Thorn Of The Rose potx

Thorn of the Rose
Copyright © 2010, By Fegger
Published By: Fegger (aka Rich Jax) Smashwords Edition
Cover Art By: Kathy M. Krueger
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Forward: We, cross-culturally, have come to recognize the Rose as the symbol of love. We are drawn to
the stately presentation of the blossom as it exists and thrives among its protective shield of thorny briers. We
are enticed by the flower’s fragrance and are captivated by the many delicate folds that comprise the bloom;
and, as these petals respond to warmth and time, they expose the golden, fertile core of its being. It is a
fragile species that requires the tender care and communication of the most benevolent and selfless of
keepers in order to achieve fulfillment and ultimate potential. Yet, as fate would prescribe, this beauty
possesses thorns along its stem and guardian branches. It would appear that these barbs are a means for the
flower to deter any intimate handling whatsoever; but this is surely not the truth. Should one take this
growth for granted, without due sensitivity, blood is drawn and the flower winces along with the pangs felt by
the suitor. It therefore becomes a mutual commitment, or accord, which thereby renders the relationship
between the flower and the curious to become one; and is created with kindness, admiration and, above all,
respect.
Thorn of the Rose
Table of Contents
Every Night
On the Wire
Paper Garden
Sex
Attic Safe
Bring Me Flowers
One Page at a Time
In Praise of Women
One Hundred Daisies
The Prostitute’s Tale
Life of Rose
Self-Admission

The Illusionist
Two Faces of Anger
Point of Confluence
Entire of Me
Tickertape Charade
Granite Man**
Peacock Lost His Plumage
Candle**
Ancient Tree**
On the Lonely
Perfect Picture
Perfect Picture II
This Door That Stands
Black Widow
With Trust
Quest or Conquest
There is He Who Cannot Rest
Once Mine
Epitaph of the Charmer**
Bartholomew
Love and Anger
I May Love Again
My Choice Remains
To Be Alive
Figurine**
Unrequited
Inside of Me
Cocoon**
A Love of Souls
(** Denotes titles published in another collection)

Every Night
I am the moonlight
That slips through
Unguarded windows;
Resting weightless hands
Across your sleeping skin.
Lines of perfect form
And curvature explored
Unaware, unannounced,
By tender filaments
Of illuminated air.
I dare not reach your eyes
In fear that I must retreat
Upon discovery
Of my curious event.
I use the dark,
And its silence
To foster my
Desired anonymity.
By morning’s light,
You will not notice,
The etchings of love
I have drawn upon you;
Yet, I believe that
In the warmth
You will come to know
That I’m here
With you
Every
Night.

On the Wire
Devoid of eyes, devoid of nose
Then cannot trace disguise.
Ears have fallen to the deaf;
No lips to form my lies.
No face to prop in trembling hands,
Shielding from the shame.
Content with anonymity,
While using foreign name.
Without my skin, the nerves exposed,
The air strikes stimulation;
Should loneliness be then chastised,
If it seeks love’s congregation?
As inhales fill a nothingness,
And exhales echoes roar;
Vibrating on the chest exposed;
To love then, nevermore?
Resigned to let my heart then perish,
Smear drops upon a page.
In mem’ry—misconception, yet,
I cannot find the rage.
That former words were spoken true,
When love stoked kindred fire;
Flashed it burned too quickly then
Left ashes on the wire.
Paper Garden
In the stillness of her room
She sat with crepe of every hue;
And pictured each an unknown bloom
For which she’d bring to light.

Tearing, cutting, twist and fold
Fragile paper—color bold and
Each would have a center—gold
Defying mask of night.
Recalling forms within her mind,
She forms the petals—every kind
In patient detail, every line—
Imposters she creates.
Stems, leaves and even thorns
At her hands, so real were born, and
Even Earth was soon to mourn—the
Charlatans of fate.
Hours passed, this lonesome day
While paper gardens on display
Breathing life of ease, defrayed
Of artist’s willful spite.
Complete deception now her feat
Sprays a fragrance natural sweet,
That bees and birds will try to eat
In longing, hunger flight
Then by and by at midnight’s hour,
She brings outside each handmade flower,
And celebrates her godly power
In glorious disdain.
Yet sadness lives as well in dreams;
As truth is always what it seems;
And lonely always finds its means,
To melt them in the rain.
Sex
Oh Sex—you sweet obsession

