One is unable to predict
a storm,
one cannot weather
such is the torrent of passion
lost inside the eye
where heart and soul
do mingle.
He suggests the otherwise
wants only recourse
for the many years
the countless nights
waking alone
inside
the facade of
a companion lost.
Many times
I didn’t to make it,
wanted rather
some heavy pipe,
a piercing feather of
nature in phenomena,
take me out,
let me be an accident
‘only the good … ‘
Tonight
if outside
even though we are
in practice
staying away,
isolating
wonder away
this our silence
will now remain a
forever squall.
I am in the middle of a storm,
it’s quiet here, I might have a cry
I look around the world,
there is a sadness,
one simple pill
will not resolve,
times like these
seem readily apparent
an assortment of cures
would help silence
be my permanence.
Papers signed,
man resigned.
© Scott F Savage 5/2020
apersonaljourney - stories of love 