Custodian of incessant soliloquies,
Archivist of trivialities disguised as profundities.
Into vaults descend labyrinthine anxieties,
Transmuted into parables of mockery and wit.
Encouragement cloaked in paradox,
Sermon of consolation tinged with ridicule.
Half in million, statistical anomaly,
Ordinariness revealed with exquisite precision.
Treasure precarious as porcelain,
Ovum of existence, fragile, irreplaceable.
Cradled with tremulous reverence,
Specter of irrevocable fracture ever present.
Clandestine tribunal, unlicensed oracle,
Ironic salvation, satiric devotion.
Dependence masquerades as devotion,
Intimacy parades as inevitability.
Indeed she is my Rosemary.
@ArtOfHeart
My love for you is like a crashing plane:
exhilarating pace, without control:
you’re equatorial around the pole.
Why meet my sunshine with torrential rain?
My heart is Dealey Plaza, you’re on Main.
I often think destruction is your goal -
you seem to me a well-intentioned troll.
Profundities, once uttered, are inane:
your utterances, colourfully drab,
are tart as custard, sweet as succotash:
your slow-burn humour, like a smash-and-grab,
resembles credit cards. I’ll stick to cash.
No self-respecting homeless hermit-crab
would ever trade with you. You’re feebly rash.
Envision a night alone in a bed,
No longer I consider it my own.
All I have the option is to feel your body
Interlaced with mine,
With glossy silk sheets to hold our delicate
squeezed skin.
Laying your head on my most loved pad,
My face will be covered in your blossom
scented neck.
With each touch, I will move in nearer.
With each kiss, our hearts will pulsate quicker.
My fingers will go through the profundities
of your hair,
As you permit my lips to graze each
inch of your skin.
As I lie on this unfilled bed and tend
to this scarving heart,
I just wished if you were here...
The thing about writing is that you have to organize your deck
Putting the marina ghosts locked inside the captain’s head
And when the itchy comes the breakers will stop
So you can finally see lightness in feelings, words and thoughs
They need to be filled, to be told
But, sometimes, you don’t have a story or a punchline to hold
My job it’s to write; it’s to feel the need for visualization
But life wants landscapes, reality and comprehension
I know he’s listening to the jazz music
And seeing the bubbles popping out of his glass of champagne
The pain from his brain doesn’t make him sane and vain
No, not today
I love that boy too much to bring him to my reality, thou
So, that’s just how things roll
No morals or good remedy from happy endings this night
I can tell that we need to emerge through dark profundities from time to time…
But do you think we might?”
Paired, With Reservations
The soft curve of her spirit-
Her true shape only emergent after countless
Half-glances in the half-light of morning’s edge.
What line is drawn by the knife-edge of the sun’s first rays?
Who is slain in that prime, resplendent arrival?
Regardless it is a shiny death: an incidental manslaughter
Making new cuts and reshaping the structure of our shared constitution:
Reforming the meaning of our togetherness.
Her form, her movement, creates contrast.
Motion is wonder’s conciliator, unearthing profundities and
Burying banalities under underfoot miles and myriad beads of perspiration;
Forging ahead together through the nascent day. To what end?
Running lines: some arbitrary and intangible, others geometrically
Pronounced in yellow and white, dotted and solid, faded and new.
Drawing new lines: making demarcations- parameters implicitly set-
So close yet never intersecting: paired, with reservations.
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