Oft lacking in discretion
Retell of my confession;
And prosper from the tale.
In subtle, lurid poses
The scent of lilacs, roses
With lashes softly dozes—
Eloping, without fail.
The mem’ry of the linen,
Twisted, twirled and spinning
A touch is just beginning—
Release you from my Dream.
The curves I so recall
Of shadows on you that fall
How I yearned to have you all
Such kisses I would preen!
Ah Sex—elusive, fragile mate
‘Nother day, ‘nother fate
‘Nother sense of body quake;
Awaiting for the rapture.
Dowse the flame, another night
Has fallen to an empty plight
Perhaps tomorrow I just might
Have someone for a partner!!
Attic Safe
Amidst the cobwebbed, angled ceiling;
And dusty, stagnant, arid air;
Resides a safe of timeless healing…
In attic space I keep it there.
A box, sequestered—quiet corner,
Removed, alone from pilfered need;

Alive it is with dreams of former,
Such banquet there I often feed!
Torn and swollen with degrees of stains,
Ageless as Dorian’s portrait;
For within, such youthful love remains,
Of a time I cannot forfeit.
While wife and children sleep sound below,
Obscure to my nocturnal pass;
Scurrying silent among the rows,
Reunite with a secret past.
I grasp the years with desperate hold,
And pretend that I’m unknowing,
Of the words preserved as flaps unfold,
In letters, securely stowing.
My breath recedes with view of the first,
Which was last, I’d ever received;
Stone in my throat, heart near to burst,
I touch, in an effort to free.
Mucilage dry, tarnished envelope,
A single page then rests, inside;
Documenting her final elope,
In dripping words, as I had cried.
To read, once more, her intense farewell,
Resurrects lonesome, painful fears,
To witness again that, “…time will tell”,
Dissolving ink with novel tears.
From this, I will go backwards in time,
Relive each pledge of devotion;
Imprinting ‘forever loving’ line,
Devoid of alternate notion.

Resigning, as the last is resealed,
That fullness is the hole I bear;
Of lot that is lost to be repealed,
And separate of the life I share.
Time has told in this life’s testament,
Of the lasting pangs of her clutch;
Transcending time, love, with others spent;
While I live and yearn for her touch.
Guilt consumes those innocent sleeping—
Fresh chapters of a life to be writ.
Yet I sense that she, too, is weeping,
Hovering box her own safe attic
Bring Me Flowers
Bring me flowers when I am alive.
If you wait, I will not be able to thank you
Or see their perfect reflection in your eyes.
Bring me song when I am alone.
Such silence should be severed by the
Union of Sound and Spirit rejoicing in Peace.
Bring me dance when I am weak.
These movements collect all important life and
Release them for the loving to behold.
Bring me poetry when I am lost.
Allow me to feel the flutter of pure hearts’
Sincerity in trial and acquiescence.
Bring me Faith when I have fear.
The blanket of truth lies herein and
Will comfort me in times of chill.
Bring me Art when I am blind.
Should life claim the sight of my soul

You shall have brought me hope.
Bring me stories of your life.
Without them I will not have the
Sense of sharing another.
Bring me flowers when I am alive.
If you wait, I will not be able to thank you
Or see their perfect reflection in your eyes.
One Page at a Time
I met a man whose wife had died;
And for his loss he sorely cried;
Fatalities of words he’d lied,
Was surely how she’d perished.
Reckless he’d cast stones in lakes,
Viewing ripples, body quakes;
And never fancied these mistakes,
Or compromised what’s cherished.
These were moments drawn in sand,
Eloping to the willing lands
Where passion’s ears could understand
The voids within his chest.
The echoes drive the madness hollow,
Obsessions that a man must follow;
And tho’ so shadowed in the shallow,
These thwarted loneliness.
He diverted foreign skin,
But knew deceit lives tight within
Becoming then, his only sin:
To secure all that was missing.
Somewhere in his heart remained,
A transient love he once had gained,

