked the craggy
landscape of a chronic sojourn.
We seek peace in the shelter of our lives,
far beyond the tantalizing nature of pain.
When wanting hope,
to last, to settle in around the vacant stares,
those we own,
we scan a room with little fanfare,
our way of letting time pass beyond the norm,
it is indeed,
a crushing blow,
when hope becomes the reality of confusion.
Tonight, perhaps I recognize cynicism
to recognize a desire once felt,
seems out of reach,
beyond the norm,
the glass wall gives a perfect view
the lonely man,
wandering the open spaces,
wondering if ever there might be some
allows his life to become whole again.
He said, the only reason is love,
questions in her mind suggested, what is …
his definition, compared to her own,
what she feels, does he understand,
he wants what she knows, yet, will he, can she,
how might their peace of mind,
For it is that peace in our lives,
on a beautiful summer afternoon,
to respond to the sounds,
the birds in morning,
the wisp of breeze in a hot afternoon,
the starlit ambience of night fall,
in all of these imaginable sensory explosions
we are still seeking semblance,
asking for balance,
allowing that risk and edge to indicate
our lives are brief in the greater
scheme of things,
yet what is the
What is love,
love is why we cry.
On the horizon, a wall looms,
we reach inside for garden tools,
protect the hibiscus, secure the lawn
decorations – that peace of mind.
What happens next,
we cannot control,
yet why is it in our own lives,
that survival, is all we try to do,
mask the insecurity so no one might know,
deep inside we are as
frail to the notion of real as is the vine
sudden storm clouds will rip apart.
Nature always wins,
despite the efforts of many,
to hide the furthest
indication of that surreal
settles my mind,
when I can know the feeling remains.
suggest an opportunity
the anxiety blows me,
that literal need is always knocking
when I’m alone,
when time stands still and hours fly by,
I wonder if anyone knew
would they …
is it me.
Am I the solution to my need,
seems to be a sort of shallow satisfaction,
yet when is it that
finds an eventual happy medium.
There’s a reason I haven’t sought out
I suppose it’s some moral conviction,
a desire to maintain my integrity
in the midst of a pool of wanton sensuality.
Find her at home,
is my friend’s lament,
I already know this,
I just wonder if she ever will.