I could love you

or so I would have you believe

and ever dishonest to myself

I manage to call myself

with fraudulent delusions

I twist the contours of my thought

into pretzel shaped logic

salted by bittersweet fancy

no, the worded response

none of it bears meaning

to anything in this life


I can fabricate this yarn

into a wool sweater

or perhaps satin dress shirt

but in all this tailoring

necessary goes far beyond

my mere mortal capacity


It goes way beyond

anything I am capable of

none could be accomplished

& you just suffer—

suffer to be party to it—

party to this nocturnal madness


walking ever silently away

my heart dancing on broken glass

but what more could be done?


The thorns of sorrow prick me

drawing ever reddening blood

It’s enough to make me cry

& the tears do flow freely;

freely and clear to be seen


Moist dew of regret streaming

into some other fanciful hope;

hope to which I eternally cling.




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