Whose mem’ry ‘lone compounded pain,
This phantom face he’s kissing.
To call upon her now would be,
Fruitless, now that paths are free,
Disclaiming possibility
That chance may be reborn.
For this love was sewn on pages,
That countered all the words of sages
Left to tender, confining cages;
And this is why he mourns.
His wife, deceased, now sees the truth,
Of how true love transcended youth
While whispers of devotion—mute;
The fullest life, unclaimed.
Would she then, in her mist above,
Reject him for his search for love;
As if her own were not enough;
And he should bear this shame?
Judgments torment softer souls,
Who need the warmth of feeling whole;
Fearing tempests, seeing old,
Retrieving sunsets, burned.
There he cries, not for the grave,
But for his life, and love, unsaved;
And for the two he had betrayed:
Knowledge left unlearned.
Now troubled in his discontent,
Congers moments he had spent,
For inactions he repents,
While scripting lonesome lines.

Tho’ filling of this dream admired,
Of sentiments, sincere desire,
He casts his life into the fire,
One page at a time.
In Praise of Woman
The fairer gender strikes such chords
‘Pon depths to those unknown;
Feathered, satin fingers grasp
Such rigid heart that’s lone.
With words that seem to liquefy
The edges sharp and coarse;
While smoothing flow of warmth, the ‘neath,
Where selfishness is hoard.
Curved am I, and supple,
As once in disrepair;
Fragments, shards strewn through my love,
Yet, remaining unaware.
Adeptly, silent creeping sense,
Abating prejudice;
Where anger dwelled with ignorance,
She cultures avarice.
Strength evolves to weakness,
As weakness begets truth;
And selvedge sloughed precisely,
Retrieving glimpse of youth.
Unencumbered, naked then,
As if papyrus, blanched,
Awaiting pigments swirled, a-mixed,
Enabling second chance.
Should flaws and imperfections,

In shadows lurk, reside;
Bear no fault to womankind,
T’was my ego’s choice to hide.
In silent moments, unbeknownst,
Of all that lives within,
Women have so nurtured me;
And thrive beneath my skin.
One Hundred Daisies
I picked one hundred daisies,
On this dark and lonesome day;
Now thousands of white petals
Are floating in decay.
“She loves me nots” are winning
At ninety-nine to one!
I shall harvest then ‘til ‘morrow,
Or, at least, until I’ve ‘won’.
The Prostitute’s Tale
‘Tis low eve:
Day’s beacon sheds
Broad, orange strands
Long, and resting on
The thin green line.
It’ll be soon I go.
Earn me bread
Beneath the stars
That cannot condemn me
As they be privy to truths.
Aye, moon—
Show yer face in discord.
Remember me?—

Bastard daughter o’ Marny?
Then took ‘er own blood
Mixed wid her breastfeed
Across my new mouth?
Remember? You filt my eyes then!
Surely not too many to recall
A speckled face like mine!
‘Tis nigh:
Talc an’ lavender petal,
Hide all suspicions.
Aye, they pay for fresh
Or they don’t pay well.
Turn the linen an’
Perk the down for
Fat butchers an’
Be-speckled penny-men
Need soft for their laurels.
Aye, lanterns of the marketplace:
A’glowin’ like the entrance to Hell.
Brides haste to their hearths,
Prepare, and wait.
Dare not tread when I creep
And lure their mate
With masquerade and
Shallow approval, of flattery.
Men, so weak and distrustful,
Wander night with sticky arms!
‘Tis the hour.
Loosen garters to dangle
Just below a man’s chin.

