Before breakfast, my dear, we perfected,
after years of affection, neglected,
fear and frustration detected—
our game.
After sense of ourselves, we protected,
while scrambling the omelet, suspected,
the eggs that we broke were infected,
with blame.
During luncheon, my dear, we dissected,
days of salad with care, roots subjected,
dressed in acid, as usual convected,
more flame.
Day nearly gone, now aspected,
like an omen, frustration reflected,
against walls made of fear, we erected—
this frame.
By dinner, my dear, we confected,
new marrow, from old bones resected—
the pangs of their hold are deflected,
now tame.
Finally, bedtime, we lie there complected,
our bodies at bellies connected,
fed by each other, repast corrected,
No shame.
Categories:
confected, age, fear, love, truth,
Form: Rhyme
Above the laughter hovers the lonely soul
feeling the down with its passionate glands.
While the living departs to read around
the knowledge that once was,and surely must be,
the soul alights upon the fragrance of curiosity.
Those jocular voices still resound within the
vacuous chambers of the soul that wavers bereft;
taking to its source their thoughts that lingered inept
behind every careless breath gasping for love.
Joy will not find its place beneath such a spiritless
life that ascends with fruition of a lovelorn realm,
realizing of the flesh's self-confected hell
that breeds the very emotions that fills their eyes
verse by verse from the soul that departs them with a sigh.
Categories:
confected, inspirational
Form: Free verse