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Poem

Beyond the skills of escorts
and the appeal of other playthings,
smolders the need of the soul
infused to best every man.
Twelve years have taken
the scars out of the memories,
from the last time I was
up and through
just to come down and out
to find every fairy tale
extends it’s hand
to some tragedy.
The odds don’t warrant
the time of practical effort.
Too keen to the liabilities,
always calculating ends.
It is not the demands of over
or having to start something new
rather, better to remain alone
than to be let down again.
But now I see you,
and it makes me pause
so still, with the whisper --
Are you sure?
	Falls into a deafening singularity 
forbidding even a scream, it’s escape.
I sit and can only see
the touch of Heaven
reaching across the Caribbean
to color your face.
As your smile holds the songs
of every dawn’s temptress,
under the soft disposition
of your eyes 
rests a divine spirit’s symmetry, 
smoothing features
while lensing each strand
the perfect frame.
That once moved a favored King
to murder a man, only to bring
the sword into his own house.
Enabled an army to take 
a strong city with just one horse.
And enslaved the envy of Venus
to sharpen leaden arrows,
but fury slipped her hands
and bled her wrists out.
Blood clotted on the cold muck
of her grave, a suffocating cocoon.
Immersed the viewer becomes, 
and timeless the window
of the heart that is God’s craft,
denying the deceiver’s forgery
of any singed carnality.
As if proximity has been given 
within the mist of your perfume,
in just this one picture
of your face.

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