Compress spearmint leaves
‘Tween grinding ivory
An’ lying tongue.
I be fit. I be hungry.
I will eat tomorrow an’
A new hat an’ parasol
Will defend me from honest day.
Aye, me belly—
Let no child spring from ye’ now.
Should sweet love not find
Me worthy of husband, hearth—
Let not temptation of mother’s weakness
Paint silver to draw red
And poison the nourish of daughter—
Who will come to fear
The face of the Moon
Or commune of stars.
I go now.
Life of Rose
Living through this life I chose,
Is not so different from the Rose:
With thorns to thwart illicit harm;
And leaves to soak-in foreign charm;
A stalk to let my blood run free;
Roots that feed the quiet of me;
Head held proud, for some admire,
Unfolding of my youth’s desire;
Tho’ living in my gardens new,
May oft restrict my point of view;
And all that lies in distant lands,

Remains such dream in porous hands.
Self Admission
I
He wears a pack upon his back,
Then fills with rocks and stones;
Symbols of mistakes he’s made,
Trophies all his own.
He scrubs his hands with molten sands,
Such shards of glass embed;
Reminds him of the hearts he’d lost,
And love weeps, sorely bled.
He scatters thorns in shoes well-worn,
Then ties them for all time;
For detours he had wrongly made,
While crossing chosen lines.
He rinses eyes with brine, then cries,
Eternal, lonesome tears;
Displaying then, for all to see,
Such torment of his years.
Upon his tongue, his words once young,
He’ll singe with glowing embers;
To thwart the rising of such verse,
That no one will remember.
About his ears, such shrill of fears,
Encase his heightened plea;
Releasing guilt and prejudice,
To alter their decree.
Once satisfied he hasn’t died,
He sets on novel journey;
Chooses paths of internal wrath

Which mark his sanctimony.
The first step finds such grounds, unkind,
So soft they seek to swallow;
Consume such traces of his print,
Determined, echo hollow.
The foul stench, then so entrenched,
Encumbered, drawn abyss;
Toward depths anew and rancid,
Reveal apocalypse.
Affixed, implanted, disenchanted,
Approach delirium.
As numbness overcomes the pangs,
Self-cited requiem.
Immobile now, reflects ‘pon how,
Such measures were traversed;
When bindings, anguish gather hold,
And lessons were reversed.
Embracing pain and self-disdain,
Grants flow to great despair;
Simultaneously uncoiling,
Latent spirit and its prayer.
“Guide me forth, charter course,
Where light may come to shine;
And words ascend like Phoenix wings,
To hasten toward divine.
In this hour, we are power,
No bounds to recognize;
Combined we are invincible,
Together, land to sky!”
II

Breath then comes to cease, arrest—
As flooding warmth refills his chest—
As increments of ills possessed
Relinquish former hold.
Hope cascades in liquid streams,
Fails eclipsed by freshened dreams
Senses heat of forgiving beams,
As Purpose then unfolds.
Mixing with such burdens held,
Feeding fires never quelled,
Imbibing passions never felled
From days upon the earth.
Such wealth ignored in ego’s midst,
When adding absence to such lists,
What freedoms known by single kiss,
It’s here he finds his worth.
III
Reborn is he, with new eyes sees,
A virgin parchment—waits;
To scribe the blend of all of life
With truth to consecrate.
The Illusionist
He sits with top-hat, tails and bun,
Rolling-up his sleeves.
Setting tricks of mastery
That no one will believe.
The cards he places order to,
In sync with tactful skill.
To open wide the eyes of those
Who hasten for a thrill.

The doves will fold so easily,
In pockets they will nest;
Until such time they’re plucked about,
A time that he knows best.
The scarves and flowers he presents,
Will surely bloom in awe;
Of naïve crowds he’ll work his craft,
The truths they never saw.
Then he looks up and sighs so deep,
A mirror’s his intrusion.
For there he sees that love’s unreal,
Another soul’s illusion.
Two Faces of Anger
As eve displays such sullen brow,
Quieting youthful grasses upon the lonesome hill;
Allaying spirited ambitions of day’s song,
Embellished by noble woodwinds.
Laughter, no more.
Turbulence tramples the swollen breast
Of free and listless growth;
Compressed and hardened—
Unable to accept future, willful seed—
Left wanting, yearning such promise—
Is swept away by failing vestiges
Of disobedient winds.
Unremarkable to any lurid senses;
Vague to ties of spiteful consort,
Barren soil expands indiscriminately;
As harsh, vindictive words subtly eradicate
Such tender strands of emerald greens.

