Convoluted Love
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,
find grounding.
For it is that peace in our lives,
causes us,
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
universal design.
What is love,
love is why we cry.
Clueless Agony
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
slide.
Alone in Notion
An emptiness
settles my mind,
when I can know the feeling remains.
If hesitation
suggest an opportunity
the anxiety blows me,
figuratively
of course,
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 …
or
is it me.
Am I the solution to my need,
seems to be a sort of shallow satisfaction,
yet when is it that
preoccupation
finds an eventual happy medium.
There’s a reason I haven’t sought out
that
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,
and yet,
I already know this,
I just wonder if she ever will.
