A Husband’s Vices
A man, more brilliant than most others holds
The tool that wields his soul in the same way
Men are caged by women. Till now untold,
The affairs with papers, pens. Oh foul play!
None lonelier than he, unrequited
Affections loom from blank papyrus. Ink
Rejects serenades, left un-delighted
He throws devotion aside, barley blinks.
His eyes teary and heart weary. A love
For artistic script tortures he, as wife
Stretches a poor husband’s weak soul. Each of
His pieces leave him for lust to living life.
But I, wicked woman am I, take great
Joy in his plain wit on matters of fate.
…
How to become an Adult
Are we willing to loose that which connects
Childhood to our adult lives despite
The rooms of mirrors ahead? Which reflects
The true image of our fluorescent light?
To be sure of a past shadow is to
Be sure the weather man is right. Faith lain
Upon the shoulders of the overdue
Laughter, making sunshine fall over pain.
But how does one know if the blessed smiles
Mask the sinner’s sneers and snarls? What draws
People to determine what’s true not bile,
Without loosing love for man’s little flaws?