For passage must remain unhindered,
And faceless.
Dispelling self-regard or purpose—
Quiver, desperate from the contortions of weight,
Amidst feared and unwanted runners,
Finding deceptive passage beneath.
Expanding, flourishing, in the depth—
To arise as with any untimely event,
With wicked tendrils widening,
Choking salient dreams.
Displacing natural cause and justice
Through consumption of all that is good;
Such vines weave and thread without mercy,
Assimilating life in accord,
While feasting on the innocent,
Breathing mockery and contempt.
They will not dance, or sing—
But chant in selfish riot;
Instilling transparent ideals and fear.
The contours of the expectant, rise.
Apathetic saplings await peaceful diversions;
Or pray that finer-lit hours, in harmony
With swollen clouds, unencumbered
By their own sorrow or history,
Fill such tomorrows with temperance
And benevolence once again.
Until such events strike hollow hours,
Resounding in decades of toil and self-righteousness,
Labored by ill word’s apologies—
Until then, dried petals of former palettes,

Wither in dusty confines, trembling—
Awaiting emancipating winds to churn and upturn
The solid and immovable—
And fragile seeds receive rightful needs,
Where fertile lands once thrived.
Point of Confluence
The coffee shop is congested,
But our booth is Ours’.
Your cup is full and tepid,
While mine is nearly empty.
Again, you share your life:
Soccer games and broken toys;
Clothes which are now too small;
How inattentive he remains;
Fresh batteries in his TV remote;
Daughter’s eyes identical to yours;
A room, half-painted for months;
Training wheels soon to depart;
Your car is old, his is new;
Grease on the kitchen faucet;
The ‘Tooth Fairy’ arrived twice last week;
He used to love you, you’re sure;
The washing machine shreds your bras;
You dust his High School trophies;
Your son wants a BB gun for his birthday;
The cold winter consumed your savings;
“Sandra”, your on-line friend has cancer;
His parents rent their seasonal home in Florida;
Your wedding gown still fits.
While I listen, in numbing clouds;

And tongue, pasty from the coffee;
I can barely recall the details of the rented room,
But vividly remember your orgasm.
Entire of Me
Might it just be,
The reflection I see
Is vision, and not of possession?
This silhouette lone
Of features, not own
Refracting my warmest obsession.
In stillness of night,
And truth of the light
Embedded within my own soul;
There you may dwell
Defenses have felled
Gathering pieces to whole.
Skin, smooth and fair
Deep chestnut hair
Appear mingled within my own face.
With ghost-like reveal,
Shared senses congeal,
Cohabitant in sacred space.
Your lips move in time,
In concert, with mine,
Combining our thoughts to exchange;
Of mutual fission,
Culminates ‘wishings’,
Confirming that nothing’s estranged.
Such loneliness fasting,
In love, everlasting,

Embracing such occupancy;
Such fullness I feel,
In closeness so real,
You melding, Entire of Me.
Tickertape Charade
Rented suit, white flowing gown:
So let the games begin.
Agreement in this ritual,
Shall vanquish former sins!
Now fresh of canvas taunt,
Sep’rate colors still intact;
Join young hands to hold the brush
Create your lifelong pact.
Mingling colors is preferred,
And won’t contaminate;
But many works are left undone
Should one then castigate.
Patience lies in beauty’s eyes,
While agendas breed obscene;
Mix then, yellow with the blues,
And celebrate such greens!
Leave illusions at the altar,
For that’s where they belong;
Where misty tales of fairies then,
Tend dreams they must prolong.
Understand the ebbs and flows,
As life is prone to tides;
That will erase the strongest piers,
Should trust be left untied.
Believe, in time, such differences

Will threaten with its harm;
But quarrels cannot ever grow,
In embrace of lover’s arms.
It’s a choice of journeys forward then,
Of one you willing made.
Lest be perched upon lead float,
In the tickertape charade.
Granite Man
Standing, edge of cliff so sheer
Peering toward the vast
Churning blue, and foam recede
Lessons, of the past.
Project my soul, this vertical wall
That shields the tender land
From erosion of the Tempest Wind
Yet carves the Granite man.
Beneath, as passions tremble
And curl about the form
Slowly abrade patina-soft
In forecast of the storm.
Adjacent to these weathered friends
Lie memories of the gale,
When weakness overcame me—
Another love, I failed.
Resting bitter, jagged, waiting
To rest my skin upon—
Accepting vengeance’ laceration,
Exposed within each dawn.
I, spun in ego—unyielding—
Deny the right to view,

