you walk with poised perfection, like waves dacing across the sky as those clouds pass me by

your lovely fragrance fills the air like a plesant perfume,  lost in the trails of my own imagination


left to ponder; and wander.. to and fro.. in my thoughts; there are many questions, in fact - endless

life alone, often seems more rewarding? considering how easily the heart falls into temptation, without question - before.... before what...


that which follows a lover's capitulation to a most dubious condition of "love", in lieu of utter isolation, you would find me tasteless and crude

a man divided by internal complexities that none should ever care to ponder, or even wander into conversation about such absurdities


who am i? or rather, where am i? is this even real? that one should ponder such nonsense leaves me in doubt of my own fortitude

surely mankind is more than a collection of his experiences, the substance of who we are --- the essence of life, hardly any of which is noteworthy - i admit


perhaps the essence of who we are is much less interesting, and where we are going is far more seductive, did we mention that green makes us disappear

i am a traveller, but of course you knew that --- because you're so perceptive


there is no unconditional love, only admiration (to interject); or is it adoration of what one does not posess

true love follows, what---  your father in heaven?

alas, like the yeast of the pharisees 'tis often found polluted by the malevolance that follows self interest - only more sinister like your other half, you know....

the one you don't show anyone, when you are alone --- and their eyes are off of you.


consider this my cry to be understood, certainly not a substitute for my gratitude that comes with thanksgiving, for all the blessings... which surely must be counted

regulating the flow of self preservation on the other hand, that devious little devil that comes amidst tales of admonition and warnings


to fade into the bland compromise of my world, to be misunderstood often -- and rarely the subject of anything aside from self driven vainity and de-illusions

d..d....d...delusions of grandure, perhaps related to my ---

that dusty little playground with barbed wire and flames of reconciliation, succomed to my own insanity


perplexing... surely, maybe you would like to know more --- most likely not, goodbye.



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nightlight1220's picture

I enjoyed this a lot. It has

I enjoyed this a lot. It has a consistency that is very grounded but allows a lot of wonder and also introspection...maybe some would say it's deep.

...and he asked her, "do you write poetry? Because I feel as if I am the ink that flows from your quill."

"No", she replied, "but I have experienced it. "


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