The fissures gape internally
Kept away from you.
Igneous veneered viscera—
With pulse upon command—
And words that knew such timelessness
As footprints in the sand.
Yet vertical and tall I’ll reach
Defy natural decay—
Deeming that my wit prevails
With death I may persuade.
In Time, such shroud consumes me
I will have died before—
Legacies of ignorance—
I’ve offered nothing more.
Granite man is born of fire;
And this, his only sin:
Striking flint and flesh as one,
Igniting from within.
Peacock Lost His Plumage
A Peacock lost his plumage
Contracting such disease
That dried his skin, from out, within
Scaling such as scabies.
Ignored was he by women-folk
Of peacock orientation;
Who will not breed with likes of he;
So left in consternation.
He wandered ‘bout the woodland floor,
Resembling holiday roast:
Without one feather to fan the weather,

No color, then, to boast.
Discouraged and depressed was he,
That he’d wandered way too far;
Yet just past dusk, had change of luck,
And discovered a dark, parked car.
Long and sleek and shiny black,
Slightly foggy on the glass.
Grunts and moans and human groans,
Then flashed a human ass!
The magic window down did creep,
As clothing tossed asunder:
Gowns, tuxedoes, then the Speedos—
The peacock then, did plunder.
He rummaged through that starchy pile,
Of useless people stuff
Until he found, laid on the ground,
A sequined, velvet glove!
“What a perfect treasure here!”
He thought with fortune’s find;
Stuck five-pronged mitten, which he was smitten,
Atop his bare behind.
He scurried back to familiar homes,
Where females there were waiting—
Who’d prance in awe of what they saw:
A fan, so rich, cascading!
But peacocks are a snobby sort,
Especially of female gender;
And found him a bore, and chose to ignore,
A display of obvious splendor.
Cast aside and ostracized,

He wandered once again.
‘Til break of dawn, he came upon,
Such an unlikely friend.
She was flat in beak, color brown;
And had such obnoxious voice;
Flat feet she had, her breath was bad;
But he had little choice.
She didn’t seem to mind that he,
Was featherless and plucked;
Devoid of fashion, t’was nature’s passion
So torridly they had tea together.
They lived then, long thereafter,
Bald Peacock, Duck, in love;
He remained forever—not one single feather;
But proud of his tall, velvet glove.
Candle
Wick
The center of your being,
Drawing flame, heat
Inside,
While willingly sacrificing
The soft, smooth external
For the experience of passion’s
Glow.
Consumed once,
You may be reformed,
To illuminate ‘forevers’;
Or remain, in memory.
Loved for light.
Offered in selflessness;

And swallowed in increments
By known betrayals
Of the night.
Ancient Tree
His hair is white, brittle-dry;
Cataracts, soon to claim one eye,
Facing terms he can’t deny,
As autumn faces lull.
Winds that swirl the dead leaves up,
Myriads of moons fan abrupt,
Un-parched he holds his empty cup,
Yet drinks from fountains full.
The crooked staff he holds in hand,
Will read this path of familiar land,
Traversing this he understands,
Journeys kept before.
When lungs elastic fed the pace,
Springing tendons, then he raced,
With quicker turns he left no trace,
With forests first explore.
He arrives then at the ancient tree,
That grew so tall in woodlands free,
Where suns would rest on canopy,
In patience, light his way.
Looks then, so high above,
Where he had carved her name in love,
Smiles when he’s reflecting of,
Him kneeling on that day.
He pauses, then returns to fend,
The voyage toward the river bend,

Where life begins and life must end
If truth remains sublime.
His pack is his, with nothing lent;
No ills or hatreds to repent;
Contented men fear discontent
As he walks, in hand, with time.
On the Lonely
Such silence I won’t overcome;
Fresh verse that harkens me to numb;
While I remain, both deaf and dumb;
And trust your indignation.
To know such sense of obscene hollow,
Leaves no course for me to follow;
The poignant scent or bitter swallow
Dispels all consternation.
Disperse me, then, in fields I pray;
Where thorns enwrapped in laurels lay;
And I will sleep, accept decay;
With fertile words to comfort.
Mingle hither, fresh decline,
Of tangled thoughts that weep sublime;
Raise the clear of blood-red wine;
And toast of those triumphant!
May you be spared repented dreams,
Of what you’d held in high esteems;
Yet, carry forth, the worth you’d gleaned,
In lover’s kind remorse.
Reflect upon such forces, fears;
That cannot be so tamed in years,
Will never wash in anger’s tears;

But disappear in course.
Contentment, then, should I be granted;
Was true to love, not disenchanted;
And full I am of all you planted.
What fullness, in my retire!
Resume, now, in my shadowed space;
Where once eloped to touch your face;
And now retreat to lucid place;
But I have touched the fire!
Palpitations I expelled,
Of longing, I’d no hope to quell;
Nor testimony I’d retell,
As this would serve me, only.
Bathe in respite anonymity;
Or the pangs of passion’s futility:
No us, or you, or trace of me……
Imbibing on the lonely.
Perfect Picture
You have such small,
Gentle hands.
The softest of touch;
As you trace invisible lines
Across my temples
And relaxed brow.
You stare into me,
I’d left windows open
Secretly hoping
That you’d brave
My weak defenses
And seek me out.

Inside, you comfort me
More than the fire
I had waiting for you.
You incise my soul
Drawing no blood,
Caressing open nerve.
Your skill of navigation
Within me:
I sense that you have been
Here—before.
Perhaps in a Time
When Dreams lived, flourished.
So petite in size—
Yet my own passion
Enwraps you and
I feel and breathe
Your every selfless,
Deliberate move.
My eyes, weary
And guilty of your entrance.
They complied when
Words failed to shield
From an intruder
Of Need and Desire.
I shall keep you
Safe, here.
Should you peer out my chest
You will see
The palm of my hand,
Guarding you in.

So fitting you are.
I am intoxicated and
Delirious with the liquids
We are now sharing.
I feel our flesh grafting,
As it always belonged.
I close my eyes,
While you settle in
Your forever home.
I will sleep now, dream
That you someday may be,
More than a photograph.
Perfect Picture 2
She enters,
Softly inflowing
Through veils of
Pure white mist.
Her eyes,
Dark and deep—
Desires, Attentions
As endless as time.
They close,
As if accepting this
as Dream or
Needing it to be so.
Which one is real?
I, who has summoned,
Or you who
Has arrived?
I watch, wait—

Expecting indiscriminate
Wind to cast you
Away—again.
You approach,
And I see reflections
Of my own soul
In your pools.
One hand touches
Cool on my face,
While the other-
Warm on my chest.
I look down,
See that your wrist
Is only visible.
I am breathless.
I feel your hand
Squeeze with each pulse;
As it is you who
Sustains my life now.
Helpless yet
Profoundly comforted.
I trust my life
To you.
I feel the pressure
Of your lips, parted
Pressing loyal
Against my own.
Hand clenched,
Heart stopped.
Filling my lungs with

The warmest air.
The spasm strikes,
You retreat at
My first inhale,
Unabated beat.
“Why did you come
To me?”
“My love, you asked
For life.”
She melted,
Into a flowing wall,
Of raven hair against
White purity.
This Door that Stands
This door that stands in front of me:
A symbol of complacency;
Or passage to tranquility,
Should I make such choice.
Barricading worlds unknown,
Where once a sun had brightly shone,
Temporary terms I own,
From diluted voice.
Shoulders braced against the firm,
This foe, whose task is not discerned,
Dividing dreams from what I’ve learned;
And trusted, not to chide.
Fatigued, sheltered become my lot,
Fearing that, in time, I’ll rot.
Sequestered lone, lest I forgot,
It opens from the inside.

Black Widow
She paces ‘bout the circled net,
No corners there she tends;
Fibers spun of wicked spat,
Skill’fl’y ties the ends;
For tidy is her discipline,
And one she’ll not resign;
Rejoicing in her acumen,
Of partner yet defined.
Prance and preen in slippers’ creep,
With trophies on display;
Wrapped in linens in the keep,
For other hungers’ day.